Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
It’s a surprise, but we all manage to fall asleep. I wake up around two a.m. because I have to pee. I carefully make my way off Boone’s lap and head into the bathroom. When I come out, I see he hasn’t budged an inch. My dad lightly snores in the recliner.
I move to the bed, bend over Aiden and study him. We don’t ever turn the lights off fully and the one over the sink provides good illumination without being too jarring.
An intense shock rockets through me as I realize Aiden’s not breathing. Just as I’m about to call for Boone, he takes in a breath and the leftover adrenaline prickles my skin.
But something’s not right. I’ve stared so much at my brother the last few days, I can tell there’s been a change. His breathing is shallower and faster for a while, then there’s a terribly long pause that seems to go on forever. I hold the air in my lungs waiting for his chest to move again, and when it does, I spin to Boone. I shake his shoulder and he bolts upright.
“Go get the nurse,” I say, panicked at these changes. I’ve listened to every word the hospice nurse has said and I know the signs to look for. Erratic breathing, shallow breaths, pauses… it all means he’s deteriorating further.
Boone shoots out of the room and I move around the bed, shaking my dad awake. Within seconds Boone is back with Aiden’s night nurse, Veronica. We’ve had her many times before and she’s a sweet, young girl who’s only been doing this a few years.
“His breathing has changed. He had two really long pauses and when he starts again, it’s fast.”
She quickly runs his blood pressure, checks his pulse and then listens for a long time to his breathing with her stethoscope. When she straightens, she says, “I’m going to page the on-call doctor.”
“Is this it?” I ask in panic. Boone is there holding my hand, and my dad moves around the bed to take my other.
“I can’t say for sure, but his systolic blood pressure is only eighty.”
I nod in understanding. They told me that would be one of the signs and he’s abandoned food and water, putting out virtually no urine and the breathing… it’s all wrong. Aiden hasn’t woken up since our talk earlier today.
“Does he need some morphine? Is he in distress?”
“He doesn’t seem to be, but he is due for a dosage if you want me to give it to him.”
“Will that kill him if he’s already having a hard time breathing?” my dad asks, and that right there tells me… he’s not anywhere near ready to let go. “Can we put him on some oxygen?”
“Dad,” I say, tugging free of Boone to hug my dad. “We can’t do that. Aiden didn’t want it. We have to let this run its course.”
The nurse puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “And no… the morphine will not hasten his decline. It will only make him comfortable.”
♦
It’s nearing five a.m. and my dad, Boone and I are hovering over Aiden’s bed. The on-call doctor stopped by not long after the nurse called him and confirmed that Aiden was in the final stages of active dying.
Fuck, that was such a horrible way to describe this portion of his journey, but it was so accurate. Everything the doctors and nurses said would happen has happened.
I’m only slightly ashamed that there’s some relief that he’s letting go.
Currently, my dad is lying in the bed with Aiden. It’s raining—a steady spring downpour that’s been going on all afternoon and evening—and the exterior hospital lights paint shadowy bands rippling over their bodies. Because Aiden sleeps with his head and torso elevated, Dad’s beside him in the same position but cocked slightly on his hip. It’s a tight fit. I know his back has got to be killing him but he hasn’t moved in over an hour. Merely strokes Aiden’s arm and stares at the bathroom door which is in his direct line of sight.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, Aiden’s cool hand in mine. I’ve been so hyperfocused on his breathing that I think I’m seeing things. Like once, I thought he was breathing normally and I had a flush of excitement that he was battling back. But when I blinked, he was still laboring under quick shallow breaths interspersed with long pauses. Each time there was a pause, I refused to count the seconds, instead silently demanding that Aiden suck in a breath, which he eventually did.
It’s a horrible way to spend time, where a minute can seem like an hour.
Boone has pulled up one of the uncomfortable chairs behind me. He leans to the side, his arm draped over Aiden’s legs and his other hand resting on my shoulder. None of us speak, all three lost in our own thoughts.