Falling Asleep
By John David Powell (03/31/05)
Jessie is dying. The insidious intrusion of cancer has been silently assimilating her body for several months.
Resistance, at this point, is futile.
Her disease was discovered by accident following a trip to the emergency room after a night of vomiting. Until then, a bone spur was thought to be the source of the back pain that had kept her in bed for several weeks.
That was the preliminary diagnosis, anyway. A shot to reduce the spinal swelling eliminated the pain and made her feel normal for the first time in months. She was preparing for more tests when the effects of the shot wore off and she became violently ill.
No one is really sure if Jessie knows she is dying. She looks, but she does not see. She talks, but she does not answer. She knows you, but she does not remember your visit. She will hold your hand and stroke your fingers and look up and say she loves you. Sometimes she will ask why everyone is standing around her bed, and then she will fall asleep.
Falling asleep is the way some people describe death. Falling asleep in the Lord.
"Be mindful, O Lord, of all of those who have fallen asleep in hopes of resurrection unto life eternal. Shelter them in a place of brightness, a place of verdure, a place of repose where all sickness, sorrow and sighing have fled away."
A few days into her hospital stay, Jessie received a second shot, this one to reduce the swelling in the brain. As with the first, she felt better when the shot took over. She sat up, and she talked and smiled with visitors. The doctor cautioned, however, that the shot would wear off again and there would be no justification for a third one.
What do you say when you have only a short time? What do you ask? What becomes important?
The short goodbye is better than none at all, but its frustrations are compounded when there are no answers for so many questions. What are her favorite hymns? What are her favorite scriptural passages? Who should conduct the service?
But she does want a rose-colored light shining on her casket.
Making pre-need arrangements sounds so cold, yet it's a good thing to do. If nothing else, it answers hard questions in advance and eliminates some agonizing decisions for the family.
A living will would have been helpful, but Jessie never talked about such things. Now it's too late and the decision to resuscitate and to take extraordinary life-saving measures rests with her relatives who do not want the responsibility of closing the door forever.
Jessie's doctor eased that obligation somewhat when he called the hospice people. The nurse explained to the family assembled in the hospital's chilly conference room that hospice was a way for Jessie to die at home, with dignity, surrounded by family and friends and familiarity. The visit also helped Jessie's only surviving sibling understand prolonging Jessie's life would only increase the pain and suffering. Kat understood all too well. Her husband died two years ago without the benefit of hospice.
But Jessie won't make it home for hospice. The second shot wore off with the same, horrible outcome as the first.
Kat, however, is strongly considering a third shot to have one last chance to "see" Jessie again. She won't do it, but, oh, who can blame her for wanting to?
I can't blame her. I would consider it, too, out of pure selfishness.
To have one more look at my wife.
To see her eyes sparkle in mischief.
To imprint her voice in my memory.
To watch her smile and to know she knows I'm smiling, too.
To share one more moment of the day.
To cram a million moments of memories into a handful of minutes.
To have one last chance to say "I love you."
To whisper softly "Good night" and to have her answer with a final kiss before she falls asleep.
And so we wait by the phone, and Kat sits by the bed, and Jessie slips slowly away.
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