13 years
It’s been 13 years, and it seems like just yesterday.
We knew it would be soon. You had been only semi-conscious for days, and it was evident your organs were failing. The hospice nurse had been by earlier in the day to set up the morphine pump so you wouldn’t be in any pain.
It had been a long day with your family – wife, daughters, brothers, sister, mother-in-law - gathered around making small talk, and waiting. I decided to head home to get some sleep. No sooner than I had walked into my apartment, my phone rang. It was your sister, a registered nurse, and she said “It’s time to come back, it won’t be long now.” My world froze.
I got back in my car and sped the 40 miles back to the house. Nothing had changed when I got there, but there was a heightened sense of awareness. Your doctor dropped by briefly to see you and to talk to all of us. He didn’t have to do that, but we all appreciated that he did.
The night dragged on, and most everyone found a bed after a bit. I stayed up on the couch next to your hospital bed so someone would always be close by. I don’t know if I slept, the night was punctuated by your occasional moans. You always quieted down when I held your hand or stroked your hair. The sound of a voice seemed to give you comfort.
At the quiet time of the night/early morning, the time when the circadian rhythm is at its lowest, your breathing changed. It got raspy, and more uneven. Your sister and I woke everyone up, and we gathered around your bed, each of us putting our hands on you. I stroked your hair and told you it was okay to let go; that I loved you. And you gasped. And gasped again. And then you were still.
It’s been 13 years, and you’ve missed so much. You’ve missed the joy of seeing your grandchildren born – four grandsons and one granddaughter. You missed my graduation from law school, my wedding. And you have been missed. Every day.
Jan 15, 1932 – Jan 30, 1992
We knew it would be soon. You had been only semi-conscious for days, and it was evident your organs were failing. The hospice nurse had been by earlier in the day to set up the morphine pump so you wouldn’t be in any pain.
It had been a long day with your family – wife, daughters, brothers, sister, mother-in-law - gathered around making small talk, and waiting. I decided to head home to get some sleep. No sooner than I had walked into my apartment, my phone rang. It was your sister, a registered nurse, and she said “It’s time to come back, it won’t be long now.” My world froze.
I got back in my car and sped the 40 miles back to the house. Nothing had changed when I got there, but there was a heightened sense of awareness. Your doctor dropped by briefly to see you and to talk to all of us. He didn’t have to do that, but we all appreciated that he did.
The night dragged on, and most everyone found a bed after a bit. I stayed up on the couch next to your hospital bed so someone would always be close by. I don’t know if I slept, the night was punctuated by your occasional moans. You always quieted down when I held your hand or stroked your hair. The sound of a voice seemed to give you comfort.
At the quiet time of the night/early morning, the time when the circadian rhythm is at its lowest, your breathing changed. It got raspy, and more uneven. Your sister and I woke everyone up, and we gathered around your bed, each of us putting our hands on you. I stroked your hair and told you it was okay to let go; that I loved you. And you gasped. And gasped again. And then you were still.
It’s been 13 years, and you’ve missed so much. You’ve missed the joy of seeing your grandchildren born – four grandsons and one granddaughter. You missed my graduation from law school, my wedding. And you have been missed. Every day.
Jan 15, 1932 – Jan 30, 1992
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