Lisa and I returned from Iceland on Sunday, and I went to work on Monday. That day I had an appointment in York in the afternoon, and I saw on Facebook or Text or somewhere, that Paul was in the Hospital in Landisville. I was in the neighborhood, so I stopped in to see him, and he was there with Tammy. They looked shell-shocked but optimistic – he had just been diagnosed with Multiple Myelitis. Paul said “I don’t think this is going to kill me.” At that point, I think it was all so new, they weren’t sure what they were going to share with anyone.
A young nurse came in who knew my parents from Chestnut hill (recently – like right before covid) and gave a sobering but hopeful description of the future. She said ten years ago this was a death sentence, but with recent advances in medicine, it was a treatable chronic condition.
Paul went to Hershey that night.
I talked to him on the phone on Thursday, and he was all energy. Evidently he talked to everyone that week.
He died on Saturday morning.
I was there in the post op surgery waiting room after some exploratory surgery. The one doctor said Paul has something not good that they are trying to figure out, but that he is exactly in the place where he needs to be to get resolved from this condition. He was suggesting some possible courses of treatment for the next week for us to consider.
We moved rooms due to noise, and as we sat down in the next room, the next doctor came in and said Paul’s heart stopped and he wanted permission to stop chest compressions. He looked right at Tammy and Elizabeth as he said aid “I’m afraid we are only breaking his ribs and it won’t work.” Silence and shock. Tammy said “Glenn?”
Ugh.
Like 30 seconds later, the hospice pastor came in and asked “Who has their favorite memory of Paul?”
I wrote this post Sept 17, and changed the date to publish it sort of in the chronological order of events.