Page 122 of Woman on the Verge

“He’s comfortable.”

We exchange names. Hers is Tianna.

“His respirations are fast—about thirty per minute.”

I have no idea how fast that is, have never considered the pace of my own respirations, another bodily function I have taken for granted.

“I want to start giving him Ativan to help with any panicky feeling he may get from breathing so fast,” she says. “I’ll need his wife to approve first.”

Just as she says that, Merry walks in, the bags under her eyes even more pronounced than yesterday. She’s wearing a robe, her arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s hugging herself.

“What do you need my approval for?”

Tianna explains the Ativan. Merry agrees. We follow Tianna’s instructions—bring a shot glass from the kitchen. It says “Acapulco” on it, something Merry says they got on a cruise. Tianna shows us how to dissolve the pills in three drops of water in the glass. Then she sucks up the murky liquid with a syringe and places it in my dad’s mouth. She massages his throat to help the medicine go down. It takes a few minutes, but she manages to empty the syringe.

“You can give that to him every hour. I’ll put a note in his chart for the next nurse.”

She places a hand against his forehead. “He’s a bit warm.”

She takes his temperature—99.8.

“It’s common for patients to spike a fever.” She hands us two blue latex gloves. “Take these and fill them with ice cubes.”

I do as she says. She ties off the gloves and places the makeshift ice packs against his cheeks.

“You can also fill gloves with water and place them in the freezer.”

This Tianna has all kinds of tricks. She’s also balled up some of Dad’s socks and placed them in his hands to keep him from clenching his fists shut so tightly.

We spend much of the day sitting and waiting. I watch his chest rise and fall, wondering with each breath if it will be his last. Blood starts to pool in his calves. His nail beds start to turn purple. His blood pressure hovers around sixty over forty, his heart rate around one hundred. Merry records his vitals every hour, filling up lines in a notebook that she’s designated for this purpose. I know why she’s doing it—for some sense of control, however illusory. I remember when I was in labor with Grace and I did the same, recording each contraction in a notebook—the time it occurred, the duration, the pain level. It was something to occupy my brain on the verge of this monumental event that I couldn’t begin to process.

When Tianna’s shift ends, Nurse Becky comes. She turns my dad on his side to inspect the pressure sore on his tailbone. I saw it yesterday when the nurse was changing his diaper; it was purple-red and angry. In just twenty-four hours, it has worsened considerably. It is a crater of black. One quick glance, and my stomach clenches. I cannot look again. Becky replaces a bandage with a sigh.

“Should I turn his head?” I ask.

His left ear is black from the pressure of his lying on his side for two days.

“You don’t need to,” she says. “It’s fine.”

I imagine her thoughts:He is dying. He will be dead soon. The state of his ear is inconsequential.

We continue to give him water via the sponge lollipops. It helps us feel like we are caring for him, doing something important. It is all we can do, besides sitting with him, placing our hands on his body. But this, the placing of hands, is more for our own benefit than his. I will my hands to remember the feel of him, though this current version of his body is so unlike the one I grew up touching and holding.

Kyle texts to check in, and I tell him what the hospice people continue to tell me:

It could be any time ...

Him: You doing ok?

I can’t remember the last time Kyle inquired about how I was doing. I can’t remember the last time he showed interest in my mental state, my thoughts, my feelings.

I’m hanging in there. It’s all so surreal

Him: Ya

He tells me the girls are fine. He got them Happy Meals for dinner.

Don’t worry—I’ll remember to brush their teeth

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