It wasn’t planned, but in some small part, it was becoming something that was to be expected.
Terri was very ill for a very long time. However, she managed to keep up her spirits throughout that time and fought hard and long to stay with us as long as she could. Friday, February 13, 2026, she lost that fight. It was quick and hopefully merciful. I did manage to spend an hour with her before the ICU nurse asked me to step out so they could freshen her up for the afternoon. Basically, they needed to change the bedsheets because that was how they handled patients in the ICU, where one-to-one nursing and monitoring were the norm.
Terri was mostly immobile by this point. The doctors felt she needed high-flow oxygen, which means a powered cannula-style oxygen feed delivering a higher flow rate than a typical cannula.
I gave her a kiss, like I did when I arrived earlier, and told her I loved her. Then walked out to the ICU private waiting room, where the nurse said she would come and get me in about 10 minutes.
It was only a few minutes later that the overhead public announcement system blared a Code Omega on ICU level 0, which was exactly the waiting room I was sitting in.
Code Omega sounded familiar, but I looked it up all the same. It’s bad, as in a very serious sort of all-hands-on-deck for the ICU. I tried to dismiss this because Terri was not in the really sick part of the ICU, or at least not in the section where the doctors were spending most of their time during rounds.
I saw several doctors, nurses, or social workers rushing through the locked ICU visitor’s entrance, and I’m not 100% on their duties. I noticed the last “doctor” turned left after entering the ICU. Terri was to the right, and I relaxed a bit. I felt bad for whoever was hopefully enduring the Code Omega response.
Then, the social worker walked out of the ICU and sat down with me. I didn’t recognize her from the days before when she had introduced herself. She re-introduced herself, and I asked, “What that Omega call for Terri?” She said yes and offered to sit with me in the “Quiet Room” of the waiting area.
I declined at first, but as the social worker started to explain what was happening, we moved to the quiet room, and one of the ICU doctors came in and sat with us. I knew it wasn’t going well, but I didn’t know how bad until the doctor started telling me what they were or had been doing for Terri.
Terri’s heart had stopped. They had tried CPR, they had tried shocking her heart, they tried rapid-infusion blood, but ultimately her liver was simply too acutely sick for her to recover from. As the doctor noted, there have been very few cases of patients recovering when they were in severe liver failure, as Terri was experiencing.
I was taken to Terri immediately, but even though another person (the left-turning doctor) said she was passing, I think she had already left.
The Gastro-Intestinal ICU doctor (one of eight in the world!) sat with Terri and me, and we chatted for a little while as the doctor and the social worker tried to comfort me. We talked about how Terri and I met and the differences with Cincinnati chili. It was so very hard to cope, and even as I write this, I am still finding tears coming to my eyes.
I continued to sit with Terri for another hour or so before I felt strong enough to push her wheelchair and belongings out to the car and make my way home. I’m not entirely sure the dogs and cats understand that “mommy” won’t be coming home again. There is a definite sadness in the house, even as I try to distract and occupy their time.
Terri will be cremated on February 16, 2026, at the Circle of Life Crematorium in Dundas, Ontario. A private family viewing will be attended by those close enough to visit. A celebration of life will be planned for a later date, most likely in the spring.
Please feel free to reach out to me via email or telephone for more information. Socials and other platforms will likely see updates as well.
Until we meet again, my love.