Heavy Heart
I understand that expression today. It’s easy to say about flippant things, non-crucial things. But to have a heavy heart, a truly heavy heart, well, I get that.
Thursday night I got a call from my mom, she was on her way to my brother’s house. Instantly the ice water slap shocked my being.
Mom doesn’t drive at night.
She had received more news on Paul.
My immediate reaction. No. No I can’t go. I can’t go and watch my brother slowly suffocate. I cannot go and watch my spiritual mentor gasping for breath. I am right with him. I am not ready. I cannot.
The physical and emotional rush that comes from news like this is hard to explain. Uncontrollable, to the depth of my soul sobbing emanated from me. Regardless of the unavoidability. Inevitability be damned! When your life progresses at a regular clip. When you have incorporated the hurdles, the potholes, all the different obstacles, like some crazy video game, dodging and weaving the many obstructions in your life, even adapting your life to a terminal illness that steadily eats away at the life of someone you love, it is impossible to be mid-jump over one of the daily hurdles and suddenly adapt to the steel wall that appears from nowhere. Even if you were anticipating it. It is an all-consuming shock to the system on every conceivable level.
No I can’t go and watch him die. I repeated in my head. No. I won’t.
But slowly, my mind and body adapted to the freezing chill of reality.
And I thought, wouldn’t I want him with me if the situation were reversed?
I would understand if he weren’t, I thought to myself, but I would want him there.
I called my little brother and told him.
I called my sister and told her.
I drove up to my big brother’s house that night.
I got there and went into his room. Curled up on his bed, his legs the size of my arms, I laid with him and cried.
I cried for not being able to make it better.
I cried for it being him and not me.
I cried for the unfairness of it all.
I cried because I love him so dearly and I will miss his essence here on this earth.
He looked really bad.
I slept over and got up the next morning.
I thought he wouldn’t make it into the afternoon. He was completely out. He was on continuous oxygen. I thought he would just slip away.
I was sitting there with my little brother, my mom, my niece, my sister in law, and the endless loop of people who adore him who have over the past six year sustained the family in every imaginable way.
His eyes fluttered.
And he woke up.
He seemed to be in a fog for quite some time. I was glad to have the opportunity to let him know I was there. At one point, he was looking at his daughter, and I felt, I cannot explain it, his heart. He was looking at her, I saw his chin begin to quiver, and he began to cry. I knew what he was feeling. I knew that if it had been me, I would be looking at my sons wanting to tell them what was in my heart, trying desperately to somehow telegraph these intense feelings of love to them. I would want to tell them how they had brightened my existence on this earth, how proud I am of them, how sorry I am that I wouldn’t be there to see the life milestones. I knew that, at that moment, his heart was over flowing for his daughter and breaking apart to not be able to see this beautiful girl go into the world. He would never pace the floors wondering where she was. He would never go over college applications and argue over the best school for her to go to. He would never walk her down the aisle. He would never kiss the top of the head of a grandchild. He would never be able to hug her or look at her with the love that he has for her. I was moved at that moment to tell him that we had her. We had her, his wife and his son and we wouldn’t let them go. I promised him. I told him that he was a great dad, a great husband, a great brother and a great son. We all know what’s in your heart. We all know. She knows. You did a great job. His tears washed over me. I held him and wiped his eyes.
If I hadn’t been there I would not have had that moment with him. I am grateful for the moment I was given.
The day was a roller coaster. Another expression that is so easily said but so difficult to feel. Up and down, fast, slow, dread-filled anticipation. His fever, pulse and blood pressure all came down. His oxygen was modified to keep him comfortable. That’s the thing about hospice care. They ensure that the patient is comfortable. There will be no gasping for air. No one will allow that. He will slip away under heavy medication.
But not today.
I left last night.
I said aloud while we all watched the Olympics, following a commercial “nsaid aleve. What the heck is nsaid anyway?” to everyone and no one.
Paul caught his caregiver’s eye. For the next three minutes, he spelled without the use of his voice just his eyes. Starting at a letter and going up and down from there, he spelled out:
n-o-n-s-t-e-r-o-i-d-a-l-a-n-t-i-i-n-f-l-a-m-m-a-t-o-r-y.
Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory.
That’s what “nsaid” is. A non-steroidal anti-inflammatory.
That’s my Paul. Carrying this heavy burden, struggling to breath, enduring a bedsore, itches he can’t scratch, continuous muscle cramps and twitches, complete immobility, slowly departing this world and the wife, children, family and friends he loves so dearly, he leans over to pick up a tiny bit of information for me.
This world will be a lot darker without him in it.
But heaven will be a whole lot brighter.
I understand that expression today. It’s easy to say about flippant things, non-crucial things. But to have a heavy heart, a truly heavy heart, well, I get that.
Thursday night I got a call from my mom, she was on her way to my brother’s house. Instantly the ice water slap shocked my being.
Mom doesn’t drive at night.
She had received more news on Paul.
My immediate reaction. No. No I can’t go. I can’t go and watch my brother slowly suffocate. I cannot go and watch my spiritual mentor gasping for breath. I am right with him. I am not ready. I cannot.
The physical and emotional rush that comes from news like this is hard to explain. Uncontrollable, to the depth of my soul sobbing emanated from me. Regardless of the unavoidability. Inevitability be damned! When your life progresses at a regular clip. When you have incorporated the hurdles, the potholes, all the different obstacles, like some crazy video game, dodging and weaving the many obstructions in your life, even adapting your life to a terminal illness that steadily eats away at the life of someone you love, it is impossible to be mid-jump over one of the daily hurdles and suddenly adapt to the steel wall that appears from nowhere. Even if you were anticipating it. It is an all-consuming shock to the system on every conceivable level.
No I can’t go and watch him die. I repeated in my head. No. I won’t.
But slowly, my mind and body adapted to the freezing chill of reality.
And I thought, wouldn’t I want him with me if the situation were reversed?
I would understand if he weren’t, I thought to myself, but I would want him there.
I called my little brother and told him.
I called my sister and told her.
I drove up to my big brother’s house that night.
I got there and went into his room. Curled up on his bed, his legs the size of my arms, I laid with him and cried.
I cried for not being able to make it better.
I cried for it being him and not me.
I cried for the unfairness of it all.
I cried because I love him so dearly and I will miss his essence here on this earth.
He looked really bad.
I slept over and got up the next morning.
I thought he wouldn’t make it into the afternoon. He was completely out. He was on continuous oxygen. I thought he would just slip away.
I was sitting there with my little brother, my mom, my niece, my sister in law, and the endless loop of people who adore him who have over the past six year sustained the family in every imaginable way.
His eyes fluttered.
And he woke up.
He seemed to be in a fog for quite some time. I was glad to have the opportunity to let him know I was there. At one point, he was looking at his daughter, and I felt, I cannot explain it, his heart. He was looking at her, I saw his chin begin to quiver, and he began to cry. I knew what he was feeling. I knew that if it had been me, I would be looking at my sons wanting to tell them what was in my heart, trying desperately to somehow telegraph these intense feelings of love to them. I would want to tell them how they had brightened my existence on this earth, how proud I am of them, how sorry I am that I wouldn’t be there to see the life milestones. I knew that, at that moment, his heart was over flowing for his daughter and breaking apart to not be able to see this beautiful girl go into the world. He would never pace the floors wondering where she was. He would never go over college applications and argue over the best school for her to go to. He would never walk her down the aisle. He would never kiss the top of the head of a grandchild. He would never be able to hug her or look at her with the love that he has for her. I was moved at that moment to tell him that we had her. We had her, his wife and his son and we wouldn’t let them go. I promised him. I told him that he was a great dad, a great husband, a great brother and a great son. We all know what’s in your heart. We all know. She knows. You did a great job. His tears washed over me. I held him and wiped his eyes.
If I hadn’t been there I would not have had that moment with him. I am grateful for the moment I was given.
The day was a roller coaster. Another expression that is so easily said but so difficult to feel. Up and down, fast, slow, dread-filled anticipation. His fever, pulse and blood pressure all came down. His oxygen was modified to keep him comfortable. That’s the thing about hospice care. They ensure that the patient is comfortable. There will be no gasping for air. No one will allow that. He will slip away under heavy medication.
But not today.
I left last night.
I said aloud while we all watched the Olympics, following a commercial “nsaid aleve. What the heck is nsaid anyway?” to everyone and no one.
Paul caught his caregiver’s eye. For the next three minutes, he spelled without the use of his voice just his eyes. Starting at a letter and going up and down from there, he spelled out:
n-o-n-s-t-e-r-o-i-d-a-l-a-n-t-i-i-n-f-l-a-m-m-a-t-o-r-y.
Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory.
That’s what “nsaid” is. A non-steroidal anti-inflammatory.
That’s my Paul. Carrying this heavy burden, struggling to breath, enduring a bedsore, itches he can’t scratch, continuous muscle cramps and twitches, complete immobility, slowly departing this world and the wife, children, family and friends he loves so dearly, he leans over to pick up a tiny bit of information for me.
This world will be a lot darker without him in it.
But heaven will be a whole lot brighter.
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