TheBanyanTree: On Deathwatch

[Monique Colver]

I sit at his bedside, and I watch, and I wait. Every so often he wakes up,
he opens his eyes, and he looks straight at me, and he smiles. His eyes are
so big now, and they shine with a luminescence that is quite astounding.
He's lost so much weight, his face is so thin, and with his beard, his
sunken cheekbones, his skin clean and seemingly translucent, he reminds me
of a monk, a spiritual ascetic, a holy man.

Neither of us has ever done this before. We talked earlier about how this is
the most important thing he will ever do, and he'll only do it once. But I
know enough to know that I am not to cry when I'm in here. In here I am
comforting and steady, serene in my certainty that all is well in the
universe, and so when he opens his eyes and smiles at me, I smile back, and
I say, "Hi." Not "HI!" because that would be loud and disturbing, but softly
and calmly. When he reaches for his water bottle I uncap it and hand it to
him, and help him with it.

Earlier he asked for a 7-Up, and after I brought it he realized it might
make him throw up, and so it's grown warm and stale by the side of the bed.
He had a milkshake today, which is quite a lot, since he's given up
nourishment. It's no longer needed. This morning he asked for a Coke
Slurpee, and so I looked for a 7-11 and brought him one. He gets whatever he
asks for now. If he asked for an apple fritter at midnight I'd go get him
one, somewhere. That's not likely, since he doesn't eat anymore. Yesterday I
fed him three bites of yogurt, and that was our major accomplishment for the
day.

His limbs, especially his legs, jerk spasmodically now and then, and there
are fearsome noises that sound as if things inside are beginning to screech
to a halt. I hold his hand and I tell him, "It's okay. Everything's okay."
For hours today I sat and held his hand, and I answered his questions, and I
helped. The parents have gone to get some sleep -- I'm the primary sitter,
have been since I arrived yesterday morning, but when I get so tired I must
sleep I'll wake one of them and they'll come in while I go rest. I doubt
I'll go back to my motel room tonight, once I get so tired I must sleep I'll
just lay down on the couch, pull a blanket over me, and I'll be good.
Tomorrow I can go to the motel, sleep or shower and change, whatever. For
tonight, I'm content to stay here and keep watch.

Earlier this evening I read him an email from his sister. His parents
couldn't do it, and I said of course I would. While I read it he smiled, a
joyful little smile that reminded me of a little boy hearing from a much
loved older sister. They've had their differences, and she wanted to
apologize for not being the best sister, and to tell him she loved him, and
to remind him of the good times they had growing up. It was all good. That's
one of the things I repeat to him: "It's all good."

I wonder if it's better to die quickly and unexpectedly, or slowly and
painfully, and I can't decide. There are advantages to quickly and
unexpectedly, there's no time to fear dying, and slowly and painfully offers
so much time for that. But it also offers time to wrap things up, to say the
things we might have wanted to say but never did. His pain is much better
now. The morphine we gave him earlier was more to calm him, to relax him,
than for pain, and it worked very well for that. He'd been a bit agitated,
worried that he was being selfish by wanting to die, by giving up, and
scared. We reassured him that no one thought he was selfish, no one ever
would, that it wasn't being selfish to think of one's self, and we reassured
him that though it was scary, and we knew it was, we'd be here the whole
time. I also reassured him that he's going to know such joy and happiness
he'll wonder what the big deal was about, and he smiled. Since the morphine
he's been calm, even cheerful once, and he seems quite content.

The damn hiccups are annoying though. Every so often there'll be one, two,
thing. Time will pass and there'll be another few. Every so often he'll turn
his head to look at the clock, to see what time it is, and I'll ask if he
has someplace he needs to be. No, I don't, at least not more than once. We
still laugh at small jokes. He still keeps asking if I'm okay, if I need
anything, if I'm tired. I assure him I'm fine, and when I get tired I'll go
sleep for a bit. He accepts that at face value.

This morning, while he was in the living room in his recliner and I was next
to him, kneeling on the floor, holding his hand and comforting him, he said,
"This must be boring."

"No way," I said. "There's no place I'd rather be. Thank you for letting me
be here. Besides, if you want to talk about boring, try doing accounting all
day every day. THAT'S boring." He smiled at that.






-- 
Monique Colver