Saturday, April 23, 2011

My guts, my heart exposed.

I never knew.

I never knew.

I never knew.
I never knew ...

How INSANE, awful, ridiculously-obscenely, mean/hurtful/bad/painful watching someone who is perfectly healthy 5 months ago, and otherwise just simply darling and wonderful, be reduced to absolute bedridden, unable to move, talk, eat...anything. AT. ALL. He's literally a hostage. Held captive in his own body.

I have deep, deep compassion, reverence, respect and heartfelt love...for those who have watched a parent, or sibling or someone they really have a deep heart connection with, die.

I, the girl who has words to describe EVERYTHING, have absolutely NO words to describe how awful this is.

(I now understand Kara, Ashley K, Dennis. I hurt so deeply that you have been through this.)

I am never going to be the same again. Sitting here at Dad's side, I have typed furiously and frantically at times, to get all that I am seeing and feeling out of my head, out of my heart and out of ME. It's too much for me. So I purge it out...onto the computer. It is probably just for me to read. Just for my memory. Because having all this pain and hurt swimming around inside of my body is enough to give me cancer.

So I type.

I type as the Hospice guy asks Mom about how she and Dad first met. About what they did on their first date. Mom smiles and shares. Ahh, such therapy for me.

I type as Dad gasps for breath for hours and hours and hours and hours....

I type as he moans in discomfort.

I type after I pray over him and rain hot tears onto him.

I type as the nurse leans in her head in the door and asks how 'SHE' is...and the nurse is referring to my father.

I type after I push the button to administer more pain medicine because his swollen hands would never be able to push a button, much less even know where to find it.

I type as Mom drops water into his mouth through a straw that sometimes chokes him, but she can't bear to not do it, because his mouth is so dry.

I type after the hospice guy ask me to tell my Father all that I love about him and will miss. And I cry and rattle off for 20 minutes.

I type as Mom, Julie and I sing songs, childhood song, over him.

I type after a Nurse comes in and tells us that they can't give him Morphine and Demerol because he is allergic to it, which he is absolutely and positively NOT allergic to.

So I type.

My therapist is my little laptop and my fingers FLY across the top of it. Actually I do want real counseling too. Like when I lost my little Grace. I am sure, positive, that I need it.

So I type and type. Although, I don't know when I would ever want to reread my 'Dad' file on my laptop. This is tooooo traumatic.

I am completely maxed.

I have had every emotion on the grief chart. I have had shock and disbelief. Been MAD. I have loved. I have cried. I don't want to eat. I want Brian to come here and do Jiu Jitsu on cancers butt. All kidding aside. Watching my Dad suffer for minutes, hours, days, weeks, months continues to hurt me more deeply than I can possibly write. It is incomprehensible what HAVOC and destruction cancer has done to my healthy, fun-loving, spunky, CUTE, strong, handsome, masculine, tough, tall, smart, white haired hunk of a Dad....and. what it's done. to me...

So I sit. I watch his breath. I fume. I bawl my eyes out like I haven't in 20 years. And. I try to stay mad at the right thing. Cancer.

Exerpt from todays computer journal:

Dad has shallow breath like a fish out of water. Mouth gaping open. Groaning. It's awful. He is breathing so shallow. He continues to seem to be so uncomfortable. They have told us night after night that he will die tonight. He never dies. He always is here. Uncomfortable. Dying. In pain. Hurting. Dying. Breathing so shallow. This is so hard. I want him to die to be out of misery. He's going to heaven. I want the suffering OVER. I want to run. I want to stay. So I type on my computer my feelings and watch. His eyes are watery and YELLOW, his face yellow too. Like a light mustard. He looks dead already. But yet, he's breathing. The nurses tend to talk over him as if he's not there. BUT HE'S THERE. He hears. His eyes are closed. But sometimes, when you talk to him, he raises his eyebrows. He understands. He's working so hard to live. He's fighting to stay here with us. And we keep telling him not to. To quit fighting. I tell him, 'When you see Jesus, RUN TO HIM Dad. He is waiting on you.' But then I put myself in Dad's position. Laying in the bed, dying. Brian and the girls gathered around me telling me it's ok to go. And it helps me understand why he fights.

And I focus on the truth.
Jennie's paragraph of Encouragement from God's Word. It's my strength. My purpose. When I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NONE.

'Our citizenship is in heaven. So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. The righteous cry out and the Lord hears them; He delivers them from all their troubles. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. A righteous man may have many troubles but the Lord delivers him from them ALL. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea. Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony. ome to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.'

1 comment:

Stephanie said...

I HATE THIS. I want to be there with you.