Four Days
Four days and counting. In the hospital watching him let go. heart hurts to see his ravaged body go through this. He has gone without food or water for almost seven days and yet he still has a pulse. He never completely closes his eyes. Sometimes he frowns or raises his eyebrows as if he’s having an amusing thought. His eyes are bloodshot, there are veins protruding from new places. Not wearing his dentures has made his mouth cave in. When you look inside his mouth there are scabs and sores but we can’t give him water because he’ll choke. We want him to die but we don’t want to kill him.
Every four hours they change his position. For a few minutes his expression is wide eyed and shocked. Then he gets a morphine shot and a shot of Ativan. Drops in his eyes, then we try to moisten the roof of his mouth. Fluid rattles in his lungs and his breathing changes from short quick breaths to slow and barely audible. Sometimes we get carried away in conversation and we stop to listen for a breath. 9 seconds. 10, 15, 17 seconds between a rush of short quick gasps. One night it went as long as 40.
Today his hand and his knees became mottled and cold to touch. Yet there are still parts of him that are warm and firey.
When will this end? The begining of the end is here, that’s for sure. We’ve said a thousand Good - Byes and I love yous. Dad please let go. Yet he rattles on. What is going on in his mind?
We try to leave the room because maybe he wants to be alone. How long is long enough?
We keep looking for signs of the Devine, showing us that it is time for him to go. Birds gathering in the trees outside his window. His room is freezing, the nurses say the heater is broken but is it ghosts gathering? Sometimes he looks up at the ceiling and smiles? Who is up there? If only it would open and swallow him up.
I saw a picture if him once as a young man, dressed in coveralls, standing in the middle of an orchard, smiling sweetly to the black haired puppy in his arms. I try to tempt him with this vision. He could go back there. No more pain, no more Hospital. He could play his Viola again. It’s OK, We’ll be OK. Just let go.
Every four hours they change his position. For a few minutes his expression is wide eyed and shocked. Then he gets a morphine shot and a shot of Ativan. Drops in his eyes, then we try to moisten the roof of his mouth. Fluid rattles in his lungs and his breathing changes from short quick breaths to slow and barely audible. Sometimes we get carried away in conversation and we stop to listen for a breath. 9 seconds. 10, 15, 17 seconds between a rush of short quick gasps. One night it went as long as 40.
Today his hand and his knees became mottled and cold to touch. Yet there are still parts of him that are warm and firey.
When will this end? The begining of the end is here, that’s for sure. We’ve said a thousand Good - Byes and I love yous. Dad please let go. Yet he rattles on. What is going on in his mind?
We try to leave the room because maybe he wants to be alone. How long is long enough?
We keep looking for signs of the Devine, showing us that it is time for him to go. Birds gathering in the trees outside his window. His room is freezing, the nurses say the heater is broken but is it ghosts gathering? Sometimes he looks up at the ceiling and smiles? Who is up there? If only it would open and swallow him up.
I saw a picture if him once as a young man, dressed in coveralls, standing in the middle of an orchard, smiling sweetly to the black haired puppy in his arms. I try to tempt him with this vision. He could go back there. No more pain, no more Hospital. He could play his Viola again. It’s OK, We’ll be OK. Just let go.
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