Five Seconds at a Time

***written Monday night- I knew the moment we were in***

I don’t know when my brother, sister, Dad, and I last spent a night together under the same roof. Probably not since my siblings and I were kids.

Tonight we are assembled together under the saddest circumstances. My siblings and I are in Dad’s hospital room, laying on makeshift beds- comprised of chairs turned every which way and whatever pillows we can find- and watching our father as his breaths slow. Sometime soon he will breathe his last. And it will be the painful punctuation on an excruciatingly hard week.

It has been about 12 hours since Dad’s heart and lungs violently signaled they wanted to give up the fight. I was the only one here. Just me and the Rapid Response Team who were reminding me of my Dad’s DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) orders and telling me we had a choice between long term life support and comfort measures. My Dad made it clear a few days ago that long term life support is not what he wants. I called my brother- sobbing- and he reminded me that my duty was to honor Dad’s wishes. That is what we both promised him. And so, as difficult and gut wrenching as it was, I had to opt for comfort measures.

Since this morning, there have been a million tears and goodbyes. Family coming in to say farewell and deliver comforting hugs. All the things you would hope to do at the end of someone’s life.

At one point, when we thought my Dad had already drifted fully into his morphine haze, he lifted his head and looked at each one of us as we told him how much we love him and that we'll be okay when he goes on to reunite with Mom. That moment was everything anyone losing a parent could ask for. It was a chance to say goodbye and speak the words in our hearts to the man who gave us life.

That moment was also one of the hardest I’ve ever lived through. My God.

Before things took a turn, we actually thought Dad would be discharged today. We had a plan for him to go to my brother’s. We felt ill equipped to provide everything he needed, but we pledged to do whatever it took to make it work for Dad. God had other plans. He often does.

Now, we watch Dad’s breaths. We hydrate. We tell stories. We laugh. We cry. We hug. We drink the hospital coffee they compassionately brought to us and eat all the Grandma’s chocolate chip cookies we need to keep ourselves going. We have sent all our people home to rest. We are going to need them for the hard days ahead.

Before daylight left us, I took a couple of breaks to go outside and sit in the grass and smell the flowers and watch the birds. It was a reminder that we are surrounded by life even as we witness this death.

I have positioned myself to the left of my Dad. It’s the same position he held for about 12 hours as my Mom completed her battle 12 years ago. I haven’t made a big deal of it, but I plan to be right here when my Dad passes.

Every now and then I will stroke my Dad’s forehead- just as he did with Mom- and remind him that all he has to do now is rest. Just rest. My Dad hasn’t rested since he was born. So, this passage is hard for him. As much as I know he cannot wait to be reunited with Mom, he cannot surrender his duty to us. I pray constantly for peace. I pray he knows his three children are here doing exactly what he taught us to do, and that he is so proud.

Every room Dad has occupied in this hospital has the same circa 1992 clock. And every single clock has a second hand that pauses for five seconds and then rushes to catch up to its place. This happens over and again without fail. Every single clock. I keep wondering what it means. Maybe that we can only focus on the next five seconds. And the next. To go beyond that is more than we are built to handle. We have to take this thing five seconds at a time.

My siblings have invited me to nap. I’m afraid to miss my Dad’s last breath. I want to honor him by doing what he did for Mom. What he allowed me to be a part of as well.

My heart feels like it’s completely broken and being held together by scotch tape. I expect that, after the nurse looks at this weird clock and calls my Dad’s official time of death, it will explode within five seconds.

Xoxo, B

P.S. My Dad passed away nearly 24 hours after this was written. His body held on until a peaceful sunset washed over Palm Springs. I was right there on his left side, stroking his forehead. And my brother was on his right, holding his hand (that’s the position I held when my Mom passed). It was beautiful. And brutal. I feel so so so blessed that God wrote the end of my Dad’s story this way. I pray He holds us through the coming days with our shattered hearts.