Comfort

“Your dad isn’t doing well,” the nurse said on the phone. “He has been crying and crying since breakfast. I told him I would call you,” she explained. I hurriedly hung up the phone and raced out the door to Waterford.

Upon entering the room, I found him sitting on his walker, hands covering his face. My mother, barely responsive, was lying in bed. The room was dark and depressing.

“Dad!” I sat down, ready to share my thoughts. I tried to provide him with anything I could do to keep him from crying. ” Here, eat an orange,” I instructed. I gave him a tissue box and opened the window to provide light.

He began to express his feelings as I listened. He described my mother who seemed to be declining. Her breaths seemed labored and slow. He was frustrated that she barely ate at breakfast. He could sense a change. Not knowing what else to say, I pulled out family photos to distract.. This calmed him down for a while.

While Dad ate lunch, I met with the hospice nurse who examined my mother. Her comment indicating that death would come in the next 72 hours wasn’t surprising, but it still hurt. “She was so alert yesterday,” I remarked. “What a change!” The nurse went on to describe the differences we would observe as death grew closer. “She’s transitioning,” she explained.

I returned to the dining area to eat with my father where our discussion centered on my mother’s declining condition. He acknowledged that her imminent death but broke down crying again. Despite my attempts to urge him to eat, he only ate half his meal. Unfortunately, minutes later, he started vomiting causing the nurse to come and help. We managed to grab the nearby trashcan in the nick of time.

Thankfully, the vomiting stopped and Dad was distracted with his computer project: card-making. Dad wanted to send a card to someone from the church who sent correspondence. Focusing on others is a great way to distract.

Music always distracts, so I headed over to the piano to play while my father sat nearby. We left the bedroom door open, hoping that Mom would hear the familiar hymns she loved. Unfortunately, the C note is STILL broken.

The arrival of my brother and his wife encouraged him and allowed us to spend moments remembering good times with Mom.

I would periodically check on my mom and urge her to drink, but the efforts seemed pointless. Instead, I would hold her hand and say hello. Her grip was surprisingly strong, but her glazed eyes seemed distant.

At one point, the nurse brought in a cart of goodies. “It’s the comfort train,” she explained. Drinks and snacks filled the cart. Food can definitely comfort during moments of sadness.

We ended the day, deciding to take day shifts staying with my father as we wait and see how it will end. I wish we would have had a family prayer time, but it slipped my mind. Tomorrow is another day as the journey continues.

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