Waiting

Dad was rushed to the ER Monday morning, unable to breathe and obviously hypoxic. An hour later Mom called to tell me Dad has double pneumonia--one of the ugly complications of Multiple Myeloma. He's remained in the ICU since then, breathing with the help of a ventilator, slipping in and out consciousness under a blanket of heavy sedatives and IV pain meds designed to keep his frail body still. During the past few days his kidneys have begun to shut down--another ugly complication--and dialysis attempts have been foiled by heart and blood pressure irregularities. Today Mom saw a few glimpses of recognition by her husband of 60 years, as he struggled to communicate by squeezing hands that reached out to comfort him. His voice, however, is silent, his body motionless. What is he feeling? Does he have pain? Does he realize what's happening? Is he afraid?

From 2000 miles away, there is little I can do but wait. I am haunted by mental images of Dad tied to machines in order to survive a few more hours. Is it wrong to want to remember him the way he was when I last saw him seven months ago, or am I simply a coward, afraid to watch him slipping away? Today Mom told me she didn't want me to see him this way. But I feel more and more like I should be at his bedside, helping him on his journey, wherever it may lead.

In my own way, I'm preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. There has been no change in his condition. He is gravely ill. Expecting a miracle seems like a set up for the mother of all disappointments. Yet, I keep hoping and wondering what it would take for him to bounce back and fight this wretched disease. His immune system has been decimated by the cancer and chemo he'd begun just two days before his hospitalization.

I don't know how to lose a parent. I've never done this before. Though I've watched my friends go through this over the years, I've always wondered what it felt like. Now I know. My body craves sleep and my brain is numb. It's as if a limb is being removed against my will and I'm paralyzed, powerless to stop it. Sleep seems a viable option. Make it stop. Make the cancer go away.

The dogs have been amazingly responsive to my confusion and despair. They've been sleeping a lot the past three days and have refrained from pestering me, other than occasional potty requests at the back door. They know what's happening. I rewarded their wisdom and compassion today by taking them to the park. They joyfully romped on soft grass, and in the cold, bracing air I felt alive. I have not been out of the house much this week. I spend my time curled up on the sofa, where I drift in and out of sleep. These past few days we've napped together--two dogs and a tired woman--in the afternoon sun that streams through the family room windows. Sleeping with the dogs in the middle of the day is comforting. Zen Master Murphy tells me sleep is healing.

And so I wait for a change in Pop's condition. In my grief-induced fog, I wait to know what I'm feeling. I wait for a sign that he's improving, or getting worse. I wait for him to breathe his last breath. These days I speak often with Mom for medical updates and mutual support. We share the unspeakable loss of a beloved father and spouse. We talk about how different our lives will be. We wonder about the future. We laugh and cry in the same breath. We allow ourselves to just be. This is something new. As a family, we are not emoters. Our unspoken tribal law has dictated that we control our emotions, no matter what. It has governed our interactions for decades. Rules, however, are sometimes made to be broken, and as we give ourselves and each other permission to dive deeply in our oceans of grief--as we explore dark, uncharted waters--we strengthen our bond and deepen our respect for one another. This is completely unexpected, disorienting, disarming. Yet I welcome it as rain falling on parched land. We bond in our loss.

Words fail me this evening. I am losing the battle to stay awake. Thinking of the inconceivable possibility of removing Dad from life support in the coming days drains me, empties me. Perhaps tomorrow will bring a sign of change, for better or worse. Tonight life stands still. It's the waiting that's hardest.