Turning the Corner

It's 2:30 AM on Friday, the 13th.  The superstition behind the date doesn't mean that much to me; however, the significance of Thursday, the 12th, weighs on me

Dad took a turn.  A bad turn.  He couldn't breathe.  I gave him the medication as directed,  which usually does the job.  I wait.  Dad doesn't relax.  The coughing continues with abandon.  He moans.  I try to determine the source of his pain.  What compromises his breathing?  He will not respond.  I can't panic.  I cannot morph into his little girl who cries for help.  I am his help.

The Hospice nurse returns my call.  I report what little Dad has shared with me concerning his discomfort.  Recent vital signs are recited in a cool professional tone.  I hold it together.  The nurse tells me I'm doing the right things.  Keep up the med every two hours. 

One hour later, I'm back on the phone with a different Hospice nurse.  Dad's still in distress.  I swallow my panic in order to focus on bringing him some comfort. She's a straight shooter and shares some comfort measures.  She says, he's "turned the corner", a euphemism for "buckle up, things are going downhill." 

I read somewhere that some faith traditions recommend leaving a window open in order for the soul to take flight when its ready.  I walk to the window, open it, and reflect on the loneliness of the night. 

I need to circulate some caffeine in my body in order to be of any help to Dad.

Mom's asleep.  Oblivious to what's going on with her husband.  A blessing in disguise.

I shuffle over to the coffee brewer and pour a cuppa Joe.  This vigil isn't about me, but my eyes are heavy with fatigue.  I don't dare close them because I don't want to know what's around that corner.