The Waiting Is the Hardest Part Now

Hospital Hallway. I took the pic with a new phone app

Or is it?  That is what one of Ry’s doctors said the other day, that waiting for his passing will be very difficult, and it is sometimes the hardest part of situations like this, when a loved one is slowly dying.  I had developed a new routine of rushing to the apartment from the hospital in the afternoons to do laundry, check emails, watch TV shows I had recorded on the DVR, and then taking a shower before going back to the hospital to spend the night in Ry’s hospital room with him.   A couple of days after this “lovely” conversation with the doctor, when I was at our apartment, all alone, going through the motions of the new routine and trying to enjoy some time alone, it hit me that this is what it will be like for me when Ry is finally gone.   I suddenly felt lonely, I mean really really lonely.  The kind of lonely that no amount of companionship from friends and family can help with.  Not even a dog would help.  No more Ry sitting with me on the couch stealing the remote in the middle of one of my shows or nagging me about when dinner will be ready.  No more snuggling in bed or warm and tender, “I Love You’s.”  Ever since then I have been finding it so difficult to accept losing him.  I don’t know how to BE without him.  He has become so much a part of me.     

I understand that he must die, that his body will simply cease to function.  His family and I, well, we all understand this, in a way we all somewhat accept this, but we can’t help it when we all hold our breath when it seems like his has suddenly stopped , and then let out a collective sigh of relief or even a little triumphant cheer when we see that he is still, indeed, breathing.  

Ry has now been off of both fluids and nutrition for 6 days.  His breathing has gone from congested and labored, to shallow but steady, to mechanical and sporadic back to shallow or labored.  The inconsistencies in his breathing has been of constant worry to us.  Difficulty breathing has been Ry’s greatest fear from this whole ordeal and that is exactly what is happening.  I have sometimes suctioned his trach in between respiratory therapist visits and nursing routines with some success.  We have found that his secretions have been clogging his trach, making it harder for him to breathe, so when he gets suctioned or has the disposable canula in his trach replaced, he breathes easier, and so do we.  However, we have noticed that despite breathing easier, his breathing has become more and more shallow. 

His body must be so weak.

Found some chilled out tunes on my MP3 player Ry had put on there for me for him to listen to

And yet it is soooo strong.  He actually is quite healthy except for the stupid cancer.  The doctors expected him to die days ago.  His family and I expect him to die every moment of every day now.  It seems as if he could live this way for ever, although he would hate that.  The waiting has been gruelling.  But it is still so comforting to watch his chest rise and fall that tiny, little bit.

Maybe I should have given this post the title, “Every Breath You Take.”

We all have found ways to cope.  His mom is on the phone with various friends and family giving them updates on how Ry is doing.  His dad works on his computer and watches his favorite money show he calls “Cramer” (actually called Mad Money), his sister slips away from her home after putting the baby to sleep almost every night now, and his cousin and I joke around and talk about Ry for the most part.  I have even made some new “hospital friends” amongst the nurses and some of the other patients and their families.  One woman in particular and her daughter have become dear friends in the past few days, along with their stinky little dog.  We met through a mutual friend who happened to be visiting both of us, on the same day, in the same hospital, on the same floor.  She was completely floored by this.  Somehow I was not so surprised.  I have run into other friends and neighbors who were visiting family members here at the hospital a few times in the past 6 weeks.  Sad, but true.  All because of cancer by-the-way. 

Stupid cancer.      

We have all, his friends and family, the nurses and doctors, and some of Ry’s fellow patients have all been lending our support to Ry and to each other.  For some of us, it has been a comfort to think about an idyllic afterlife waiting for Ry in which he will be free of pain and be surrounded by love and beauty.  For others it has been a comfort to think of Ry finally being released from all of this misery.   

At the hospital with Ry's mom and his dad and a friend geeking out in the background

For me, I find comfort in comforting others, in playing on my fancy new phone Ry gave me for Christmas, and in all of the stories and moments in Ry’s life I get to imagine and relive.

Finally, I have been comforted in being able to finally manage his pain and anxiety.

I have been comforted by being able to help him feel more comfortable during his last days with us and by giving him as much love and affection as I possibly can so he can transition toward death feeling loved and safe.

And I have been comforted in knowing he has been blessed with an amazing life filled with loving people and many many adventures. 

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