sometimes you have to be there

You can hear about a thing, and have it pictured in your mind.  And maybe the picture in your mind is a perfect portrait.  

Sometimes you just have to be there.

I’ve been to hospice facilities before as a visitor.  I was impressed.  Hospice is dreamlike in it’s perfection and serenity.   Visiting hospice is like standing on the sidewalk peering into a beautiful restaurant.  You can stand there for hours and think you know.    I assure you,  you will never fully know hospice until you are the decision maker for the person in the bed.

There’s nothing more I can say.  You just have to be there.

Day three in transitional paradise.    His brother relieved me last night because I learned that I cannot sleep in this place.  I tried.  At this point I can only tolerate so much tranquility.  Every time sleep grew near I found that I was listening to his breathing.  No thoughts, no tears, no worries.  Just listening to his breathing until I fell into it’s rhythm and drifted with it.  Startling awake at the occasional absence of breath sound, darting to his side, holding my breath….and then he would breathe again.  And the cycle would begin again.  Over and over, all through the night.  That is pretty damned exhausting.

Yesterday he had some nice visits, but his energy and wakefulness was half what it was the day before.  They give him medicine for pain and anxiety every time he asks.  This afternoon he sleeps between requests.

Now and then a tear slides down my face, usually brought on by seeing someone else struggle with Rich’s condition.  Other than that, I haven’t cried in days.  

I don’t know what he’s holding on to.  

It is surreal to be in this spa-like setting sitting beside a hospital bed, the white noise of his oxygen mask, the ever shifting rhythm of his breathing, wondering where my husband is.

Late in the evening of our first day here I opened the french doors and stepped out into the garden.  The grounds here are beautiful in the daytime with winding paths, waterfalls, bird feeders and bubbling fountains.    At night it is magical.  The lighting along the paths is so perfect it’s easy to pretend that a handful of stars have been scattered about, hovering just above the plants.   In the daylight I can’t see any wires or lighting fixtures.  Maybe they ARE stars.

He seems to have taken a turn since I got here this morning.  It’s a far greater struggle for him than it was yesterday.  His words are weaker and harder to understand.  There’s still an occasional wisecrack.  He tells my brother he’s looking forward to whoring with Benjamin Franklin and chuckles.  He smiles every time he opens his eyes and sees someone, struggling to bring them into focus.  He tells the nurse he’s sorry for bothering her when she brings his meds.  He asks me what this place is and why are we here.

He says he wants to go.  I tell him he can.   He tells me  he’s on the edge of a cliff.  I tell him he can fly.  

He tells me I have to get behind him and I ask him why.  He answers, “so you can push me.”