The Joy of Rambling

I can feel it. Sometimes it stops me short and I can’t breathe. Like now.

He is no longer drinking much water. Just enough to take his pills. He hasn’t eaten in a month. And yet, he talks to me. Yesterday he said, “Who wants to go in the pool?” I told him the water was still a little too cold.

I was reading my Bible devotional today and he asked me to read aloud. I did, and then asked him what he wanted to pray for. “John,” he said. “That people would go to him and try to help him. I’m not even sure where he lives, but I’m pretty sure he lives alone.”

John. He’s worried about John. John died over forty years ago. The fact that Jim can still communicate with me in a mostly understandable way, floors me. Even if he doesn’t remember his brother is dead. It makes me question everything. Is he really dying? Maybe this is just a very long phase of not recognizing the need to eat or drink, and he’ll move past it soon. There have been so many phases. At one point I said, no more going out to eat. It became way too hard for him. That lasted about a month, and then one day he was able to get up and join our friends out to lunch. That lasted another month or so. The last time we tried was March 1st. We had to leave the restaurant and take our food to go. He was too cold, uncomfortable, and just wanted to be home. He had ordered a pizza—his favorite. It sat in the fridge for a few days. I think I got him to eat 2 small pieces later. But after that, he pretty much stopped eating. Prior to that he was down to one small meal a day, or sometimes just a McDonald’s shake. So, it’s been 32 days without food and 1.5 days without water. If this continues, Google says he has 4 days. It also says 40 days without food. So I guess we’re between four and eight days. Maybe. Death would occur on April 15th, give or take a few days.

Is this what I should plan for? How does one plan for such a thing? I’ve been reading books and articles on death. I’m seeing a therapist and in a support group with others caring for terminally ill loved ones. I’m doing all this to get myself ready for something I’ve never been through before. And just like having a baby, there really is no way to prepare yourself. It will happen, I will walk through it, and on the other side, I’ll do my best to create a new life. As with bringing a child home from the hospital, a new life is thrust upon you. You just start responding to the changes as they occur. I suppose that when his body leaves our home, I’ll start experiencing those changes, and as each one comes, I will adapt.

Although it seems impossible to pre-process death, I can’t help but try. The limbo I live in day to day is the worst. I’m nowhere. I sit on the bed beside him, trying to keep him comfortable. He tells me I’m all he needs. I’m glad I can be here for him. Me, Gus, Sophie and occasionally one of the cats. We’re all quite sensitive to the presence of someone dying in our midst.

He doesn’t know he’s dying, but doesn’t question why he’s in bed every day. I guess that’s a blessing. In time, I know God will reveal more and more blessings I’ve received through this last part of the journey. My mind is just not able to look for them today. Maybe tomorrow.