When I arrive at Rob's bedside today, I realize that
something is different. It's his
breathing. It sounds labored and raspy,
a totally different rhythm than in previous days. So when the Hospice aide whirls in with her
bathing supplies, ready to start his bath, I stop her. I suggest that instead of a bath today, we
might need to call the nurse and assess Rob's breathing pattern. She agrees to contact nursing, and thus
begins the next chapter in Rob's passing.
Eventually, the Hospice nurse comes to do her assessment,
and she tells me that Rob's changed breathing is indicative of one of the later
stages of dying. However, she predicts
it will be the next week before he will progress to the final stages.
For two weeks, I have come daily for brief
visits with Rob and the staff. He is always uncommunicative, turned toward the wall, resting. But
today, there is something that will not let me leave. I do not want to leave. Instead, I want to be right there all afternoon,
the only communication between us being the music I play throughout the
afternoon and into the evening. One familiar
CD after another, Softly and Tenderly, Draw Me Nearer, Night Songs, and
Illumination, his favorite. Time
passes. And we are together in a familiar
place of unspoken love...music.
When the chaplain comes by, she asks me if there's anything
I think Rob might be waiting to hear from me that would allow him to move
on. I cannot think of anything. And then I see it, the little Love on the Road book I've placed on the table along with favorite photos of
Rob and his loves.
I tell her that the
pages of that little book contain messages of love from me, in words and photos that I collected and included for him each time he
returned home from his week away on the job.
So, I read her the following introductory passages from Love on the Road:
From precious
child to amazing man,
You've carried
your love inside a heart so tender
It is easily
broken for others.
What a gift you
are to the world!
You see with eyes
of love and wonder,
Picking up
shoreline reminders
That something
else wonderful waits for us all.
You choose me, over
and over again,
Even when the
pickings are slim
And I'm not
exactly who you thought you were choosing
In that first
place.
And then, for some
incredible reason,
We see eye-to-eye and
remember why!
You know what to
say to a little boy
Just learning to
put his head underwater.
You know how to
make another little boy
giggle with
delight.
You know how to
love big boys and girls
who are just now
learning how.
You give me so much!
You let me swing
far and wide to keep my spirit alive.
You let me cry
when my heart is breaking.
You let me jabber
on when I just need to get
The words out of
my crazy head.
You let me
BE ME
In ways I can
never fully express
But gladly would
if I could!
~I love you~
When I finished reading, it was so obvious that those
were exactly the words Rob needed to hear...again. And I know he did hear them.
That evening, when I left to go meet friends for dinner
and a concert, I kissed him as I had done so many times before, and said,
"See you later, Babe." Rob had
always encouraged me to "go on and live life", and the Hospice
physician had told me it would most likely be a few days before the final
days. So I left for the evening with a
peaceful heart and memories of a lovely afternoon shared, knowing I'd be back, and
we'd do the rest of the journey together.
As it turns out, we had already done the rest of the
journey together, by simply and sweetly staying in those moments, on that day,
in that room, doing exactly what came next.
And it was
perfect.
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