Mom and Dad are at church tv, about to say The Lord's Prayer." Then soon comes my favorite part which is giving the sign of peace. When we used to go to church, we would kiss each other on the cheek and hug. Now, with Dad in his recliner and Mom in her rocker, we blow kisses across the room. I sit on the hospital bed.
It's Dad's hospital bed, a new piece of furniture in the crowded den. It's next to the oxygen tank, which we haven't had to use yet. Before church, Mom took the portable urinal container out of the room. "No use looking at this thing," she said. We had just made coffee and it was 5:30 am then.
I slept with Mom in her and Dad's bed in their room. He hasn't slept in there in at least a year. We woke up twice in the night when he got up and decided he wanted to go to the bathroom, not use the container. He was sweaty and Mom found him a new T-shirt to put on. It had stains already on it and is a size too small.
The second time he woke up, around 4:30am he asked for some crackers. He's been eating like crazy, and has a round little belly now. "Don't bring those nothing saltines," he said. "Bring the club crackers."
He used to eat saltines -- no salt -- always, and usually with cheese. But now those are too bland and dry and often set off a coughing fit, the likes of which send me rifling through my brain cells for the how-to Heimlich page. He ends his fits with a flourish -- a weird, fake cough thing that sounds like a half-sneeze. It's funny, I laugh every time. "Do you mean to do that?" I ask. He smiles yes. He still likes to amuse, something we are all grateful for.
I brought in some club crackers. They are small, half the size of an ATM card. I handed him two. "That's it?" he asked, disappointed. I smiled, and opened my other hand: two more. He smiled, happy.
I'll make breakfast soon, he's already been asking about it. Then, he'll get up and sit at his computer and play cards and check his email for a bit. We keep a timer now because after about 15 minutes, his feet and ankles get too swollen. Something with the blood pressure medication, and, oh yeah, the brain tumor, causes this swelling.
He'll want a hot-fudge sundae, more toast (not too dry and lots of butter), coffee, chocolate, ham and cheese little roll-ups, ice cream sandwiches, "a little something" many, many more times today.
He just called out for me. I thought for sure he'd want some more coffee or crackers. "I love you," he said, "I have to, it's in the contract, but I do love you."