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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