What I remember is the white of the sheet and the sunlight. The peaceful room and the love that surrounded us this whole weekend. I remember my heart being complete and whole and hopeful. That's the obnoxious thing about my heart. It's. always. hopeful.
**Thank you, God that you have given me this heart that sees promise in everything. You have kept me from the brink of depression and self-destruction. You have propelled me forward in this life of uncertainty and allowed me to encourage others.**
I remember this morning, one year ago. He texts me while I'm up with the kids because he's too out of breath to yell for me. Our night was normal except he was extra mucus-y. He's been out of breath now for weeks. His meds have increased and so has his sleep. Meds and sleep are the only way he can tolerate existing. I've never seen him get like this and I know that he hates it.
The night before this, he was in a relatively good mood. The levity that we used to have is gone, but we enjoyed each other's company all the same.
I go into the bedroom and I know he's gone deeper into his discomfort. He communicates this with me and I call the hospice nurse. She is so kind---they were all so kind and loving. Between the lines, I can hear that this is going to be the end for him, but she doesn't say it. She listens to me instead. And with my hopeful heart, I tell her that I think we can get this infection under control and get on the right side of this congestion. She fights for me. I want IV antibiotics and she tells me they never do that with hospice, but she'll ask. Pat is here now and we three agree that he would be more comfortable at the hospice house (after assuring him that he can make it there with ambulatory help.)
Our pastor and friend comes over. I'll never forget their conversation. Chad asks him who he thinks he'll see first in heaven. Our pastor tells him to think of a loving father watching his child grow up and never being able to hold him. Would he not be in the front of the line to see him when he comes home? Then Chad, much like me, thinks aloud that today might not be the day. We pray and it's time to go.
We get into the ambulance. I'm in the back with him and the EMT. Chad wants peace and rest. We have dosed him with some more medications for the ride and we are anxious for them to kick in. I think I remember him telling a joke. Even if he didn't, that was his style.
When we arrive at the hospice house he's chatting with the EMTs about their lunch break. We settle in the room and he drifts off to sleep. When the doctor comes in, she tells us that we are going to run the IV antibiotics. I'm in shock, but so relieved. (I now think that the hospice house did this more for me than for Chad. They probably knew what was going on with him better than I did, but I am forever thankful that they exhausted all of the medical options we had.)
He rested for the night. Visitors started arriving and surrounding us with prayers and love. We have a few more days of this. Prayers, singing, love, tears, hope. I remember the music and the sunlight and the beauty that surrounded us. People came in just to sit and cry and be there. I'll never forget that. That meant the world to me.
I have an entry from this weekend a year ago right here if you want to take a look. My world was in the process of falling apart, but I have never been alone. Thank you, God for this tremendous blessing.
**Thank you, God that you have given me this heart that sees promise in everything. You have kept me from the brink of depression and self-destruction. You have propelled me forward in this life of uncertainty and allowed me to encourage others.**
I remember this morning, one year ago. He texts me while I'm up with the kids because he's too out of breath to yell for me. Our night was normal except he was extra mucus-y. He's been out of breath now for weeks. His meds have increased and so has his sleep. Meds and sleep are the only way he can tolerate existing. I've never seen him get like this and I know that he hates it.
The night before this, he was in a relatively good mood. The levity that we used to have is gone, but we enjoyed each other's company all the same.
I go into the bedroom and I know he's gone deeper into his discomfort. He communicates this with me and I call the hospice nurse. She is so kind---they were all so kind and loving. Between the lines, I can hear that this is going to be the end for him, but she doesn't say it. She listens to me instead. And with my hopeful heart, I tell her that I think we can get this infection under control and get on the right side of this congestion. She fights for me. I want IV antibiotics and she tells me they never do that with hospice, but she'll ask. Pat is here now and we three agree that he would be more comfortable at the hospice house (after assuring him that he can make it there with ambulatory help.)
Our pastor and friend comes over. I'll never forget their conversation. Chad asks him who he thinks he'll see first in heaven. Our pastor tells him to think of a loving father watching his child grow up and never being able to hold him. Would he not be in the front of the line to see him when he comes home? Then Chad, much like me, thinks aloud that today might not be the day. We pray and it's time to go.
We get into the ambulance. I'm in the back with him and the EMT. Chad wants peace and rest. We have dosed him with some more medications for the ride and we are anxious for them to kick in. I think I remember him telling a joke. Even if he didn't, that was his style.
When we arrive at the hospice house he's chatting with the EMTs about their lunch break. We settle in the room and he drifts off to sleep. When the doctor comes in, she tells us that we are going to run the IV antibiotics. I'm in shock, but so relieved. (I now think that the hospice house did this more for me than for Chad. They probably knew what was going on with him better than I did, but I am forever thankful that they exhausted all of the medical options we had.)
He rested for the night. Visitors started arriving and surrounding us with prayers and love. We have a few more days of this. Prayers, singing, love, tears, hope. I remember the music and the sunlight and the beauty that surrounded us. People came in just to sit and cry and be there. I'll never forget that. That meant the world to me.
I have an entry from this weekend a year ago right here if you want to take a look. My world was in the process of falling apart, but I have never been alone. Thank you, God for this tremendous blessing.
Made me cry.
ReplyDeleteHey, Andrew! I replied to this and it didn't show up. I wanted to let you know, in case I haven't already, that you showing up in the hospice room meant the world to me. I know it was uncomfortable and awkward and so much more for you to be there. I'll never forget it. Thank you.
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