yet to tell anyone how much courage I didn't have last night...
I needed time to think it through, to try and understand what was said and maybe, most importantly, what wasn't said.
It was a little after 4:00 a.m. when I went to check on her last night. It's the same ritual now, I lay in the dark thinking about her knowing that I won't sleep again until I go to her. I entered her room and watched for the rising of her chest. In the dark, I can barely make it out, shallow breaths, but breathing none-the-less. I sit in the chair at her bedside and look at her, her hair is white as winter snow, thick and wavy. Her hand lies across the comforter, the skin scarred, the veins raised. The hands that crocheted hundreds of hats for children she didn't know, the hands that made thousands of cloth yo-yo quilts for her grandchildren and their spouses. Hands that can roll out a pie or drive a tractor better than most men are the hands that I know. The hands that permed my hair, brought me bowls of chicken and noodles with mashed potatoes (a Covey-Bush family favorite) are now swollen with arthritis. Hands that held my dad's hands. Hands that held me as an infant. Those hands have given to others, because they are guided by her heart.
She stirs and rolls over, her eyes open, taking in the room and then she sees me in the dark. She reaches out for me and I go to her, sitting on the side of her bed, just as I did when I would come home from a date as a teenager. I'm here, I say. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?
A drink of water with ice she says. I go downstairs and return with a fresh cup of ice water. I offer medication, morphine, which she gladly accepts. I wonder, do I give it to her so she'll feel better, or do I give it to her so I don't have to watch her suffer. Both, I guess, and I think a brave person would give it to her just to make her feel better.
...and then she asks me if it is time? Is she dying, she asks?
...I smooth her hair back and feel the warmth of her forehead.
...and then I think of what a brave person would say...
...but instead I say...
...no, not yet...
12 years ago
2 comments:
It's so sad that you are writing these posts on your birthday... This makes me think about what Dean did on his 50th birthday. Sad sad sad sad sad sad... we're all sad. And it's hard when you know there's nothing you can really do to stop what is going to happen probably sooner than later.
I just wish I could come and see you, just to be with you and we could hug and cry like we have done so many times. And you could see Marin, and GG could see Marin.
YOu are brave and amazing.
I love you.
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