Thursday, August 16, 2012

Nightstand


They told me she had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day so that's what I had expected, but she was out of it when I got there.  She seemed to be sleeping with her mouth slightly opened. Black elastic bands held flexible tubing firmly pressed to her blushing cheeks and stretched around her the back of her head.  She might have chosen white elastic, if she had been asked.  Women know to match elastic bands to the color of their hair from ponytail days on. 

They told me her breaths would be sporadic so that's what I expected, but she was breathing steadily.  The oxygen pump alongside the bed had her beat for strength and volume, but not for rhythm. Two ways of breathing: one human, the other mechanical, I thought. I slipped off my coat, draped it over a chair by the door and took the nearer one.  It was late in the evening, after dark, after dinner, after other visitors to this nursing facility had left for cheerier homes.  But I was here, as quiet and available as the nightstand. 

A black bible, a gray book of liturgy, my reading glasses, my praying hands all in my lap, I sit.  Breath passes, in and out, both taking the palate-softened airway and using the cannula delivery. 

I read the liturgy; I am present; I read the scripture; I bow to pray.  And then, in the middle of the prayer, a surge of sweet music!  Evidently a radio on the nightstand had been tuned to a classical channel with the volume turned down so that it was inaudible over the other sounds in the room.  Unexpectedly, at that moment, the piece rose to full crescendo.  

I come here like that, I think.  I come to this bedside breathing on my own while assisted by mechanical words, repeated in predictable patterns.  The things I always say.  The things I always hear others say when they try to comfort or advise me.  And, although I petition and wait, I’m still surprised as the music begins to crescendo.  It’s so very beautiful.   

Help me be aware of more than myself and what’s mechanical here.  I sometimes strain to hear the music, Lord. Swell.    

Pastor Shirley

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