POST FIVE: Breathing Tube Day and Donation Discussion

The Propofol drip was stopped a few times over the past several days to assess Steven's brain functionality and admittedly, things didn't look good. Around day 10, I arrived early as usual, to what I by this time affectionately referred to as "Steven's Place". Yesterday, a meeting was scheduled by Steven's Doctor, to discuss the options for him. I would have to digest the doctors words, which I translated in my own mind as this: essentially, Steven's brain stem was keeping him alive. That stem was responsible for keeping his lungs and organs working and if the decision was made to remove his breathing tube, he "could" be kept alive in a full-time care facility and that based on the barrage of tests that had been conducted on him, the personality which made Steven, Steven, would very likely no longer be there. More crushing news, albeit, news I kind of expected. His sis was 100% unequivocally positive that her Bruv would quite literally rather die, than have to be cared for in that manner. 100%.

Late that night, I went to my Mum's, sat alone in the room where Steven had slept the night before May 11, found his Beats headphones, sat with a bottle of wine, listened to meaningful music, tuned-out everything and remembered, sobbed like a child and curated his things to bequeath to his daughter, my sons, my cousin and her sons, my mum, Steven's most loved childhood to adulthood friend (I will call him SS moving forward) and myself. Everything he owned, that didn't get taken, stolen, sold, left behind somewhere or lost, was all there. Everything that was important to him, I had the privilege and honour of sorting through.

The next day, a meeting with BC Transplant to go over Organ Donation was scheduled. A Doctor said to me, "if there's anything good that is coming out of this overdose crises, it's the notable increase in organ donation and lives saved". I didn't know whether to feel pissed off at that comment, sad, or happy for the families of the recipients. On a side note, over the long weekend in May, I was shocked to observe four new overdose patients in ICU2 and two of them were John Doe's. They too, came in with no ID and were both in an induced coma. I felt incredibly sad for those men and that woman and especially sad for those two nameless men. There is someone out there who is worried for them. There is someone out there who loves them. Period.

The process of organ donation goes like this: After a three-four hour question and answer period answering what some might consider very invasive questions about Steven's life, Doctors conducted some tests on Steven's lungs, kidneys and liver. His kidneys were suitable for donation and there just happened to be a matched recipient. That potential recipient would be waiting, prepped for surgery and waiting on a stretcher to receive Steven's kidney(s). After the removal of Steven's breathing tube, he would have to pass away within four hours and if that happens, the recipient  and Steven would be rushed off to the operating room. I don't know what happens thereafter, because we never made it to that stage. After the gruesome removal of his breathing tube, we all (our family and SS) stayed with Steven and waited with baited breathe wondering if this was it. He noisily struggled to breathe on his own for another 10 days or so, before he passed away. I remember feeling sad for the recipient and his/her family and then feeling confused as to how I could be sad for them. I would be confused for months after Steven died. It's only now that the haze of confusion has started to lift.

"Steven's Place", Saint Paul's Hospital, Vancouver. AMAZING Staff.

This photo was NOT staged. I think it was my Bruv's last F U to opioids.

Photo credit: Saint Paul's Hospital, Les Bazso / PNG online from www.theprovince.com