My wonderful wife Deb had been living with a weird disease called “sarcoidosis” for the last year and a half before she passed. I had no idea what it was. My mentor, Mike, a medical doctor, tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t fully understand. There is no cure for this disease. There is so much I don’t understand. She slowed down in functioning, but she still lived normally. The Mayo Clinic states that sarcoidosis is:
“a disease characterized by the growth of tiny collections of inflammatory cells (granulomas) in any part of your body — most commonly the lungs and lymph nodes. But it can also affect the eyes, skin, heart, and other organs.”
You can have this disease anywhere in your body; Deb had it in her lungs. It was
NOTCOVID, it was sarcoidosis. No one knows how this is contracted. About a year and a half ago, she found herself in the hospital with breathing problems. They thought it was sarcoidosis, but it wasn’t until she had a biopsy were they able to confirm it. She hated going to the hospital, but when you can’t breathe, you don’t have a choice.
It’s essential to understand the prognosis of sarcoidosis was open-ended. Doctors didn’t know if this would last for decades or a few days. Science is limited; I know that. I just assumed she would outlive me. Perhaps I was naïve.
Then, on Sunday, October 8, 2023, she got ready for church, felt sick, and returned to bed. By the time I got home from church, she was ill: vomiting, dry heaves, fever, soreness, and breathing problems. I wanted to take her to the hospital, but she refused, so I connected her with the oxygen machine the hospital had given us.
She improved as the day went on and felt good enough to care for herself Monday morning, so I went to work. That evening, she felt good enough for me to travel to the other side of the state so I could participate in mental health training through the Michigan Department of Correction (MDOC). She insisted I go, so I went. I called before and after each day, and she was getting better.
I spoke to her on Thursday night after she went out to eat with her mother (who was also sick). It was her first meal of the week. She was tired but in a good spirit, looking forward to seeing me the next day. We typically don’t spend time apart, so it was a little uncomfortable for both of us. I’m a toucher and haven’t touched her since the beginning of the week. I didn’t realize that would be the last time I’d ever speak with her.
Friday was the last day of the “Helping Men Recover” training, which was terrific training. As we were finishing up, I received a text at 1:06 pm. It was from Karen, one of Deb’s two closest friends. Karen and Sue had been friends with Deb since the 3rd grace. The message “please call ASAP” faded from the black screen as I looked down at it. I called Karen back immediately. “Deb’s been found unresponsive. She’s on the living room floor. Come home now.”
My heart dropped to the floor. I was stunned. I barely mustered the words, “Is she dead?”
“Just come home now.”
Unresponsive? What a terrible word. Panic seized me. And Karen didn’t answer the question if she was dead or not. It’s hard to explain what happens in moments of trauma when things aren’t normal. Time moves at a different speed. Thoughts aren’t clear. Things that shouldn’t be confusing suddenly were.
I told my supervisor what happened and immediately left. When I got to my car, I called my son to say that his mom was found on the floor unresponsive and to get home immediately. Then I called my brother-in-law John (who was about 20 minutes away) and told him Deb’s been found unresponsive and that I was two hours from home. I knew I needed family at my house.
I plugged in my home address in my cell but was very concerned that it wouldn’t get me home. I got lost on the way here and didn’t trust the stupid thing. I was near a highway, but for some reason, the map took me through back two-lane roads and residential neighborhoods. I even drove by a lake I don’t remember driving by on the way there. Functionally, I’m terrible at directions. And then, I was in a panic. I had no idea if the directions were right and didn’t want to stop to recalibrate. My wife was on the floor, unresponsive. That probably meant she was dead. I had to get home as fast as I could.
But God was good to me. He helped me drive through the stupid back roads. I was so relieved when I finally made it to a highway, though I didn’t know which one it was. It was Friday afternoon, and the traffic was getting heavy. And it was just starting to rain.
I drove 80 miles an hour because I knew if I went too fast, I’d be pulled over and waste a half hour getting a ticket. I didn’t have time for that. I had to get home.
I hadn’t stopped crying since I started driving. My stomach felt like someone punched me. I lost my breath and couldn’t get it back in my lungs. I took deep breaths, deliberately trying not to pass out, trying to get more air in my lungs. Thank you, Jesus, for not letting me pass out and getting into a car accident. I may have been having a panic attack, but I’m not sure.
Twenty minutes later, I got a call from John. “I’m so sorry Andy… but Deb is dead.” He was crying, which made me cry more, even though I was weaving through traffic at 80 miles an hour during Friday rush hour. Somehow, God allowed me to disconnect from my emotions partially. It was like they were in the backseat, still present but distant. It allowed me not to feel the full brunt of my emotions. This is called “dissociation” in the psychological community. It’s a form of denial. For whatever reason, I had disconnected my emotions many times in the past, so I was good at this dysfunctional skill. I just had to get home in one piece and was unsure I could. I went into “robot mode,” or something like it. I was trying to figure out what I should do next. My wife died, and I didn’t have a category in my little brain to put that experience in. It was outside of me.
How could this happen? Where was God? Shouldn’t he prevent this sort of thing? Doesn’t he love me? Doesn’t he love her? Dozens of thoughts flicker through my head as I continue to drive. I didn’t want to waste time pulling over to process anything. I just needed to get home.
John gave me more details. Sue, Deb’s other close friend, had been talking with her on the phone since the cell phone was dropped. Sue heard no struggling noises, no grunting, no cries of pain. It was like she dropped the phone in the middle of the conversation. Sue tried several times to reach her but was unsuccessful, so she turned her car around and drove to our home. Once there, she found Deb slumped over to her left side on the couch. Perfectly still. Deb didn’t respond to any tapping on the window or yells from her girlfriend.
Sue called Karen, and they called 911. EMS came through the front window and tried to resuscitate Deb for the prescribed 20 minutes, using a defibrillator to try to jump-start her heart. But she never responded. She had no pulse when they started working on her. She was officially declared dead by medical staff.
As John gave me the news of Deb’s death, he shared as much as he knew. Then gave the phone to the young officer in charge of the scene. He gave me the perfunctory “sorry for your loss” script that sounded like he had rehearsed before the call. I couldn’t blame this good officer for this terrible situation. I just lost my wife; what could he do? I’m sure he was upset, too. It didn’t help that he sounded like someone in his early 20’s.
“We don’t suspect any foul play,” said the young man, “so there will be no autopsy. You can pay for one if you want.”
Pause.
“No, she had sarcoidosis. It must have gotten to her heart,” I said, then tried to explain this strange disease, but the officer didn’t understand it very well.
Then the officer threw me for a loop, “I’ll need to stay here until the funeral home picks up the body. What funeral home do you usually use?”
The body?
I couldn’t believe the conversation. I so desperately wanted this to be a terrible joke. What funeral home do I usually use?
I thought, “Oh, I know, I’ll call Deb, she’ll know which funeral home we usually use.” I almost hung up with the officer to call her when I remembered that she was, in fact, dead and at the feet of the police officer I was talking to. She was “the body.”
The only name I could think of was Huntoon’s Funeral in Pontiac, the one my father’s parents used about 45 years ago. But that was no good; that was two hours away.
There are times when God, out of his graciousness, intervenes and gently points me back to what I already know. “Let me call you back,” I told him. Still driving 80 miles an hour, I searched through my cell to find Mike, but he didn’t answer. Then, I called my pastor, and he didn’t answer. So, I called Mike’s wife, Barb, and thank God she answered.
“Hi Andy, how are you?”
Deep breath, “Not good. Deb’s dead. Which funeral home do we use?” I’ve since apologized to her for being so rude.
I could tell she was trying to gather herself. We had been friends for years, but at this moment, I only wanted the name of a funeral home the church worked with.
“You can use any funeral -“
“Which one does our church work with?” I wasn’t patient. I wasn’t nice. I had to get the answer because a police officer was standing over “the body.”
“I guess we use Pederson.”
“Can you text me that name and that phone number?”
I get foggy on this, but I believe I called the officer next and told him about Pederson Funeral Home. My pastor, Don, then called, and I gave him my details. Pederson then called, and I gave him the specifics I had for them. I don’t know how I didn’t hit anyone on the highway. I credit God’s hand on the steering wheel. That’s the only explanation I have.
Then the thought hit me, “I hadn’t told my kids.” I wasn’t as worried about others being told, but I didn’t want anyone to tell my children before me. Nate was at the house, so he already knew about his mom. But Brooke was in Spring Lake, and Erin was in Connecticut. I’m their father. My job was to be the first one to tell them the bad news.
How do I do that?
That’s when the black hole first appeared.