The night shift

As I listen to the deep breaths inhaled sometimes in labor and sometimes with ease, I wait for the pattern. The consistent in and out. Slow in, fast out. Sometimes the pattern stops. The breaths grow faint, so faint that I cannot hear. I hold my own breath, waiting. I watch my father-in-law, George, Dad, as he lay motionless in his bed. Then finally a quick intake of oxygen and the pattern continues.

I have time now to reflect on the past 4 years. We left our mission field in South Africa to a new one in New England. To care for Jeanine’s father. He would need the help because he was getting a leg amputated the week we arrived. His right leg, just below the knee. 

A lifelong fight with pain from frostbite from a war long ago. Finally he would be freed from that pain. But it didn’t really work that way. He still had pain, excruciating pain. He would try to massage his toes to help alleviate the pain. But they were no longer there. Phantom pain, but real to him. Then the bypass implanted in his left leg let go, stopping blood flow to his left foot. Broken hearted from his wife passing away not only a few weeks before, he decided he would let the gangrene take over so he could be with her again. But the pain got to be too much and the left leg was cut off above the knee.

The rehab process was slow. Between living with us and an assisted living facility, the years were rocky. He had to learn new ways to do things, learn his limitations and strengths, and we had to learn how to teach him. A stubborn man, but determined. The first year or so, it seems like every time he made progress in recovery or gaining strength, he would get sick or get a urinary tract infection and he would have to start over again. Then after that came the falls. He would forget to lock the wheelchair when he scooted from the bed to chair, or he would fall off the commode on the toilet. I lost count of how many hospital visits he made, and I definitely lost count of how many hours we spend sitting in the hospitals with him.

Such was life. A few good days, a few bad days. Sometimes is was a few good days and a few bad weeks. But he always bounced back. Often in pain and agony, he kept going. When the assisted living facility took away is electric wheelchair, took over his medication disbursement and forced him to have the orderlies wheel him from the dining room and his room, it put him into a deeper depression. With his independence stripped from him and his overwhelming physical struggles, he was dying. On the inside his spirit was dying.

A few months ago he moved to a different assisted living facility in the town where he and his beloved wife had spent their golden years. He knew the area and he loved the facility. With his electric wheelchair returned, he would take “walks” into town and sometimes visit his old buddies at the local pub.

He was back. Alive again. He spirits lifted, his body strong, and his mind clear. I finally got to see real George. The man my wife loves so much. The man she told me stories about from when she was growing up. A man compassionate for others, a man that loved a good joke, and a man that loved his children and loved God.

Only 4 short months later and within a span of a few weeks, he had bladder surgery to remove malignant tumors, muscle biopsy to look for remaining tumors, a congenial heart failure and another UTI. The poor man was worn out. Knowing what the road ahead looks like to get back to where he was, he decided he had had enough.

So now here we are. He sleeps with a pattern of breaths. Slow in, fast out. He has been on hospice for a number of weeks. Accommodating his wish to be home, he is back in his room in the assisted living facility. Ceasing all medication except pills for pain, he waits. At peace with God, at peace with his family, he is ready to go. 

Needing to be on 24 hour watch because he is too weak to eat, and dress, and basically function, dad’s kids and their spouses have taken shifts sitting in his small room in the back corner of the assisted living facility. Exhausted from little sleep, long drives to and from his home and trying maintain our jobs and families, we are each still able to keep going. We are happy to do this. Each one of us know that if they are scheduled to be here, then he is still here. We are eager to soak up as much dad time we can.

Tonight is my shift. He had a good evening. Occasionally he wants to eat something. Tonight I had the privilege to help him eat. As he sat feebly against his pillows, I slowly held the mug of soup to his mouth so he could drink. A few spoonfuls of soft pudding followed. Worn from the effort, he rested between bites. He would wave his hand and slightly open his mouth to tell me he was ready for the next bite. We learned how to communicate while in such a fragile state. I had never felt so close to him before. The intimacy of feeding dad brought me a level with him that I didn’t think I would ever get to. After years of exhaustive care and companionship; years of sitting with him in hospitals for hours into the night; countless weekends, holidays and evenings sacrificed in order to accommodate his needs; and yes, even some resentment from having to leave South Africa to be here for him, I finally at this moment fell in love with dad.

So yes, I will sit in this chair next to his bed as long he has breaths. Loud, labored or quiet, I will sit next to him listening to the pattern. Slow in, fast out.