Slumber Parties

"I'm going to miss this view," Diane says as she peers up from her spot on the bed.

I turn my head towards the window.  "Yeah, the clouds look peaceful."

"Did you see the moon last night?" Erin asks.  Diane and I nod our heads. 

Then Diane asks, "Can you get your knee out of my back?" "Move over big hips."

And so goes another slumber party for the Lawler four.  The three girls are resting on Craig's bed as he sleeps just a few feet over.  True to form, we're in the same sleeping positions as we've been in for the past several months:  Diane and I on the ends with Erin sandwiched in the middle.  It's a tad crowded but better than the floor routine we had at the hospital.  I can imagine the sight of us:  three grown women packed in like sardines for a mid-afternoon nap with their brother sleeping soundly on his hospital bed just to the right. 

We wouldn't risk leaving his side for a posh room at the Ritz.  More than this, we wouldn't miss a nice Lawler-style slumber party.  Whether traveling together, visiting each other during the holidays, or crashing each other's rooms while growing up, we've always found comfort in sibling slumber parties. 

In fact, one of my favorite memories is of the four of us bunking out in Diane's room just before Christmas.  Pre-Christmas slumber parties were tradition so that, on Christmas Day, no one was disadvantaged for sleeping in -- our entire life was one big competition.  On Christmas morning, the four of us would sit in the hallway against the hall door, bracing our feet against the wall, as if to block each other from the loot that awaited us on the other side of the door.  When the doors would open, we'd sprint to the living room towards PRE-LABELED packages.  Though each package was clearly marked, we still raced to see who could open the presents the fastest. 

Slumber parties for the purpose of preventing Christmas Day sabotage soon gave way to slumber parties for the sake of conversation.  As adults, chats about relationships, school, and jobs would carry us well into the morning hours.  Most often, we'd end the night in fits of laughter, usually after an impromptu dress-up session.  Craig has a picture on his refrigerator of one such dress-up session where we donned ski caps and danced to Rage Aainst the Machine's "I Could Just Kill a Man." 

Some of our best conversations have occurred during slumber parties.  Granted, now our slumber parties have taken on a new meaning, still crashing here with Craigy feels natural.  Like in the past, we end each night with silly stories, impromptu dances, and "I Love Yous."  The only difference is rather than join us; Craig now looks on from his bed.  And, unlike before, sleep is a harder destination to find.  Even now, as I fight back yawns from my spot on Craig's bed, my body won't allow me to drift off into oblivion; Craig is much too fragile for that kind of hard sleep. 

He's breathing now four times every minute, which, for me  -- who has tried to mimic his breathing -- is impossible to maintain.  It's hard to describe how it feels to be cuddled in Craig's bed knowing he's struggling for his life in the next bed over.  We're hardly sleeping as a result.  At night, we strain to hear his breaths.  Eventually, we'll give in to fatigue and allow his breaths to lull us to a light sleep.  But it's not uncommon for one of us to spring up during sleep just to stare at Craig's chest to see if he's breathing.  On other occasions, someone will whisper, "boy, that was a long one" referring to the time between breaths.  Awake and listening along, we'll inevitably whisper "yep."  When he calls out, someone is always there to offer assistance or lend an ear. 

Craig has defied predictions in many regards.  When Mom was nearing the end of her journey, her respirations dropped below six within the last few hours of her life.  Craig, on the other hand, has been breathing at this rate for the past several days, and remarkably, his oxygen saturation hasn't dropped.  Though he's breathing only four times a minute, he's still able to hold brief conversations.  Despite losing much of his muscle mass to cancer and immobility, he's still able to stand, though with assistance.  Still, he remains in a fragile state.  We want to be here for Craig as we were with Mom.  We want to be here during the wakeful moments, as well as when he sleeps. 

Knowing that I'm not alone, and that Erin and Diane are here with me ready to offer support, brings me comfort.  I'm not sure how we'd get through this emotionally had we not all been here.  I can't imagine going through this alone, or the frustration of having to explain extremely painful thoughts and emotions to them.  Thankfully, "not being here" has never been an option for us.  The four of us have been each other's best friend.  So many nights I've fallen asleep to their laugher; it's only fitting that we're all here together, though I wish under better circumstances. -- J