To Catch a Tear

"You know one thing Craig and I have in common are elevated ulnar wrist bones. You see?" Craig looks at me and says, "I didn't know we share that in common." That exchange comes back to me now as I hold his hand, taking in the similarities, memorizing the features. There's a profound sense of desperation to shore up memories, having been through this once before with Mom. Never means never.

Something has changed with Craig making that realization ever more potent. The secretions in his throat have increased, partly due to lack of muscle strength and partly due to diminished lungs now too flooded to properly move air. He yelped throughout the night last night in attempt to clear his throat. And, as if that wasn't enough to disrupt his sleep, he struggled with using the urinal. No longer able to stand on his own, and terrified to stand for fear of falling, we moved to the third best option -- merely using his depends. This was clearly distressing to him, though we tried to make the event as pleasant and normal as possible. The parallels to our mom weren't lost on him and he articulated how scared he was to lose the ability to stand, to urinate, and to swallow - all of which have deteriorated significantly in the last few days. To understand the context of his symptoms and to hear his fear so softly heard in his labored words was absolutely heartbreaking.

Three days ago, I recall timing my apple bites to his respirations. I would wait to hear his labored breath and then take a bite, confident that he was in fact breathing at least for the next 20-30 seconds. Now, it's nearly impossible to tell. Two or three days ago, we would assist Craig standing but could ultimately give him privacy to use the urinal. Monday, we were bracing him while he urinated and by yesterday, he could no longer stand with assistance. The exhaustion and subsequent fear of falling were too extreme. Yesterday, Jill and I helped him to his feet but he began hyperventilating and he had to sit back down.

With swallowing, Craig could slowly muscle down his pills with several gulps of water three days ago. Two days ago, we began crushing his pills as swallowing posed too great a risk for him aspirating. Last night, I rummaged through our mom's medicine/caretaker bag in search of her pill crusher. (To see her half-empty Dasani water bottle waiting to be finished stung my heart, tears immediately filled my eyes. So many of her belongings still wait for her, for our grieving). I found the pill crusher and was able to give Craig his pills crushed in a few spoonfuls of applesauce.

That was yesterday. Last night and this morning hit a new level of hard for Craig and he was painfully aware of it throughout it all - the increased difficulty breathing, the near inability to speak, and his growing incontinence. Sandy, the hospice nurse, has since inserted a catheter to ease urination, and we've begun giving an IV push medication to dry up his secretions and help him breathe. By early this evening, Craig was still relatively responsive enough to give the thumbs up to the harp music playing, but was generally uncommunicative and in increasingly more pain. His coughs now reveal a wetness we have not yet heard; he grimaces with each unsatisfying cough either in pain or fear that he can't clear the phlegm.

Now, as of a few hours ago, he is no longer responsive.

The five of us sit by his side, wanting to be near him. I watch him breath, watch his cheek tendon now so perfectly visible twitch sporadically. A sketch of his face would comprise only hard lines and shadows. This cancer has taken everything from him; he's not but skin and bones. Tears collect in the concaved groove of his hollow eyes much like our Mom, yet hers fell the length of her cheek. Now, as I did then, I extend a white paper towel to catch his tears.

We watch him, talk to him, reminisce with him, tell him over and over how much we love him, and that it will be okay. Soon, he'll be at peace. ~E