Faith, Hope, Fear, and Morphine

Huddled in the bedclothes in the hospital bed, she is a small sliver of herself. I've never seen anyone look so frail, so transparently thin and weak. Still she reaches out her arms to me and manages a ghost of a smile. I hug her gently, trying to be mindful of the oxygen tube and the numerous IV's running to and from her small, bruised body. I can't think of anything to say except to whisper I love you. It's nowhere near enough.

“I brought you a present,” I tell her and produce a small black and tan stuffed dachshund with a curly tail, crossed eyes and a exaggeratedly long snout, “To keep you company until you go home.”

She takes it in both hands, rubs its fur against her cheek, and her eyes fill with tears. I'm terrified I won't be able to hold it together if I start to cry but I can't seem to help it. I don't trust myself to speak so when she tucks the little stuffed dog into a crease in the pillow, I take both her hands in mine and squeeze. She squeezes back and we sit there, holding hands and letting the tears fall.

As frivolous as it seems, we make small talk which really isn't small at all, it being about faith, hope, fear and morphine. She beat back the first round of cancer and had three good months before the second siege. If such a thing is possible, she's made peace with dying. She talks about God, about her daughter, about wrapping things up and how it's relieved her mind to have made arrangements with her sister to take in her beloved dog. She talks about time - six months, the doctors have told her, if the immunotherapy is successful and doesn't kill her before the cancer does – and that brings us to the benefit which is already being planned.

“I want to call it a going away party,” she says in between coughs that bend her double and make her wince with pain, “Want to have it in the park with kids and dogs and music.”

“Consider it done,” I tell her firmly.

“Don't wait too long though,” she adds and smiles with the kind of exhaustion that I can't even begin to comprehend, “I'd hate to miss my own party.”

A nurse pads in with an assortment of medications – a cc of liquid cough supressant, two new pain drugs and something to “calm your nerves and help you sleep” - she explains everything softly, slowly, and patiently. She fluffs and turns pillows, refills the water jug, adjusts the covers. She looks tired but there is concern in her voice and kindness in her eyes. It's very close to mothering.

“Try and get some rest,” she says quietly, “It's the best thing for you. The doctor will be in later and I'm just around the corner if you need anything.”

“I'll stay until you fall asleep,” I say.

“It won't be long,” the nurse adds and gives me a reassuring pat on my shoulder.

And it wasn't. Her breathing eases and becomes regular. Her hands unclench and relax and the pain lines on her face begin to smooth out. I can almost see my old friend as she used to be and will never be again.

On the way to the hospital, all I could think of was I don't know how to do this. I was still thinking it as I left but what I do know is that I'll go back tomorrow and for as many days as there are.

Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even the end. ~ Joann Harris