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. 

As I prepared to take my own leave, Dad mentioned that his tongue felt numb. "I can't even feel the tip of my tongue," he said. 

I called for the nurse, who administered a stroke screening. Dad passed all of the checks, but she was still concerned. Within minutes, Dad was wheeled down for a CT scan. After about 30 minutes, we learned that there was no evidence of a brain bleed. We also received another encouraging report: he did so well with just a nasal cannula that they decided to reduce his supplemental oxygen.

I decided to spend another night on the recliner, though. I could see that Dad felt anxious, and I just couldn't leave him alone. Before we both sank into sleep, I reread him the following verses from our family group chat.

From his grandson Sam: 

Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, the LORD will be my light. (Micah 7:8)

From my sister Melody:

May the peace of God that passes all understanding keep your heart and mind through Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:7)

From my sister Amy:

God has not given us a spirit of fear but of power, love, and a sound mind. (2 Timothy 1:7)

No weapon formed against Dad will prosper. (Isaiah 54:17)

"Dad, I know you must feel like you're in darkness right now," I said. "It must be so hard. But don't give up. God is with you. His light shines in your darkness." He nodded mutely. 

I slept remarkably well on the tiny, hard recliner, probably due to my sheer exhaustion. Dad woke me only twice in the night, and I helped him find his hankie and "spitter," (an emesis bag). Although his pneumonia had been improving, he continued to cough a lot. 

Sunday Morning, August 4

Even though he'd been at the hospital over 12 hours the day before, Rick graciously arrived by 9:00 so that I could rush to church. 

The timing of this crisis had been very unfortunate. Our sisters Melody and Emily were each on vacation with their extended families, in Galveston and Tennessee. Because Dad had been doing so much better after the scare in the emergency room on Thursday, we believed he would pull through as he always had before, and they planned to visit when they returned in a few days. Mom had made the short drive the day before with Amy, but the extremely long walk through the hospital and up to ICU had worn them both out alarmingly; it was just too far for them with their walkers. Rick and Dad had made Mom promise she would not return unless someone was there to help her. Rick and I had been taking turns covering as many of the hours as we could, not only to keep him company, but also to help him communicate with the doctors and to keep the family informed.

I didn't even have time to change out of the clothes I'd worn all the previous day and then slept in, but I knew God didn't care if I wore ratty tennis shoes and a wrinkled T-shirt to church. 

I was so glad I went because all of the worship soothed me, and the prayer that my brother in Christ, Adrian, said over me set my heart at rest. 

I firmly believe that God gave Pastor Trey a special word for me before we took communion because it was a sacred echo from Amy's prayer for Dad to find life in death:

"Jesus experienced the worst death on our behalf.... Even in his death, somehow he was thinking about us, about you. He experienced that death so that as followers of Jesus we never die.... We use the words death and life, but in reality we are not truly living yet. It's not until we leave this world that we experience life everlasting. We experience the true life that God has been preparing us for." [transcribed from the recorded service]

After reveling in hugs from dear sisters in Christ, I headed home to eat breakfast and rest. Then I sat on my couch staring listlessly at nothing, wondering how I could be so exhausted even though I'd slept eight hours. 

I sent a text to my friends Tracy and Diana: "I am so tired. I just want to sit and cry, but I'm too tired to cry. Maybe a nap will help."

Diana assured me that she was praying for us both and encouraged me to take that nap.

What I wanted most was to go straight to bed and sleep until the morning, but I had a gnawing feeling that I needed to be back at the hospital with Dad. I knew that Rick was there, and that our niece Hillary would be taking Mom and Amy up later, but he would be alone through the night if I didn't go back. According to Rick's update that morning, although Dad didn't appear to be in danger, he was feeling very bad and was very worried. 

I slept about an hour and a half and then continued to wrestle with the choice between my desire to take care of my own needs and concern for my sweet father who was in distress. With most of our family away on vacation, and Mom too frail to spend the night, I knew there was no one else. 

Ultimately, I just couldn't stay away. There would be no rest for me if I knew Dad was alone. As I packed a few essentials into my backpack, Allyson urged, "Take a Bible, Mama. You said Grandpa reads it every morning at home, and he hasn't been able to do that in the hospital. You could read it to him tonight, and I'll read it to him when I visit tomorrow. I think it would bring him comfort."

"That's a great idea," I said, tucking my Bible into the bag. "I can't believe I didn't think of that before."

Before I left, Allyson held both of my hands and said a beautiful prayer for my strength and Dad's comfort. She prayed that the medical team would have wisdom to know how much to do for him and what would be too hard for him to bear. Then she held me close and rubbed my back as tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt her strength and peace flowing into me and fortifying me for whatever might lie ahead. I felt the deep comfort of being richly loved.

Sweet Moments

While I was enroute, Hillary arrived with Mom and Amy. When Dad he first saw Hillary in the hall, he laboriously articulated a question: "Baby?"

Rick then captured this beautiful moment. See how, even in his pain, his whole face lit up when he caught sight of baby Penny Jayne. The picture brought happy tears to my eyes, and still does, though now my tears have sorrow mixed in.

8:16 p.m. Sunday, Day 5 of Hospitalization

Here is another sweet moment Rick captured, of Mom reading a stack of get-well cards made by the nine-year-olds in the Sunday school class she recently began teaching. 

Shortly before I arrived, Rick kissed Dad's forehead and told him I was on my way, and he would be coming back the next day.

Rick was able to decipher his reply: "You're a great son." 

"You're a great father," he answered. 

An Alarming Decline

When I arrived, Amy told me that Dad had been sleeping most of the day. "That's good," I said. "His body needs it." 

A few minutes later, the nurse tried to administer his medications, but he choked terribly and struggled to get the pills down. He shook his head when offered the last pill, his antiarrhythmic. 

After the nurse left, Hillary held Dad's hand and kissed his forehead. "I love you, Grandpa," she said. "I am thinking of you and praying for you."

Amy and Mom kissed him goodbye and promised to see him the next morning, when Allyson would bring them up. 

I was alarmed to see how much Dad had declined in just 12 hours. It was now virtually impossible to understand him because his tongue and the entire inside of his mouth was badly inflamed. In addition, he had a terrible sore throat. Because the numbness and subsequent swelling of his tongue came only a few hours after he was changed from IV medication to oral drugs, we suspected a drug reaction, but his doctors did not seem concerned. 

As Dad slipped in and out of a fitful sleep, breathing very heavily through his mouth, he grimaced with nearly every inhale. He looked the way I'd felt decades ago when I had a bad case of tonsillitis.

At one point late in the evening, he said, "I think... die." A glance the monitor showed that his heart rate was 111. He was anxious.

Remembering Allyson's advice, I read Psalm 91 to him:

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”... 

He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day... If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and you make the Most High your dwelling, no harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble." 

Although his pulse was still elevated, his body language seemed calmer. I spoke the words before I had made the conscious decision: "Daddy, I'm going to stay right beside you all night," I promised. "I'm not going to sleep. You will not be alone."

He smiled. I stood by his head and held his hand for a very long time. Sometimes if he appeared to be sleeping, I would slip my hand out of his in case it might help him rest better, but he'd reach up to claim my hand again. 

Despite the ache in my shoulders and back, I reveled in that soothing touch. I thought back to the first time I'd held dad's hand in a hospital, when I discovered how wonderful it was to hold hands in silence. I smiled at the memory of his response back then when I shared that revelation: "I always like holding hands with a pretty girl."

When my muscles began screaming for relief, I slid my chair up to the foot of the bed and rested my shoulder on the mattress, snaking my hand along the bed rail to clasp his wrist. The thrum of his pulse against my fingers gave me comfort. 

I soon had to stand up again to share the memory that came to me as I sprawled over his bed. I shouted into his ear, "Remember how we used to climb in bed with you and Mom whenever we were scared?"

"Mmm." 

"You have always been my brave, strong daddy. You're so brave." Tears slipped down my cheeks as I settled back into my awkward position at the foot of the bed. How strange that now I would crawl into bed with my dad to make him feel safe. 

Just as Dad seemed to be drifting into sleep, the nurse apologetically turned on the bright overhead light. "I wasn't able to get a blood sample earlier," he explained. "I'm going to try to find a vein with the ultrasound."

He probed for several minutes, to no avail. Dad was so dehydrated that all his veins had collapsed. To prevent another buildup of fluid in his lungs, he'd been on restricted fluids ever since his heart attack. A few minutes later, his nurse returned with another nurse, an expert at placing IVs. That man, too, was unable to find a vein. 

Through all of this, Dad uttered not a whimper of complaint even though both arms were already black and blue from just below the shoulder all the way to his hands.

Every few minutes, the cardiac monitor beeped a warning: V-tach (ventricular tachycardia, the same arrhythmia that had almost killed him two days earlier). I don't know whether Dad could hear the alarm, but the terror he must have seen in my expression and the quick approach of one or more nurses seemed to make him agitated. Each time, his heart rate was steady, and his oxygen saturation was normal, so they shut off the alarm. But his pulse was now consistently over 100, and he continued breathing heavily through his mouth. I knew from my experience with prolonged insomnia that he couldn't possibly relax when his heart was beating that fast.

"We think the arrhythmia is an artifact," his nurse explained. "We've already changed the placement of the leads, but it keeps alarming. I'm going to reposition this one again." 

With that, he peeled off one of the electrode stickers on Dad's chest, along with a swath of hair. This drew a grimace and a soft moan from my stoic father. The nurse replaced the lead, but the V-tach warnings continued intermittently. I tried to train myself to ignore them, or at least to keep my face impassive, but I couldn't shake the feeling that his heart truly was struggling to remain in rhythm. Although I longed for sleep, I didn't dare leave his side.

After midnight, I sent another text to Tracy, whom I knew to be a night owl: "If you are awake, please pray for me and Dad. This is one of the hardest nights of my life. He is suffering, and he's afraid. And he can't speak because his tongue is swollen." 

Thankfully, she was still awake, and she said she would pray for peace for both of us. Just knowing that someone was praying for me made me feel less alone during that awful, endless night.

Around 2 o'clock, Dad fell into a deeper sleep, and at last his heart rate fell into the 80s. I curled up on the recliner and let myself get some sleep, too. 

After an hour and a half, I heard him stirring and scrambled out of the chair. His head swiveled back and forth until he caught sight of me in the dim light from the hallway, and then he gave me a big grin like the one he'd given baby Penny.

"I'm here, Daddy," I said, though he likely couldn't hear me; we had removed the hearing aids earlier because they were hurting his ears. My job for the rest of the long night was helping him when he coughed and periodically swabbing his cracked tongue and mouth with a sponge "lollypop" moistened with water.

Struggles to Communicate

In the early morning darkness, Dad anxiously tried to ask for something. "Pah," he said. 

"Pah?" I racked my brain. What could he possibly need? I held up one item after another from his bedside table. No, not his watch, nor his water lollipop, nor his spitter. 

"Pah. Pah!" he repeated with more urgency and agitation. 

"I'm sorry, Dad. I don't–"

"Pah," he said again as he pointed across the room toward the sink. I walked over for a closer look, still mystified. He pointed at the sink, and then at his bottom. 

At last, realization dawned. Pan! He wanted the bedpan that lay next to the sink. 

I pressed the call button and conveyed the message. 

Afraid to leave the room, I pushed the recliner back against the wall and curled up in it while two young men helped Dad onto the pan. They cleaned him up with the utmost dignity and washed him gently, almost tenderly, taking care not to damage his fragile skin. Wiping tears from my cheeks, I called out, "Remember how my mom told you that Dad was a medic in the Korean War?"

"Yes, ma'am," his nurse replied.

"I bet Dad did this for lots of men back then," I said

"Yes, I'm sure he did."

"Thank you for your kindness and compassion."

"Of course!" 

They were just as patient when he asked for the bedpan two more times in the next 30 minutes. 

"Why is he having bowel movements all of a sudden?" I asked after the third time. "He hasn't had anything to eat or drink for five days."

If the nurse knew, he didn't tell me. "It's just a little fluid," he said. "Sometimes that happens."

I thought back to the story Mom had shared of my grandmother's death. A few hours before she died, Grandma had asked for a bedpan, too. Could this mean Dad's death was imminent? 

No, I told myself. I decided it was probably a side effect of the antibiotic he'd been taking for his pneumonia. 

At last, around 6:30, morning light gradually suffused the room. Dad pointed eagerly at the window. "Do you want me to open the blind?" I asked. He nodded vigorously.

I cranked the blind up, and light streamed in. The relief on Dad's face mirrored my own. Suffering may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning. (Psalm 30:5)

To be continued...