Wife's death was one too many for hospice nurse

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LOS ANGELES — Jay West­brook’s cowboy boot is planted firmly on the gas pedal of his shiny black pickup. Everywhere he turns, a memory flashes.

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Jay Westbrook sits next to photos of his late wife, Nancy, in their backyard in Los Angeles. He journeyed with thousands of souls to the intersection of living and dying. Then came one death too many - his beloved Nancy.   DAMIAN DOVARGANES/ASSOCIATED PRESS
DAMIAN DOVARGANES/ASSOCIATED PRESS
Jay Westbrook sits next to photos of his late wife, Nancy, in their backyard in Los Angeles. He journeyed with thousands of souls to the intersection of living and dying. Then came one death too many - his beloved Nancy.

In Van Nuys, Calif., it is the lifeless little girl he held at Valley Presbyterian Hospital after she was found in the bottom of a hot tub. Near Beverly Hills, outside a Wilshire Boulevard high-rise, it is the old woman in a seven-figure condo whose misery he tried to soothe. On Skid Row, it is the 29-year-old crack addict he brought morphine for to numb the pain of cancer, as she died on the street.

There have been thousands of them, thousands of souls he journeyed with to the intersection of living and dying, who helped establish him as one of the foremost experts on care in a patient’s final days. Thousands of moments, tender and haunting and sweet, that rush back to him. Thousands of deaths that collectively formed his life.

It might have gone on this way forever, the deathbed confessions and last breaths and tear-soaked eulogies. Then came one death too many.

The first time was a cluster of machines and tubes, and breaths shallow and panting. Westbrook was a student nurse, the patient a big man, maybe 6-foot-4, so swollen from cirrhosis it looked as if he was pregnant. Westbrook had cared for the man for several weeks and when the time finally came, a profound sadness drove him to tears.

He felt powerless and mortal; and for the first time, this product of atheist parents felt something more. “I had that experience of the place where life and death meet being filled with God,” he said.

In the two decades that followed, Westbrook experienced more deaths than he could count – as a cancer nurse, in pain management and in hospice. He’d put 50,000 miles on his truck some years, driving from one dying person’s house to another. Some nights, he’d balance three deaths.

He heard a little boy confess to his dying mother he once stole from her wallet, and a married Orthodox Jew acknowledge he had a long affair with a man. He saw athletes and movie stars and singers, deaths surrounded by dozens and deaths all alone.

Those who survived a brush with death – by electrocution or shooting or drowning, perhaps – reported traveling down a tunnel toward a bright light. Those whose age or disease brought a more gradual exit often experienced visions of a loved one who went before, and a day of seemingly stunning turnaround, where lucidity returned and pain subsided. It could be a cruel tease to those praying for a miracle, as it was generally followed by clues the end was near: mottled skin, cold extremities, rolled-back eyes and breathing that sounds like a locomotive leaving the station.

Through it all, he was sustained by love.

They met June 7, 1968, at a party bidding Westbrook farewell before he was to leave California to teach in Appalachia. Two young women arrived dragging an unenthusiastic third to whom he was soon introduced.

“Nancy, this is Jay,” the host said. “Jay, this is Nancy.”
She wanted to take a walk on the beach, and he accompanied her. They walked and talked for hours and coming to rest on the sand.

“Six hours later, the sun came up and we were in love,” Westbrook said.

He never went to Appa­lachia. He was smitten with her sensitivity, her humility, her long, golden hair. Before long, Nancy Morgan was Nancy Westbrook. They lived modestly but joyfully.

“The only fight that we had on an ongoing basis,” he said, “was who married up.”

He is 67 now, white flecked in his wispy bush of hair, a gold Alcoholics Anony­mous pendant around his neck.

The scars of his abusive childhood are so deep he still sleeps with a nightlight to ward off a fear of the dark. They helped stir in Westbrook a strain of empathy so strong he became irreplaceable at the worst moment in others’ lives.

“My suffering,” he said, “be­came my vehicle for awakening compassion in me.”
He first put his power to work as a veterinary technician. When a pet was euthanized, it was Westbrook who comforted sobbing owners.

He then became a clinical gerontologist; in that role he constantly glimpsed death and felt a nagging need to get closer.

A nursing degree brought him where he wanted to be. He became a luminary of the end-of-life world, not just because of his skill, but because he told the stories of his work with such eloquence it enthralled audiences, from medical students at Harvard to hospice workers in a conference room. Day after day, he went back to the bedside of the dying.

Nancy not only helped her husband deal with the depths of his past, but also the daily trials of death. Time and again, he saw a deathbed full of regrets. It taught him and Nancy to never part without an embrace and an expression of love. Tomorrow was not guaranteed.

It was a Monday – Dec. 12, 2011 – when Nancy first awoke in pain. On Tuesday, it worsened. On Wednesday, she saw the doctor. On Thurs­day, she had a CT scan. On Mon­day, she had surgery. And on Tuesday, the diagnosis came: pancreatic cancer.

The doctors said she likely had four months to live with no intervention, up to a year with aggressive chemotherapy. Westbrook had had hundreds of pancreatic cancer patients and expected she had seven months. Four days shy of that, she awoke feeling great, free from pain and full of energy – the cruel pre-death rally he’d seen so many times before.

“I love you,” she said, emphatically.

He knew the end was near and, though they didn’t speak of it, he suspects she did, too. She wanted to stay outside in her beloved garden. And late into the night, they sat. She kept resisting going in to bed, but when they finally did, Nancy said her last words.

“I love you,” she said again. “Good night.”

By morning, she had lost consciousness. He took her in his arms and held her close.

“Sweetheart, I love you so much, I will miss you so much when you’re gone, but I’ll be OK,” he said. “And if and when you’re ready, you have my permission to go.”

Ninety seconds later, it was over.

It has been nearly two years since he buried Nancy. He hasn’t attended to another patient since.

He speaks of her in the present tense. He speaks of his career in the past.

“I’ve lost my life and I’ve lost my work,” he said.

He dreams of a blissful reunion with her. Even if it never happens, he’s grateful for what he once had.

“Small price to pay,” he said, “for a lifetime love affair.”

He has begun to counsel couples and advises on grief. But he will not go to a dying patient’s bedside.


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