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
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
Labels: Mom
posted by Ed at 2:07 AM
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