Night Duty

It's 4:00am, September 26th. Craig's raspy breaths fill an otherwise quiet room -- a stark contrast to our hours of laughter and chatter earlier this evening. As he slept, we sat around his bedside and shared memories of Mom and Craig while harp music played in the background. We sorely missed Craig's witty contributions, and that acknowledgement quieted the tenor for the rest of the evening. For another two hours, we held his hands and whispered words of love, comfort, and peace. On several occasions, Dad gently caressed Craig's head, smoothing his hair in a fatherly way. The gesture between a father and son was exceptionally tender while exceptionally heartbreaking.

Now, Jill and Diane are tucked into Craig's queen-size bed, while Emily sleeps near them on the floor. Dad is in the other room sleeping on Craig's hide-a-bed. I'm awake on night duty.

I pulled night duty at the hospital the night mom was "transitioning", and sat by her bed in an uncomfortable chair as Diane and Jill tried to sleep. This was before we finally realized that her loud, unmistakable breaths served as a nighttime compass, pointing the direction of her "process" and giving confidence that she was still with us.

Craig's breaths are all too quiet to lend that confidence, so I'm awake to monitor his pulse and respirations, ever-ready to gently wake the others should I see a change. Craig's pulse still remains strong at ~104 beats per minute and his respirations are still, well, there. Finding some consistency is as difficult as finding a trend-line on a Dalmation and probably just as useful.

So, here I sit. Every now and then, Jill or Diane will pop up like one of their favorite meerkats on Meerkat Manor, and look around waiting for breath sounds or my sign that things are okay -- for now, they are. At some sad and horrific point in the near future, they won't be.  ~E