Tuesday, August 14, 2007

In Transit

Dad is still in between; that kind and noble mind and that generous and loving soul have already moved on, but the body still clings tenaciously to life, although I don't know how it can do so. Dad's on morphine now to ensure that he's comfortable in these final days; intellectually, I believe that he is, but emotionally I am in torment as I watch his decline. I want to be able to offer him comfort, to soothe him, but there's nothing I can do that will offer him any respite.

I remember Dad's concern for me when I broke my arm; his love for Kim when she fractured her elbow (once he had seen her through the worst of it, he went into another room at the hospital and threw up, but he refused to let the seriousness of her injury get the best of him until he was sure she was treated and was okay); I hope he knows that our love for him is every bit that strong, but we simply lack the power to offer him any relief from the rigors of his final days. We watch him closely, asking the nurses to check, to give him morphine, to look for any signs of physical discomfort; they never seem to find any, but they minister to him as we request, because they have seen families go through this before.

I hope that Dad can see the light that Mom has placed to illuminate his journey; it's been a difficult path, but he's so very close now...

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