#lostalovedone

I was 39 weeks pregnant. I asked my husband, “if the husband isn’t in the delivery room, who do people usually have with them?” He laughed at my ridiculous question, but of course answered it because that’s the type of person he was. “Usually the Grandma, actually no, usually the Great Grandma.” He had done his OB/Gyn residency in Detroit, and that was the sad reality of what he saw. Then he immediately gave me a hug and a kiss, “luckily we will never be in that situation.”

This is the only time I can ever recall him being wrong about anything. He died one week later, January 28, 2018, a day before our due date. He was healthy, much healthier than me. He ate relatively well, played soccer, was 6’3” and we probably weighed the same (I’m 5’8”, if that gives you an idea.) My Mom and her friend were flying into town for the baby’s due date and Jas and I were cleaning. Of course he was cleaning, instead of laying in bed on a lazy Sunday watching reruns of Law and Order SVU. He was cleaning. I was too, until he told me to rest downstairs. He asked me if I wanted a glass of water, I said “No,” and didn’t even offer him one in return. I happily went downstairs thinking about the Italian leftovers we had in the fridge and if I should eat them all or save some for him. He would have wanted me to eat it, so that was my secret plan. I walked down the steps to the sound of him filling up the mop bucket in the tub. The last thing I said to him was to make sure to mop in the direction of the hardwood floors.

I was on the phone for 24 minutes. I was talking to my Mom about her upcoming trip, then nothing that mattered at all. I had time to waste and was wasting it. I hung up and was irritated Jas was still cleaning. He was such a perfectionist, I figured he was re-mopping an area that had already been perfectly mopped by him. I debated turning on the TV, eating the leftovers, or going upstairs to tell him to stop cleaning and that I was going to eat all the leftovers. I decided to compromise, so while walking to the kitchen to get the food I called his phone. He didn’t pick up. I redirected and went upstairs while calling a second time. He didn’t pick up again. This was not like him. I wondered if he left, which he would never do without telling me. I saw his car out the window of the nursery, then saw the bucket and his shoes neatly aligned on the bathroom floor. This is when I panicked. He was somewhere in the house, why wasn’t he answering me? I began to run around the house, which felt stupidly large. I thought to myself, this can’t be happening to me too! Just ten months before, my father passed away, and almost the same thing had happened. My Mom took a nap and he was doing yard work. She woke up, it was dark out, she knew something was wrong. She ran around the house and found him outside. She said he looked like he was sleeping, peaceful.

I found him, and he looked like he was sleeping but I immediately knew better. He was laying on the floor on his side, leaning against the footboard of the bed. As I got closer to him and saw his glasses on the floor a couple feet away from him, I knew it was bad. I ran by his side and tried to roll him onto his back. I saw his face and his eyes and knew immediately he was gone. His life, then my life, then our unborn daughter’s life flashed before my eyes. I felt for a pulse, knowing in that moment it was a waste of time but for some reason I had to do it. I guess its so ingrained in everything we are taught, ATLS, ACLS, BLS, you always check for a pulse. I didn’t even give my finger long enough to register if it felt anything, because I knew it wouldn’t. I couldn’t do CPR with him still on his side. I pulled him away from the edge of the bed and onto his back. I called 911 and started CPR immediately. In every code I had been in you trade off the role of doing chest compressions. I was full term and did 9 minutes of chest compressions before EMS arrived. I don’t know what the rest of my life has in store for me, but I know this will be the worst moment of my entire life.

All the hours of studying, college, 4 years of medical school, step exams, 5 years of surgical residency, board exams, 1 year of surgical fellowship, sacrifice, training… none of it mattered. I was useless. In the 24 minutes I was downstairs something so devastating happened to him that it took his life and there was nothing I could do about it. I screamed at EMS to INTUBATE HIM, SHOCK HIM! They told me to leave the room, in fear I would go into labor and they would no longer be able to attend to him. I remember screaming from outside the room to shock him! They wouldn’t. “Maam, the equipment is not indicating to shock him.” Finally, about 20 minutes later, I screamed the question I was dreading. “Is it because he’s in asystole?” The guy looked down and nodded his head yes. I frantically added up the numbers. I was downstairs too long, EMS was already working on him for too long. Even if by some miracle he survived, he would never be the same and would never want to live that way. But, miracles happen, right? I don’t know about God, but I do know my Dad, so I prayed to him to help Jas.

The ER physician worked for another hour. Knowing the situation of “found down about an hour out,” “unknown mechanism,” “no signs of life on arrival,” I think he worked on him longer than I probably would have. I was desperate though. I screamed for a trauma surgeon to open his chest, despite knowing an ED thoracotomy was not at all indicated. The ER physician walked into the room eventually, and as he was getting ready to talk I blurted out “Did you call it?” His response was “Yes, I’m sorry, we did everything we could, but he died.” He stood above me and Jas’s parents, standing in the doorway, talked for another minute or so, then left. He didn’t even sit down. So this is why people hate doctors.

We went in to see him in the trauma bay. He looked like a different person, I couldn’t look at his face. But his hands looked the same. I put my head on his chest and sobbed. I put his hands on my head because that’s what he would have done to comfort me. I never wanted to leave, but sitting there was traumatizing. As we walked away I saw his wedding band. I wear that ring now. What the hell business do I have wearing the sparkling, happy, naïve Tiffany engagement ring he gave me two and a half years before when he proposed at sunset on a beach in Turks and Caicos. That ring feels foreign, like it belongs to a different person, someone who I used to be. A silly girl whose biggest problem was studying for an exam or finding a house to buy. I hate that girl. She didn’t know how much worse life could be. I want to go back and tell her to shut up and hug him.

Anyone that knew my husband loved him. I know people always say good things about people after they die. But he really was perfect. His only flaw, he would hide bad news from me to protect me, so I could be happy. It would make me irate! He was lying to me! How stupid could I have been. He was perfect.

He gave me a foot massage every day. Every single day. If he missed a day because he was on call and not at home, he would give me TWO massages the next day. I would pretend say “no, you don’t need to give me a massage,” knowing there was nothing I could do to stop him. He would call it SCD’s, and say in a very matter of fact way that I needed my daily dose of DVT prophylaxis. Sometimes when I was in the mood for an extra foot massage, I would poke him with my foot and say “footsie?” He would beam and give me an extra long massage. He said it made him happiest knowing he could do something for me. I think I gave him five massages total the whole time I knew him. Another reason I hate myself.

He made me coffee every morning. I would get up early for a first start case or early clinic, and even if he was post call, and had worked 24 or 36 hours straight, he would set an alarm to make sure to wake up and make me coffee in a to go mug. He would ask the night before what time I was setting my alarm so he could set one himself. I would lie and say later, hoping he would sleep more. But he knew my tricks, and never missed a day. Coffee would be made and on the corner of the kitchen counter by the time I got out of the shower, with the lid ajar so it could cool off in time for me to finish it on my 6 minute drive to work. I would say bye and kiss him and he would say “Boozer made your coffee.” Boozer is my 13 year old cat who I have had since I was a sophomore in college, who after only 3 months of knowing my husband loved him more than me and would sleep on his side of the bed.

He had an amazing ability to make anyone around him feel valued. He could talk to anyone, young, old, intelligent, or silly. If you said something, however trivial, like traffic patterns or the weather, or profound, like world politics or religion, he listened. Not only did he listen, but he would respond in a way that made you know he was listening and wanted to hear more of what you had to say. After validating your thoughts with insightful questions and follow ups, he would turn around and teach you something. He knew everything, and it became a joke that he loved when I would tell and made him smile the biggest- Jas knows everything about everything, and should be on Jeapordy.

He was a pastry chef. He made the absolute best cheesecakes, one of which he flew across the country for my parents the first time he met them. On our first date, his flight was delayed so we met at the only bar outside Philadelphia that was open. I drank local beer, and he had a glass of wine. There was a Tupperware container on the table, and I thought he was super odd for bringing whatever could possibly be in there… snacks for later? Or even worse, snacks for at the bar? When I was leaving he gave me the Tupperware, and told me it was cookies he baked for me that morning. He got up early for his flight, made cookies, flew them across the country, and hand delivered them to me. I was the bitch judging this stranger in a bar, while he was making a nice gift for someone he had never even met. They were delicious, I ate them all.

He kissed me and Boozer every night before bed and every morning before work. Then, it became me, Boozer, and our daughter (my belly.) His bedtime routine was to say “Goodnight, I love you.” In the morning he would say “Good morning, I love you.” At first I thought it was odd, it was so proper and well annunciated. The joke was I didn’t say it back, I would make a little “I love you too” humming noise because saying it sounded so official and formal. He was never bothered by me not actually saying it back, and I adored that. No matter what I did or said, he would say it to me and kiss me while I pretended to dodge the kiss. This is one of the many things I wish I could change. I wish that morning that I had actually said it back and kissed him.

He loved U2. I mean really loved them, and spent a year between college and med school following them around the world on tour. He loved the music, the people, and what they stood for. The only two concerts I have ever been to were two U2 concerts, one in NY early when we were dating, and one in Dallas the weekend of our first anniversary, the weekend I told him we were expecting. My wedding gift to him was a guitar signed by U2. It was a huge deal for me, especially considering I was on a resident’s salary. It became one of his most prized possessions. My wedding gift from him was a beautiful Mercedes. That was the first thing to go back after he died. The next was our house.

What does all of this mean? What can we learn from this? What I have taken away is that “rock bottom” is a luxury we just don’t have. It doesn’t exist, because things can always get worse. This lesson started for me the day before my oral surgery boards. I thought life was miserable and I was going to fail boards and pitied myself for having to study so much and not be able to enjoy life like my peers. The night before my oral boards my sister called with the worst phone call of my life: “Pop died.” I was crushed. I thought this was rock bottom. I took boards because the only thing I knew at that point was my Dad would have absolutely wanted me to try my best and kick ass. So I did, and I passed. The only time I faltered was when the examiner asked me about the treatment options for achalasia. I rattled off the answer with ease, I had practiced this scenario, and had extra fellowship training in this field. The next question tripped me up, “so with all of the treatment options, what would you recommend, let’s say, for your own Father.” Despite that hurdle, I completed the exam and passed. My lesson from that was love every day, that’s how my Dad lived life. I knew it would be impossible for a pessimist like me to miraculously change overnight, but at least I knew I wanted to become better. If I found myself being particularly negative I would say to myself, “ok things could be worse, we are all alive and we will figure out an answer.” Luckily this taught me to appreciate what I had, including Jas. I am grateful I made sure he knew how amazing I thought he was. I even told him I thought he was too good and I didn’t know how someone like that could exist. We named our daughter after my father, Amar, which means immortal. Her name is Amarra. Jas loved that name. We debated what her middle name would be. Amarra Klar Sidhu? Amarra Singh Sidu? After Jas died I was able to decide on a name without a doubt. Her full name is Amarra Jas Sidhu.

We planned the induction so I would have enough time to heal before the funeral. Actually on the way to the hospital for the induction we stopped by at the funeral home to sign off paperwork for the service. I thought to myself how ridiculous and absurd my life had become. I wasn’t one of those moms who read about and learned everything I could about childbirth and the delivery process. My husband, and OB, would be there. I knew enough from med school, and if I needed a c section then so be it, that’s what we would do. A couple days before Jas died I asked him to teach me what to expect in labor. He said he would obviously walk me through it when the time came, but if I wanted to learn more ahead of time we could talk about it. I’m so grateful we had that conversation. The delivery was short. During pushing I heard my husband’s voice: “when you push try to make it last the full 10 seconds because if you do a bunch of small pushes its less efficient.” Between pushes I also heard his voice and saw his smiling face “do you want to make a baby with me?”