Make it through the Night

Each night, we turn Craig's one bedroom light out and flip on his closet night as a nightlight. As children, our mom would strategically place nightlights in our rooms and hallways to ward off the boogie man and to illuminate the path should we urgently need the bathroom in the midst of a hazy dream. Here, though the nightlight does little good with our 'boogie man,' as cancer thrives in the dark all the same, its glow is just enough to see his chest rise. Of late, such an event is increasingly harder to confirm.

Craig's breathing patterns have changed significantly, falling from 6-8 respirations per minute to 5-6, and now 4. Though somewhat disconcerting to hear, his labored inhalations and exhalations bring quiet comfort that he is in fact breathing. Yet, at night, things change.

Saturday night, Craig's breathing quieted to subtle puffs of air and he yelped through part of the night, not necessarily from pain but as a means to forcefully release air. Early in the morning, he awoke calling for help, "Help! I need some help!" Diane came to his side and later mentioned that he said he had seen mom, and that she had fallen and needed help. I later asked him if he remembered dreaming of mom and he emphatically said, "Yeah, she had fallen in the front seat of the car and needed help." He said that the dream was a haze and couldn't remember if she said anything to him and or what the dream meant, if anything.

But last night was different. His nighttime audibles ceased as soon as the lights went out. His breathing grew eerily quiet. Throughout the night, we repeatedly sprung awake to stare intently at his chest, hoping to hell we didn't somehow sleep through his passing. There's no comfort in sleep anymore. To go to bed with that chance, with the very real possibility that he could simply stop breathing while we rest next to him, is beyond comprehension. Reluctantly, we retire to bed. Yet, the realization that we haven't checked on Craig somehow pierces through a shallow sleep and draws us awake; we prop ourselves on our elbows and wait. Still bleary-eyed, it's difficult to gaze at his chest for the duration his increasingly long apnea requires, and I often find myself willing my eyes open and my mind awake to concentrate. At 5:30 this morning, our angle from the bed did not suffice; we couldn't tell if he was breathing, so we calmly approached his bedside preparing for the worst. This is really Craig who is dying, this is really happening, and it could happen at any moment. It's beyond difficult. The harrowing moments in which there are no respirations and you're left silently pleading "not yet, please not yet" defy description. 

Finally, a breath. A shallow, quiet breath.

And, somehow, we've managed to make it through the night. ~E