Kathleen's Final Journey
David & Kathleen
Just past midnight, on June 21, 1998, our daughter Kathleen Ann Lee-Geist died in my arms in the emergency room of a hospital in downtown Seattle. The official cause of death was listed as Glioblastoma Multiforme … the result of a massive brain tumor. Her death ended a medical nightmare, launched media frenzy and demonstrated the medical profession’s total inability to deal with a survivor’s needs.
Does every tragedy begin with a phone call? David, our son-in-law, called from their home on San Juan Island. "Kathleen is very frightened. She says she has begun to have suicidal thoughts. I’m taking her to the hospital." Her mother, Camilla, and I were deeply disturbed by this news. Kathleen was our middle child neatly sandwiched between her brothers John and Mark. At the time she was 41 years old and owned and managed a dress boutique just off the ferry dock at Friday Harbor. She had always enjoyed excellent health but for several weeks prior to David’s call had complained of vertigo and loss of memory. She joked that her mind was always like a Rolodex but now she could not remember phone numbers and other simple information.
David called the next day to tell us Kathleen had undergone a medical exam at the hospital and all the tests proved normal. Over the next several days she seemed to retreat into herself and complained of emotional highs and severe lows. A few weeks later she was given another medical exam and was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. She was hospitalized on two or three occasions and treated with Lithium.
Her condition continued to deteriorate and in late spring she was given a CAT scan that revealed a growth in her brain. She was flown immediately to a Seattle hospital and after an MRI exam the preliminary diagnoses was a massive, calcified brain tumor. Later, after her death, the full report of the biopsy and x rays revealed the tumor was incurable and inoperable. Her physician also informed us that the degree of calcification indicated the tumor had developed over a long period of time and had finally reached the point of critical mass.
By now Kathleen required constant care. She was unable to walk or perform any of the other usual activities of daily life. David’s sister Ellen came from New York and between the two of them nursed her through her final days. At the conclusion of her last exam in Seattle they prepared to take her back home to San Juan Island. David fashioned a cocoon of blankets and pillows in the back of their van and laid Kathleen’s heartbreakingly frail body in its center. He wanted to reach the Anacortes ferry dock in time to board the 5pm departure a 90-minute voyage to Friday Harbor. In anticipation of the weekend ferry traffic he had requested, and received, a medical priority pass from the hospital so that they would be assured passage on the first available ferry.
Upon arrival at the ferry terminal David drove to the designated priority lane. He was pleased to see a neighbor just in front of him who also had a medical pass. When the dock attendant approached the van David showed him the hospital’s letter. The attendant informed David the request was invalid since the rule stated all medical requests were to be faxed to the terminal office prior to the patient’s arrival. Since they already had a full load in line he would have to wait for the next ferry some two hours later. David explained that his wife was gravelly ill and that it was imperative that they get her home as soon as possible. Close to tears he begged the man to come to the rear of the van and see Kathleen’s condition. The attendant informed David that, "rules were rules", and he would have to take the matter up with the Seattle office. He gave David the phone number and walked away.
David ran to the phone only to get a voice message that the office was closed for the day. When he returned to the van his neighbor had told the attendant that she would be happy to let David go in her place. The attendant’s response was, "Lady, if you don’t get on the ferry neither one of you will". Exhausted and grief stricken David, and Ellen did not get Kathleen home until late that night.
During the night Kathleen’s condition grew worse and by morning he and Ellen became concerned for her survival. Early that afternoon David called the physician and described Kathleen’s symptoms. He was told to put her on a helicopter and fly her back to the hospital in Seattle. By the time David was able to make all the arrangements he called and asked me to meet Kathleen in the emergency room at the hospital. He and Ellen would catch the earliest ferry and drive down.
I arrived at the hospital about 8PM. I was surprised at how quiet it was given the fact that it was Saturday evening at a major hospital in Seattle. While I waited only one patient came in: a young man hopped out of a taxi and hobbled to the ER desk and told the attendant he had broken his ankle. He was immediately placed in a wheel chair and taken to a private room.
Kathleen did not arrive until several hours later. She was wheeled in on a gurney attended by several medical personnel. She was covered with a blanket and wore a plastic oxygen mask. The moment I saw her I knew she was close to death. Even with the oxygen she struggled for breath, her face was flushed red, and her entire head looked as if it might explode. Even though she was unconscious I was certain that on some level she suffered severly. I identified myself as her father and was told to follow as they put her in a private room.
As they transferred her to a bed a physician arrived. He had been advised of Kathleen’s illness and after a brief exam he asked me to step out of the room. He defined her condition as a fatal brain hemorrhage and asked what I wanted to do. After he assured me that there was no hope he said they could keep her alive until her husband arrived. I asked if it were his daughter would he let her continue to suffer. Without a moments hesitation he replied, "No". I told him to do what ever was needed to make her comfortable.
He went back in the room and within a minute the mask was removed from Kathleen’s face and I was left alone with my dying daughter. A nurse brought me a chair and told me that Kathleen would continue to breath for about twenty minutes and then, "it will be over." She explained she was going off duty and another nurse would take her place. She placed a hand on my shoulder and told me I had made a courageous and loving decision and left the room. Those were the only words of sympathy or compassion I was to hear that night.
It would be impossible to convey what transpired over the next several minutes. I held Kathleen as she continued to breathe. I have little memory of those final moments other then the overwhelming shock and despair of losing her. I did not pray, I did not ask God to save her. I just held her and whispered of my love for her. Within a very short time she simply lay still in my arms and died
In grief and shock I stumbled to the door. The nurse realized what had happened and entered the room without a word to tend to the time of death and other details. I was left alone. In what was the most terrible moment of anguish in my life I wanted some one to offer a word of comfort, to hold me, console me. Not one person came near me. I noticed the physician and his staff as they busied themselves analyzing the x-ray of the young man’s ankle. When he saw me his voice rose to a level as if to drown out my presence.
I finally told someone at the desk I had to use a phone. I was ushered into a small room and left to call my son-in-law, David, to tell him we had lost Kathleen. When I hung up I sat alone, in silence and finally managed to compose myself enough leave. As I passed the receiving desk I asked that they not move Kathleen until my son-in-law arrived later in a few hours. Again, there was not one word of sympathy spoken. I was, however, asked if I wanted a security guard to escort me to my car.
I drove home in a haze of grief to tell Camilla that our Kathleen had died. I was aware of the early hour’s silence of the city and as I crossed the bridge over Lake Washington I remembered the one final irony of the whole tragic event. It was June 21st, the birth of a new summer – and Father’s Day.
Death ends a life but not a relationship. This was made clear to us by the bizarre events that began a few days after Kathleen’s death. When I went to pick up our morning paper I was shocked to read the headlines on the front page of The Seattle Times:
"DYING WOMAN WAITS AND WAITS FOR FERRY."
What followed was a two-page account, accompanied by a photo of Kathleen, of the terrible ordeal that our son-in-law David was subjected to at the Anacortes ferry dock. "San Juan Islanders angry over ferry workers’ refusal to allow a dying woman to board ferry." In the days and weeks that followed the media entered into a virtual frenzy over the incident. There were editorials in all the newspapers, letters to the editors, every talk show host devoted hours of discussion and phone call to "the dying lady on the dock". The incident was one of the main stories of every TV news show. There were even rumors that the island residents were planning to stage a protest demonstration on the dock. The entire Washington State Ferry System became the object of outrage of the whole of the Puget Sound region. Every passenger who had ever suffered indifference or rudeness at the hands of the ferry crews focused on this incident as the final act of indignity.
At first the ferry system took a stonewall position and flatly stated that, "the rules had to be followed". They blamed the hospital for not sending the required fax notification to the ferry office. But the media and the public demanded an apology and the torrent of fury swelled to the point where on July 28th The Seattle Times published a front page article that, in part, read:
"Governor Gary Locke and state
transportation officials have apologized
to the husband of a dying woman who
was made to wait at the ferry dock in Anacortes. In his letter to David Lee-Geist Locke
expressed deep condolences and said he
and his wife, Mona, were appalled to read
of the incident".
At the same time my wife and I received a letter of "sincere apology" from the Director of Operations of the Washington State Ferries. Not long after ferry officials published new rules and procedures for medical priority events throughout the ferry system, which are in force to this day.
During the entire media mess we, the surviving family, came to two conclusions: first, that Kathleen, who like her father, never shunned the limelight, would have been thrilled - she had become a cause celebe. And finally, in the midst of our grief, we just wanted the whole thing to end.
It has been said that grief is a species of idleness so in the days and weeks that followed Kathleen’s death we did our best to keep busy. David arranged a beautiful memorial service held on the lawn in front of the home he and Kathleen had recently completed. It was a magical affair where, for an entire summer afternoon, friends and family from all over the country memorialized Kathleen’s life. There was music, song, laughter and tears.
Friends and loved one’s did much to help ease the pain of our loss but we all discovered there is no escape from the anguish involved in the process of grief. There is no pill or potion that can diminish its raw reality. In several instances we were made vividly aware that the living have little room for the grief of survivors. There were those few who never called and those who went out of their way to avoid us. My experience with the medical staff in the hospital was a clear demonstration of the failure of our culture to deal with death and dying. Life goes on and it’s business as usual.
We recently celebrated her 45th birthday and our oldest son John observed that we have reached a new boundary in our relationship with Kathleen. We have moved beyond the heartbreak of loss to a recognition that her life is much larger than the physical world, and that her spirit is still very much with all of us. As each day passes we become more aware that we are blessed to be in the presence of her love. For every tear shed, for every moment of grief, we have as many and more memories of the joy and laughter Kathleen brought into our lives.
***
Does every tragedy begin with a phone call? David, our son-in-law, called from their home on San Juan Island. "Kathleen is very frightened. She says she has begun to have suicidal thoughts. I’m taking her to the hospital." Her mother, Camilla, and I were deeply disturbed by this news. Kathleen was our middle child neatly sandwiched between her brothers John and Mark. At the time she was 41 years old and owned and managed a dress boutique just off the ferry dock at Friday Harbor. She had always enjoyed excellent health but for several weeks prior to David’s call had complained of vertigo and loss of memory. She joked that her mind was always like a Rolodex but now she could not remember phone numbers and other simple information.
David called the next day to tell us Kathleen had undergone a medical exam at the hospital and all the tests proved normal. Over the next several days she seemed to retreat into herself and complained of emotional highs and severe lows. A few weeks later she was given another medical exam and was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. She was hospitalized on two or three occasions and treated with Lithium.
Her condition continued to deteriorate and in late spring she was given a CAT scan that revealed a growth in her brain. She was flown immediately to a Seattle hospital and after an MRI exam the preliminary diagnoses was a massive, calcified brain tumor. Later, after her death, the full report of the biopsy and x rays revealed the tumor was incurable and inoperable. Her physician also informed us that the degree of calcification indicated the tumor had developed over a long period of time and had finally reached the point of critical mass.
By now Kathleen required constant care. She was unable to walk or perform any of the other usual activities of daily life. David’s sister Ellen came from New York and between the two of them nursed her through her final days. At the conclusion of her last exam in Seattle they prepared to take her back home to San Juan Island. David fashioned a cocoon of blankets and pillows in the back of their van and laid Kathleen’s heartbreakingly frail body in its center. He wanted to reach the Anacortes ferry dock in time to board the 5pm departure a 90-minute voyage to Friday Harbor. In anticipation of the weekend ferry traffic he had requested, and received, a medical priority pass from the hospital so that they would be assured passage on the first available ferry.
Upon arrival at the ferry terminal David drove to the designated priority lane. He was pleased to see a neighbor just in front of him who also had a medical pass. When the dock attendant approached the van David showed him the hospital’s letter. The attendant informed David the request was invalid since the rule stated all medical requests were to be faxed to the terminal office prior to the patient’s arrival. Since they already had a full load in line he would have to wait for the next ferry some two hours later. David explained that his wife was gravelly ill and that it was imperative that they get her home as soon as possible. Close to tears he begged the man to come to the rear of the van and see Kathleen’s condition. The attendant informed David that, "rules were rules", and he would have to take the matter up with the Seattle office. He gave David the phone number and walked away.
David ran to the phone only to get a voice message that the office was closed for the day. When he returned to the van his neighbor had told the attendant that she would be happy to let David go in her place. The attendant’s response was, "Lady, if you don’t get on the ferry neither one of you will". Exhausted and grief stricken David, and Ellen did not get Kathleen home until late that night.
During the night Kathleen’s condition grew worse and by morning he and Ellen became concerned for her survival. Early that afternoon David called the physician and described Kathleen’s symptoms. He was told to put her on a helicopter and fly her back to the hospital in Seattle. By the time David was able to make all the arrangements he called and asked me to meet Kathleen in the emergency room at the hospital. He and Ellen would catch the earliest ferry and drive down.
I arrived at the hospital about 8PM. I was surprised at how quiet it was given the fact that it was Saturday evening at a major hospital in Seattle. While I waited only one patient came in: a young man hopped out of a taxi and hobbled to the ER desk and told the attendant he had broken his ankle. He was immediately placed in a wheel chair and taken to a private room.
Kathleen did not arrive until several hours later. She was wheeled in on a gurney attended by several medical personnel. She was covered with a blanket and wore a plastic oxygen mask. The moment I saw her I knew she was close to death. Even with the oxygen she struggled for breath, her face was flushed red, and her entire head looked as if it might explode. Even though she was unconscious I was certain that on some level she suffered severly. I identified myself as her father and was told to follow as they put her in a private room.
As they transferred her to a bed a physician arrived. He had been advised of Kathleen’s illness and after a brief exam he asked me to step out of the room. He defined her condition as a fatal brain hemorrhage and asked what I wanted to do. After he assured me that there was no hope he said they could keep her alive until her husband arrived. I asked if it were his daughter would he let her continue to suffer. Without a moments hesitation he replied, "No". I told him to do what ever was needed to make her comfortable.
He went back in the room and within a minute the mask was removed from Kathleen’s face and I was left alone with my dying daughter. A nurse brought me a chair and told me that Kathleen would continue to breath for about twenty minutes and then, "it will be over." She explained she was going off duty and another nurse would take her place. She placed a hand on my shoulder and told me I had made a courageous and loving decision and left the room. Those were the only words of sympathy or compassion I was to hear that night.
It would be impossible to convey what transpired over the next several minutes. I held Kathleen as she continued to breathe. I have little memory of those final moments other then the overwhelming shock and despair of losing her. I did not pray, I did not ask God to save her. I just held her and whispered of my love for her. Within a very short time she simply lay still in my arms and died
In grief and shock I stumbled to the door. The nurse realized what had happened and entered the room without a word to tend to the time of death and other details. I was left alone. In what was the most terrible moment of anguish in my life I wanted some one to offer a word of comfort, to hold me, console me. Not one person came near me. I noticed the physician and his staff as they busied themselves analyzing the x-ray of the young man’s ankle. When he saw me his voice rose to a level as if to drown out my presence.
I finally told someone at the desk I had to use a phone. I was ushered into a small room and left to call my son-in-law, David, to tell him we had lost Kathleen. When I hung up I sat alone, in silence and finally managed to compose myself enough leave. As I passed the receiving desk I asked that they not move Kathleen until my son-in-law arrived later in a few hours. Again, there was not one word of sympathy spoken. I was, however, asked if I wanted a security guard to escort me to my car.
I drove home in a haze of grief to tell Camilla that our Kathleen had died. I was aware of the early hour’s silence of the city and as I crossed the bridge over Lake Washington I remembered the one final irony of the whole tragic event. It was June 21st, the birth of a new summer – and Father’s Day.
Death ends a life but not a relationship. This was made clear to us by the bizarre events that began a few days after Kathleen’s death. When I went to pick up our morning paper I was shocked to read the headlines on the front page of The Seattle Times:
"DYING WOMAN WAITS AND WAITS FOR FERRY."
What followed was a two-page account, accompanied by a photo of Kathleen, of the terrible ordeal that our son-in-law David was subjected to at the Anacortes ferry dock. "San Juan Islanders angry over ferry workers’ refusal to allow a dying woman to board ferry." In the days and weeks that followed the media entered into a virtual frenzy over the incident. There were editorials in all the newspapers, letters to the editors, every talk show host devoted hours of discussion and phone call to "the dying lady on the dock". The incident was one of the main stories of every TV news show. There were even rumors that the island residents were planning to stage a protest demonstration on the dock. The entire Washington State Ferry System became the object of outrage of the whole of the Puget Sound region. Every passenger who had ever suffered indifference or rudeness at the hands of the ferry crews focused on this incident as the final act of indignity.
At first the ferry system took a stonewall position and flatly stated that, "the rules had to be followed". They blamed the hospital for not sending the required fax notification to the ferry office. But the media and the public demanded an apology and the torrent of fury swelled to the point where on July 28th The Seattle Times published a front page article that, in part, read:
"Governor Gary Locke and state
transportation officials have apologized
to the husband of a dying woman who
was made to wait at the ferry dock in Anacortes. In his letter to David Lee-Geist Locke
expressed deep condolences and said he
and his wife, Mona, were appalled to read
of the incident".
At the same time my wife and I received a letter of "sincere apology" from the Director of Operations of the Washington State Ferries. Not long after ferry officials published new rules and procedures for medical priority events throughout the ferry system, which are in force to this day.
During the entire media mess we, the surviving family, came to two conclusions: first, that Kathleen, who like her father, never shunned the limelight, would have been thrilled - she had become a cause celebe. And finally, in the midst of our grief, we just wanted the whole thing to end.
It has been said that grief is a species of idleness so in the days and weeks that followed Kathleen’s death we did our best to keep busy. David arranged a beautiful memorial service held on the lawn in front of the home he and Kathleen had recently completed. It was a magical affair where, for an entire summer afternoon, friends and family from all over the country memorialized Kathleen’s life. There was music, song, laughter and tears.
Friends and loved one’s did much to help ease the pain of our loss but we all discovered there is no escape from the anguish involved in the process of grief. There is no pill or potion that can diminish its raw reality. In several instances we were made vividly aware that the living have little room for the grief of survivors. There were those few who never called and those who went out of their way to avoid us. My experience with the medical staff in the hospital was a clear demonstration of the failure of our culture to deal with death and dying. Life goes on and it’s business as usual.
We recently celebrated her 45th birthday and our oldest son John observed that we have reached a new boundary in our relationship with Kathleen. We have moved beyond the heartbreak of loss to a recognition that her life is much larger than the physical world, and that her spirit is still very much with all of us. As each day passes we become more aware that we are blessed to be in the presence of her love. For every tear shed, for every moment of grief, we have as many and more memories of the joy and laughter Kathleen brought into our lives.
***
