Healing Tears

Even though we’d hung up, my brother’s voice rang in my ears as I drove to the hospital to visit my dad: “Monica, he told me that he doesn’t want to live like this anymore. Two more weeks, and then he wants to stop any medical support if things don’t improve.”

I was grateful for the 20-mile drive. I’ve worked in hospice and been with people, family even, when they’ve died, but this was different. I pulled over at a rest stop and called my friend, Debbie. We grew up together, and she’s a nurse now. From day one of this hospitalization, she’d been my medical barometer. I’d taken pictures of machines and labs and texted them to her. “Josh called,” I told her. “He wanted to make sure I knew that Dad had updated his form to a DNR now.”

“How are you?” Debbie asked with concern. “How can I help?” 

“I’m…I don’t know. We’ve tried to bring in palliative care two other times. And he was never open to it before. This feels…it feels more serious.” 

Debbie and I spoke for another 20 minutes. I cried. She listened, and that’s all she needed to do. We hung up. I cried some more, and then prayed in the twilight. 

When I arrived at the hospital, I parked, took a deep breath and then walked the tin entranceway ramp in and went to be with my dad.