A fitting tribute

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Howard Baldwin 1/1/11 - 9/7/8 1:11 PM

Rest in peace, Gramps*

Gramps

I'm up here with Gramps tonight. Just he and I.

You know I lived with him after my grandmother died. Just for a few months. Just to help him transition. It was never a problem for him, of course. The transition, I mean. He found his way. He always could ...

His breathing now is shallow and a bit congested. He doesn't seem bothered by it in the least, and he doesn't appear to have any discomfort or pain. I think it's harder on those of us nearby than it is on him. He actually stops breathing for about 35 seconds. Then he has shallow, congested breathing for the remainder of each minute. It is a pattern I finally recognize after sitting with him alone this past hour. It's a comfort to hear the pattern.

This hospice at Evergreen is the most phenomenal place. The grounds are beautiful ... waterfall, green paths, engraved plaques in stone walls ... and a magnificent rose garden. His room looks out on the garden in back. Green, lush and beautiful. A hummingbird feeder hangs outside the window.

There is nothing clinical about this space. It has a sleeper sofa, big reclining chair and a window seat that can also double as a bed, as it will for me tonight. There is a TV, ambient lighting and shelves on the wall for pictures or meaningful treasures. There is also a giant bouquet of flowers on his dresser.

The difference between NARC and here is the difference between our perceptions of heaven and hell.

He is getting only oxygen now. He has stopped eating and drinking. The care here is tremendous. They move him gently every few hours, keep him medicated with a low dose of morphine and keep his eyes and mouth moist. The sound of the oxygen is like a stream. Of course, I think he's thinking of Denny Creek.

What I have learned from the hospice nurses is amazing. Signs to recognize as the end is near, some insight into how our bodies seek the end, as well as how our spirits seek closure. A fascinating process, to be sure.

They will be in shortly to prepare me a bed. I chose the window seat, though I don't know how or when or if, sleep will come tonight. It's ok. I'm ok.

I'm not nervous or anxious in the least. I've had conversations with my Mom and her brother I never imagined having. Just things with my Mom about forgiveness and tonight I spoke with my uncle about the night my grandmother passed. His Mom. We've never really talked about it. Gramps is seeing that we all find this meaningful in some ways we never imagined. Perhaps a last gift ...

I may be back. I alternate between this chair and the place next to his bed. As his pattern has become clear I am less inclined to believe he will pass tonight. His body is warm to the touch and his cheeks are still pink. He is not entirely finished here. Not yet.