Only Karl

Most of you know that Karl Hamilton loved people and he loved to laugh. It didn't matter who you were, your background, age, sex – he just flat-out loved people. I think it was because whatever love he gave, it came back to him and then some. Take, for instance, the homeless guy who was in the bed next to Karl when he arrived at the trauma-burn unit at University Hospital Jan. 6. The curtain was always drawn between their beds, but a thin curtain didn't stop Karl from endless hours of chat when no visitors or medical personnel were present. Karl made such an impression that this guy came back twice to visit Karl. We found out later that Karl hid the guy's booze bottle under his bed while he went for a doctor’s visit and that later he and his buddy were kicked out of Karl’s room because they were having a party and were a little too noisy. Only Karl.

And then there were all the friends he made with the nurses and techs in the trauma-burn unit. One guy was going to take him to a Tigers' game when he got out. Another knew Karl from when he worked at the bike shop. Another nurse emailed photos of dogs she rescued and he forwarded the photos on to me and told me the amazing story of how she rescued them from a ditch and that they now belong to a famous Nashville song writer. One of the techs used to work for a company that harvested transplant organs. He told Karl all about it. One early morning as he came in to check Karl's vitals and Karl was sleeping, he awoke and told him not to get any ideas because he was still using his organs. Imagine the laughter that got! And then there was the nurse who spent hours with Karl; he counseled her during the weeks her sister was dying and then after her death. He was the listening ear she needed to get through. Only Karl.

On Feb. 13, Gloria Brooks and Marcia Bohannon planned
to visit. Rather than text them his room number, we decided 
to send them this photo instead.

After we found out the cancer had come back and his right arm/hand had lost nearly all function due to the tumor on his C-spine and that the surgery to remove the tumor was unsuccessful, his new nurse on the neuro floor was his newest victim. She had him for only four 12-hour shifts during what would be the last week of his life, yet he still played pranks and in that short time he had her wrapped in his love and laughter. She was there for some of his most excruciatingly painful times – both emotionally and physically – and yet she felt better for having met him. For example, she talked to him one day about going to a sub-acute rehab facility. His answer? He started singing the Amy Winehouse song: “They wanted me to go to rehab, but I said, a no, no, noooo.” Later she was flushing his IV while he was napping. His eyes opened, he feigned gasping breaths and then he turned to the side with his tongue hanging out, pretending he had expired. She let him have it…told him she’d kill him if he ever did that again, and then apologized to us because she was never that unprofessional. Of course we were laughing. No apologies needed. Only Karl.

God works in mysterious and miraculous ways. At the time of Karl’s seizure – one month ago today, in fact – and the day he found out he had run out of time, our dear friend Marcy was there. She had just gotten off her shift and came to visit. God’s timing was amazing and I’m so thankful He chose Marcy to be there when that happened. I'm so glad he wasn't alone. Before we arrived at the hospital, Karl had received the news. When we got there, Marcy was in the bed with him; they were holding each other, whispering “I love you” to one another, crying, laughing and just loving one another. Only Karl.

Karl’s surgeon, Dr. Orringer, who had the horrible task of telling us what was happening, met us in the hallway. Cousin Trese, who also works at the U, told us later that cases are usually delegated to other doctors who then report back to the head surgeon. But because of Trese's connection and because Karl was who he was, Dr. Orringer was there. Little could be done. So between Trese, Marcy, the chaplain, Mom and me, we had to figure out whether to keep Karl comfortable or to put a ventric in that would give him some time for goodbyes. Then it dawned on me; my husband Randy was in the room with Karl, comforting him and talking/laughing/crying. Randy is always so objective. He’d know what to do. And so as I entered, Randy said he knew what we were going to ask and that Karl was lucid and could make his own decisions. Karl chose to be able to say goodbye. How courageous. How selfless. Only Karl.

Brother Kirk had already scheduled a flight to come home and say goodbye, thanks to Wally and Wendy Burr, but when I asked who else Karl would like me to call, he told me a few names. I emailed others. Between Friday afternoon and Saturday night, more than 100 people – childhood, high school, college, work and hometown friends, a legion of nurses and techs from the trauma-burn unit, his neuro nurse of four days, and family – all came to say goodbye. There were so many people coming to see Karl, that the front desk at University Hospital where there’s a capacity of almost 1,000 patients, made maps to his room. Only Karl!

One of his visitors on his final full day, Jen, got this final

photo with Karl. Thanks for the great last photo, Jen.

Generally intensive care units at hospitals like peace and quiet so that patients can rest, but the people in the neuro ICU at U-M were very understanding and encouraged us to keep folks coming. Karl’s vitals were always better when people were with him. Lot’s of laughter filled Karl’s room…like when Karl’s high school buddy Butch told Karl he looked “like shit.” And then another high school chum Charley chimed in, “I've seen him look worse.” A nurse who admitted she was an Ohio State graduate (what was she thinking? She was at U-M!), was emptying his foley catheter. Another friend said, “that’s a high-skilled job at OSU, isn't it?” Karl doubled over with laughter. He thanked everyone for coming. His kissed hands and cheeks and lips. He cried. He grimaced with pain. He told some he’d be okay. He told others he didn't want to die. He told others he wasn't afraid. He told people to drive safely. He told others he’d prepare a place for them. He made people promise they’d do better. He told people to focus. He told kids he’d watch over them. He told EVERYONE he loved them. Only Karl.

And then around midnight, Karl announced to Kirk that he was going to die. About 2 a.m. his vitals started lowering dramatically. He was in a great deal of pain so they started an IV drip of morphine. Around 3 a.m., Randy, Michelle and I headed to the hospital. Nikki stayed with Mom and was later joined by Marcy and Carol Partridge. We were met at the hospital by our family: Trese, Steve, Steven, Joe and Emily Kampmueller, Katie and Jeremy Castorena, and later by friends Rodney and Terri Partridge. As the shifts changed around 7 a.m., the nurse who was leaving grabbed me by the shoulders and told me she had never seen such an amazing display of love. Only Karl.

Later that morning Dr. Orringer came specifically to tell us how sorry he was. He gave everyone hugs, told us he wished he could have done something – anything – to have helped Karl. Apparently this is not the norm for him, but some how, some way, Karl broke through that emotional barrier I’m sure all medical professionals have to build in order to survive.

Around 10:30, Karl’s breaths were shallower, fewer and farer between. We all gathered around his bed. We urged him to go. We all gave him permission. We all told him we loved him. We told him to grab Dad’s hand, to grab Jesus’ hand. When many seconds had passed between breaths I said, “I think our boy is gone.” Then he took another short breath, and I said, “Well, I guess he’s got one more lap.” We all laughed. And guess what? Karl took his last breath in the moment we were all joined together in laughter and love. Only Karl.

Blessings and love.

Mom and I were among seven women in an ecumenical Christian clown group called the Clown Connection. We’d pantomime skits that had fun, but meaningful Christian messages or they’d tell a Bible story. We’d always end our gigs with the prayer below. I think it’s a pretty appropriate prayer for Karl, too.

The Clown Prayer

As I stumble through this life,

Help me to create more laughter than tears,

Dispense more happiness than gloom

Spread more cheer than despair.

NEVER let me become so indifferent

That I will fail to see the wonder

In the eyes of a child

Or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.

NEVER let me forget that my total effort

Is to cheer people, make them happy

And forget, at least momentarily,

All the unpleasantness in their lives.

AND, in my final moment,

May I hear you whisper…

“When you made my people smile,

You made me smile!”