Homegoing - Part 3 of 3

When the sun finally came up on Sunday, August 4, Dad made signs asking me for his glasses and hearing aids. I helped him turn the hearing aids on, but I couldn't figure out how to put them in. His hands trembled so much that it took him about ten minutes to get them positioned properly, and in the correct ears. The whole time he labored over that task, I prayed that God would guide his fingers because without those hearing aids, he is deaf.

When the hearing aids were in, I reread the verses from Sam, Melody, and Amy and then read two more verses I'd found in my devotional that day:

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." John 15:27 

"The LORD's unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in Him." Psalm 32:10

The day nurse, a woman we hadn't seen before, brought Dad his pills, but he simply shook his head.

"He can't swallow now because of his swollen tongue," I explained. "Is there some other way he could get his medication? Maybe an injection? He wasn't able to take his anti-arrhythmic last night."

"I'll ask the doctor," she said.

"And what about water? He's really dehydrated. Maybe that's part of the problem with his tongue. Would it be possible to give him some IV fluids?" 

"His latest labs showed reduced kidney function," she said. "If we give him too much fluid, it will build up in his lungs again."

"He's really suffering," I said.

Again, she promised to talk to the doctor.

Love Across the Miles

Around 7:30, Dad managed to communicate, with much effort, that he wanted to call his younger sister Donna. I handed him his phone, and he pressed the large icon on the home screen labeled Donna. When I saw that the call had been answered, I spoke into the microphone. 

"Aunt Donna," I explained, "Dad can't speak because his tongue is swollen, but he can hear you. I can't hear you because the sound is going into his hearing aids, but he can hear you. Would you please talk to him and pray for him?"

I couldn't hear her answer, but I could hear her voice emanating faintly from Dad's hearing aids. As she spoke, I leaned close to his ear and picked up a few words: "Dear brother... Heavenly Father, wrap your arms around him... in your love." 

Dad smiled and grunted to let her know he was listening. After a couple of minutes, he motioned for me to disconnect.

We called his older sister, Carol Jean, next. I couldn't hear her voice at all, but whatever she said seemed to soothe him. 

The Longest Night - Part 2 of 3

Friday, August 2

On Friday night, Dad's third night in the hospital, my brother Rick and I sat side by side watching him sleep peacefully. I leaned close to Rick and lowered my voice. "I'm kind of scared that Dad might pass away while I'm with him. I've never been with a person when they died. I want to be with him, but I'm also afraid."

Rick said he understood. He talked with me about his daughter Mindy's passing, and how it had been very difficult for him, but much more peaceful for his wife Diane. 

After I left the hospital, I prayed, "Lord, if you want me to be the one with Dad if he dies, I'm willing." I felt my heart accelerating. "But please, I'm afraid. Please help me be strong if that happens." 

Hopes Raised – Saturday, August 3

On Saturday morning, Dad felt so good that when he phoned Rick, he sounded just like his old self. His vitals were stable, his coloring was good, and the doctors began talking about moving him out of ICU. He'd been asking for food for the last 24 hours, which we thought was a good sign. Unfortunately, due to difficulty swallowing from his previous esophagectomy, along with his current pneumonia, the risk of aspiration was too great. Therefore, he needed a swallow study before he could resume eating, and that apparently could not be arranged before the coming Monday. So gnawing hunger was added to the list of discomforts he must bear.

As I sat with Rick in Dad's room that evening, we expressed a shared hope that he might be able to go home, just as he had after his esophagectomy, multiple bouts of pneumonia, an obstructed bowel, and a bleeding ulcer. "It's almost like Dad has nine lives," I whispered. 

Shortly after Rick left, however, I got the first sign that all was not well. Dad's speech sounded slurred, though his mind was sharp as ever. He's just tired, I assured myself.