A New Hope

December 29th
12:42am

1937 - 2006

One If By Land

Last night Linda and I lay awake in bed as I pondered the relative wisdom of spending the night into Christmas Eve upstairs, as opposed to downstairs in the family den where my sister and mother were sleeping.

Choices are often about point of view, and Linda and I found ourselves discussing point of view that night. It seems such an obvious choice to go upstairs to bed, with everyone else. It seems even more an obvious choice when that was what had been agreed upon. It deepened in obviousness when one realizes that there was no room left in the den to sleep comfortably (I am already taking wild liberty with the term comfortable and this particular couch).

And yet, there is another point of view, equally simple, equally obvious: how at ease am I with the notion that the desire for a comfortable night's sleep would outweigh the chance to be with a loved one when they pass away.

And so, for the next few days, we decided the prudent compromise would be to sleep like minute-men: dressed in socks, shorts, and t-shirts (apparently, just like minute-men...) with our bedroom door unlocked; ajar. My sister-on-the-couch our Paul Revere.

At 4:45am, December 24th, we were given our first drill. A lit lantern on the horizon. Shallow breathing. Apnea. And we were downstairs in moments, holding vigil until breathing strengthened, warmth returned, and our dear patient opened one eye and told us that she was thirsty.

And now, our next night, into Christmas Day, we go to bed clothed again, hoping for a restful sleep but ready for anything else.

May we always see them coming.

-Ed

Christmas Vigil

Since Thanksgiving, Christmas tunes have drifted with me down Interstate 95 each morning and serenaded me through the jumpstarts on the Baltimore beltway. Inescapable as these tunes have been, one cannot help but pay attention to their lyrics once the seasonal novelty of the music has worn thin.

And, I've noticed, many lyrics are filled with deep searching for the "true" meaning of Christmas. Whether secular or religious, the theme of searching for truth is a popular one. And, as probability would have it, such a searching song accompanied the drive to my mother's home.

Tagging along with me and my songs were my luggage, my laptop, and several unwrapped presents -- all staples of a long stay. Mom's hospice nurse had rendered his opinion at his last visit: we had reached the point where mom would be with us for days; no more, but maybe less. And so, my sisters and I dropped our plans, packed our bags, and congregated once again at our childhood home to wait out this long winter's night. It was on this once in a lifetime drive that I found myself in perfect phase with these lyrics as I searched for some non-trite meaning of Christmas.

And that is how I have spent these many days, for that drive was many days ago. My wife and daughter and I have taken to camping out in my childhood bedroom. My sister sleeps on the couch. My other sister, and husband and children, have taken the master bedroom. My aunt and uncle take couches as they can find them. This house, so overwhelmed with the expectation of death, has been bulging at the seams with life. Good food. Good wine. Board games, card games, and piles of wrapped Christmas boxes arranged exquisitely to hide the oxygen tanks.

Mom wakes several times each day, but each day she wakes up fewer times and stays awake for shorter durations. We have, as a family, been slowly peeling back the layers of her life. First, she received her gifts from friends. Then she read their letters, absorbed their poems. She has had all the visitors of friends and family that she could stand -- still too few. She has slowly unwound the thread of her friendships until only we remain, the four strands of her children and brother.

And this dear woman goes to sleep so many times, each time, with the hope of rising again -- in one way or another. She knows that, so far, she has woken surrounded by her children. Apprehensive that, the next time, she will wake up and be surrounded by something entirely different.

And between the laughter, and the manipulating of wrapping paper, and of food preparation, and carols there are tears, there is exhaustion, there is constant physical care. And each of us go to sleep, when we can, knowing that, so far, we have woken to a house that this woman still calls a home. Apprehensive that, the next time, we will wake and be surrounded by something entirely different.

We both wait in expectation of that sublime event that will change our lives forever. And we are caught in the maelstrom of fear and faith.

Such is the nature of vigil.

Such is the true nature of Christmas.

-Ed

Not Much

My last entry, a shaming month ago, talked of the difficulty in finding entries worth blogging about. There was simply "not much" going on in my life. Even one month the wiser I can see the transparency of that excuse. It has been some time, and the water is cold, so let me start with dipping in a toe.

My mother has enrolled in home hospice care after a 2.5 year valient struggle with cancer. Hearing this news and passing through this time has been beyond comprehension for me and, certainly, beyond my ability to translate and relate. My siblings and I have been keeping round-the-clock company and spending our time in loving care and focus on a life well lived. We keep ourselves busy juggling medications, calls from friends, visitors, nursing care, and all of the normal logistics that one must do when one is caring for someone in hospice. To do otherwise, at this time, would invite madness.

My mother is a writer, and a poet. Whatever talent I have in her direction is simply genetic shadow. As we chatted on the sofa yesterday she reminded me, talents notwithstanding, of the responsibility of prose. She reminded me of the responsibility of carrying on the familial lore. "Our lives", she said, "are comprised of stories" and, I imagine, it is in their generation and regeneration that we find ourselves alive.

Our daily interactions are steeped with meaning and communicatable emotion. Those sensitive enough to notice this never lack material or inspiration. Some of our greatest writers, and greatest poets, have encountered their greatest inspirations in situations or scenarios thought by most to be suffocatingly void of interest. It takes great spirit to transcend face value. My mother is that spirit perfected.

So we had a smile over those who answer the question "anything interesting happen to you today" with a shrug and a "not much". We smiled because it is an absurd answer. We smiled because we have answered that answer, and we have had times when we could only stumbled through life. Focused only on the path at our feet with senses idled until we reached our destinations.

And so through such a process I find myself stumbling a bit, as I am sure she finds herself stumbling just a bit. And when someone at worked asked me what happened over the weekend I, again, replied "not much", and this person had no idea how deeply I would have desired that to have been the case.

So, for now, please excuse my lack of blogging this past month for, you see, nothing much has been happening around here. I am sure that I will come posting back when something more interesting comes my way.

-Ed