Goodnight. I Love You. Sweet Dreams.
We have been told by doctors on two separate occasions that my dad was nearing the end - in the last year alone. Days to weeks is what they said. Call your family. It’s time for hospice. It’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to make him “comfortable.” And then somehow … it wouldn’t happen.
We have had countless additional encounters in the past two years where it looked to be the case as well. Things seemed grim. Pain was uncontrolled and the source unknown. Doctors had no answers. Emergency surgery. Code Blue. More surgery. Transfusion upon transfusion. Day after day in the hospital would pass. Sometimes it would be weeks. We would hold our breath and wonder, “Is this it?” Suddenly something would shift. A change in blood counts. An answer and a new medicine. We would finally exhale because he was ok for now.
And then today for the third time we heard those very same words come from the lips of a doctor… again. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Days to weeks. Hospice. Comfort care. “But my dad looks ok today. He is feeling ok today. How can you say we could just have days?”
Ok today. Maybe gone tomorrow. That’s the reality right now.
Each and every time this happens it feels like a bomb has been dropped. It’s hard to let their words penetrate … maybe because they have been so wrong before … maybe because I am in complete denial … or maybe because they are coming from the mouth of someone whose calm and unfazed demeanor is so completely disconnected from the news she just gave. I’ve seen more emotion from a dentist breaking the news of a cavity.
This has been a rollercoaster ride from hell - one that is pure torture, but one you don’t want to stop because when it does and you are finally able to get off, you and your family are forever “minus one” on this side of Heaven (or I guess “minus two” in our case). For years the ride has repeatedly appeared as though it was coming to an end. Just as it would begin to slow down, it would suddenly accelerate at a velocity that would make you nauseous and slam you violently into the back of your seat. Here it goes again … and we would take off having no idea just how much track was actually left.
Tonight in the dark and cool basement of our home, I laid by my father’s small frame that was sunken into his soft mattress and covered by a blanket I bought him during one of his past hospital stays. When I close my eyes his voice sounds the same and I can picture the strong silhouette that used to represent him. But upon opening my eyes, reality washes over me because it is no longer a body I recognize. Cancer has stolen it. Thank goodness for Jesus …
I wiped a tear off his face and told him I loved him. I said a prayer and asked God to give him comfort and help him not to be afraid. And then I kissed his head and said goodnight.
When I said goodnight to my dad tonight, what I really meant was goodbye.
Tomorrow could look very different. One of these tomorrows WILL look very different. Until then, every night I get to go downstairs and kiss his head goodnight … I know it must also be a goodbye. I’m not sure how much more of this my heart can take.
When I was a kid we had the same bedtime routine for years. After my parents tucked us in and turned out the lights we would yell to them, “Goodnight … I love you … Sweet dreams.” They would respond the same. It makes me smile to think of such simpler times.
So Dad, just in case you meet Jesus tonight …
GOODNIGHT. I LOVE YOU. SWEET DREAMS.
Jamie
