Sweet Sleep

Today in our little cottage we had a wild ride. Nate’s pain has been escalating steadily over the last ten days or so, frequently requiring the break-through pain medication to override it. So the head nurse spent an hour sorting through his current meds, rearranging doses, subtracting some items and adding others. After she’d gone, Nate’s pain gradually rose to new heights as his body began the adjustment away from the pills he can no longer swallow easily and toward two pain patches.

He stuck close to me all day and wanted, at one point, to nap on a double bed on the other side of the living room from his hospital bed. It was a tender time to whisper things to each other, but suddenly he said, “Don’t lean on me. Don’t press on me. Don’t cover me. It hurts too much.”

These words were whispered in high, raspy tones, the only voice he’s got left, and I had to ask for three repetitions of some of the words to understand. Assuring him I wouldn’t touch anyplace he was hurting, I asked him to tell me where it hurt the worst. He palmed back and forth on his abdomen, the first time he hadn’t answered that question by reaching around to touch his back.

When the nurse visited before, she’d measured his mid-section, just like a pregnant woman’s belly is measured for baby growth. When I’d asked what she was doing, she said, “His abdomen is beginning to fill with fluid now, as the organs fail to function right, because of the cancer.” All I could think of was the pain that would most likely accompany the pressure of that extra fluid.

“How do we solve that problem?” I’d asked. She said the team would be sure he didn’t have to suffer but that draining the fluid, a surgical procedure, was hurtful, invasive, and something to be avoided if possible.

Today, as his body continues to shrink with his bones becoming more and more visible, his belly has grown to resemble a woman seven or eight months pregnant. It is hard to the touch, with nodules or bulges that must be tumors. As I lay next to him on the bed holding his hand but not touching anything else, he whispered, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid.”

“Of dying?” I asked.

“No. Of the pain. Afraid of the pain,” he said.

It probably hurt so much at that moment, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to endure it, if it increased.

“I feel trapped,” he said. “And I’m so sick of all this.”

I felt the same way. Nate has been hurting badly since January, without respite. That’s when his life began to be dominated by chronic pain from stenosis of the spine and related back problems . I can’t imagine how wearisome such long-term pain must be. Nate is a champion at endurance.

Today I was determined to find some relief for this new, increased pain, and phoned the nurse. Two phone calls later, we’d settled on morphine drops under the tongue and a sedative/anti-anxiety pill. Within forty five minutes Nate had drifted into a restful sleep. Watching him breathe deeply and sleep soundly was nourishment for my heart and I’m sure also for his.

He’d been agitated and awake most of the last 24 hours. Because of the pain, he’d eaten nothing. It was serious relief to know that as I watched him sleep, he was not in pain. I’d always insisted to every medical person along our journey that we wanted to keep him alert and communicating with the minimum of medicine. Today, with his overpowering pain and the fear that came with it, I pulled away from that thinking. As a matter of fact, it sounded selfish.

Nate may be sleepy from here on out. If that’s what it takes to curb the awful pain he felt this afternoon, then that’s what it will be.

“It is vain for you to rise up early, to retire late, to eat the bread of painful labors, for He gives to His beloved, even in his sleep.(Psalm 127:2)

Out of sight

Last night had me battling worry over our immediate future. Each day seems to bring a new problem for which I don’t have the answer. For example, today Nate’s hand began having blips of weakness when it would go limp for an instant and then recoup. Because of this, he spilled (onto himself) one glass of water, a whole cup of coffee (lukewarm) and his dinner plate. Hospice is wonderful in their knowledge, experience and willingness to teach me what to do, and our kids are eager to help. But during the night, as I lie alone in bed, the heavy-handed truth is that I’m the one running the show.

In the daylight I don’t doubt God will point to answers for every new issue that arises and that this will continue unendingly. During the night, however, I worry, hanging onto this truth by my fingernails.

This afternoon I needed something special from God, because tears seemed to continually wiggle just behind my eyes. Walking Jack the five blocks to the beach would help, I was sure, since getting a look at that wide horizon and meandering along the wave line has always been calming. I checked to be sure the boys would watch over Nate while I was gone, then leashed the dog and headed out.

All summer we walked to the beach in flip-flops, kicking them off at the base of a small dune on the way to the water. Today it was socks and shoes. I missed the feel of sand between my toes, and as I climbed the dune, shoes on, I thought of my favorite sandals, a gift from a good friend. They came from J. Crew, a place I never shopped, and were navy blue with “straps” of white and blue seersucker. The part between the toes was hot pink, and they were oh-so-comfy.

In a lifetime of coming to this same beach, I’d never lost a sandal. But last summer I’d returned to the base of the dune one day on my way home, and my beloved J. Crew sandals had been missing. I looked everywhere that day, but they weren’t to be found. It was a disappointment, and I credited some creative middle school kid with tossing them into the woods or the nearby creek as a prank.

Today, as I battled worry about what was ahead, my eye caught something bright in the sand. It was a dot of pink, not a natural color at the beach. I bent over to get a better look and got a shock. Peeking out from under the sand was the between-the-toe piece of a flip-flop. Could it be?

J.Crew flip-flop pink

I dug around it and lifted out a navy sandal from J. Crew with seersucker straps, twisted and bent, but definitely mine. Those wiggly tears spilled over, and I talked out loud to God, stunned by this unusual token of his kindness. “You did it, God! I can hardly believe it! Thank you, thank you!” God had given me a “good gift from above” (a really unusual one) on the exact day I needed it.

Digging in that same area with the hope of finding the other flip-flop, I bumped into it several feet away under eight inches of sand. My favorite sandals had come back to me after being lost for nine weeks. There was no explainable reason except that God saw my need and decided to do something special to take care of it. It was as if he said, “Quit worrying, and quit hanging on by your fingernails, because I’m hanging on to you.”

On my frequent trips to the beach during the last nine weeks, I’d unknowingly been stepping over my flip-flops again and again, buried in the sand beneath my footsteps. They’d been there all along; I just didn’t know it, because I couldn’t see them.J.Crew flip-flop pair

God had used an object lesson to make a point with me, just like Jesus often used objects to teach those following him. When I’d been feeling alone and burdened with worry during the night, he’d been hidden from sight (just like the sandals). But in reality, he was telling me, “I’ve been there all along.”

“I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden wealth of secret places so that you may know that it is I. I am the Lord, and there is no other. Besides Me there is no God, the One forming light and creating darkness, causing well-being and creating calamity. I am the Lord who does all these. I will go before you and make the rough places smooth.” (Isaiah 45:3,5,7,2)

The Helper

Hospice has delivered an endless supply of equipment for our use: a hospital bed, a continuously inflating mattress, a shower chair, a wheeled walker, a movement alarm, a bedside table, plastic bed liners called chucks, an automatic chair that raises people to a standing position, a bag of Depends and a magic-foam pad to sit on. We’ve met four nurses, one doctor, one social worker and one aide. And we have phone numbers to call for 24-hour access to these people or to request additional supplies.

Today we had an appointment with the aide, our helper, who was coming to give Nate a shower. She’d come once before, and I thought we were over the hump of Nate’s embarrassment with a woman other than me seeing him naked. But today when I said, “Guess who’s coming?” Nate answered, “I hope it’s not that woman who gave me the shower. I hope she never comes again.”

We all laughed, and I said, “Oh she’s coming all right, and I’m sure she’ll see to it that you cooperate!”

Lori is a powerful woman who doesn’t take guff from patients. She has a heart of gold and works hard all day bending and twisting to get dirty people clean, most of them struggling with body movement, unable to help her very much.

“She’s bathed people for 20 years,” I assured Nate, “and you’re just one of many she’s helping today.”

He winced and muttered, “Oh boy,” but then resigned himself to her arrival.

Bubbling with good cheer and strong respect for Nate, Lori chatted with him throughout his shower, covering him carefully at strategic moments to give him an illusion of privacy. She rubbed him dry with a towel, careful to keep an extra one over his shoulders so he wouldn’t get cold. It was a scene similar to hundreds in my past as a mother drying the bubble-bath-clean bodies of seven children.

Lori also dressed Nate, careful not to hurt him or touch the dime-sized tumors erupting here and there on his body. When he was dressed, she combed his hair, continuing to talk soothingly and deliver praise. She also helped him with his electric shaver.

After Nate’s bath, Lori showed me how to handle a new set of circumstances coming into our future as Nate’s caregivers: changing the messy diaper of a bed-ridden patient. This is work I never dreamed I would do. Even as she was explaining it, I was wishing it away. But she left us with a big bag of pull-up Depends, and this reality is right around the corner.

Preparing to leave, Lori looked at Nate. “OK, big guy, you’re a new man,” she said, standing back to admire her work. “And I’ll see you again on Friday.” He gave her a weak smile but was too worn out from the ordeal to be enthusiastic. Later he made a joke about her wanting to have her way with him, but we all heard a hint of appreciation in his voice.

I love Elisabeth Elliott’s quote: “Just do the next thing.” This is simple, wise counsel. Lori demonstrated this in her approach to Nate’s bath. One task at a time, she just did the next thing. It was hard work, and she was huffing and puffing as she lifted, supported, bent and squatted. But she made a point of steadily moving forward.

As Nelson reminded me tonight, “Don’t stress about that diaper thing today, because you don’t have to do it today. Wait til its right in front of you, and stress about it then.” That fits right in with Mrs. Elliott’s quote above. While you’re stressing out, just do the next thing.

My sister is fond of saying, “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called.” She’s right. And God is in the process of equipping me, equipping all of us, to simply do the next thing.

Commit your actions to the Lord, and your plans will succeed.” (Proverbs 16:3)