December 5

I remember the day with far too much clarity.  More clarity than a mental health professional would think healthy.  I was out field testing with my friend and systems engineer, John, the latest software version of our little government science project, micro sensor system.  The software load crashed, which was nothing new.  It was just after lunch.  I thought about going back to the office.  John sent me to the hospital instead.  I really didn't want to go to the hospital because I knew if I did IT would happen.  I didn't want IT to happen, so in my mind, as long as I stayed away, the world as I knew it would keep on spinning. 

This was a Monday afternoon.  Myself, along with my sister, mother and wife had spent the preceding Sunday in my father's ICU room watching the Colts play.  We had chicken, it was a nice Sunday.  My father was stable, but with AML, that is always a temporary condition.  We decided to go back to the semi routine of the previous few months.  My sister flew back to California, we returned to work with the intention of stopping by my father's hospital room with a chocolate milk shake from Brahms.  The hospital moved dad from the ICU room back to the 4th floor medical/surgical unit.  He was such a kind old gentleman, the nurses and staff loved taking care of him.  There was actually a minor turf war when they tried to move him off the floor to another unit.  The 4th floor nurses won that battle, which was bitter sweet. 

I walked into Dad's room and noticed they had him on a non re-breather oxygen mask.  The curse of knowing too much about medicine.  Removing the nasal cannula and putting him on a real O2 mask meant he was not doing well.  His color was bad.  He did not look good.  We talked for a short while about this and that.  I knew it was the end.  The last words I remember his saying was "Brent, I don't think I am going to beat it this time."  We did not talk much after that.  I sat in his room and prayed that if it was his time, please make it quick and painless.  Sometimes I hate it when prayer is answered.

Both my wife and mother came over.  We were all standing there when the people came in from the cardiac ICU telemetry unit with panic stricken looks.  Dad's nurse waved him off. I am not sure if he passed away at that instant or a few moments later when his hematologist came in and we were talking in the hall. 

The next few hours were a blur of painful phone calls while I paced the floor of the hospital.  My sister was in transit back to California and not answering her phone (even though I knew she was on a layover in Phoenix).  I suspect her process was like mine, don't answer the phone, then all is well.  The next week was worse yet.  I suddenly became the lone decision maker for the family.  A responsibility I felt ill prepared to assume. 

There is much more to say, but even 6 years later the pain is too great. Perhaps I shall finish the story another time.

In the moment

A repost from about 6 years ago...

There is a time of day that is neither light or dark, morning or night, just a few magical moments where we are two spoons nestled together in a drawer.

Time stops when I feel her torso pressed into mine, my hand resting lightly on her body, the weight of my arm on her ribcage. Our breathing in sync, there is only this moment, this time.

All things fade away. The problems of yesterday are gone. Today has yet to start, There is no IPhone, e-mail, no alarm clocks, no schedule, no obligations, no to-do lists. We exist only in this moment

The daily energy exchange has become mandatory to survive the next 24 hours. Intimate moments that fuel my day. Going back in my mind until we can start the cycle again, tomorrow morning.