He watches her breathe . . . quick shallow breathes, and he sees the IV drip its medicine and morphine into her arm. They provide an artificial, but necessary, peace and a relief from any pain she may feel. He listens to the oxygen as it bubbles in the water in the small jar hanging on the wall behind her bed and he hears, as she exhales, the gurgling sounds of congestion and struggle.
Her chest rises and falls with each swallow of air, and she tosses and turns on her bed. At one point she turns on her side and her hand finds his resting on the bed and she grasps it in her sleep. Her grip is still strong, and she squeezes his hand and holds on to it.
He wonders if she is dreaming and if she sees in her dreams her husband or her son or a daughter or a long lost friend. He imagines her talking to a friend, speaking her mind, as she has always done since he has known her. After all, when woman reaches a certain age (and she is now 85), she is exempt from holding her tongue,
she can say what she thinks, when she thinks it, and no one is allowed to reproach her with remarks like, “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” or “You really should keep those kinds of thought to yourself.”
But tonight the only word she could say was “okay.” “Bettie, I’m going to pray with you now,” he says.
“Okay.”
Bettie, I’ll be back later tonight. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
And so here here he is, back at her bedside. It's after 10 pm, and other than the nurses, no one else is here. But someone before him has attempted to fill the silence and beat back death by turning on the TV and turning up the volume so that a constant chatter fills the air. The darkness has also been kept at bay, at least temporarily, in the fluorescent lights that glare right above her head —
lights that flicker from time to time and cast a unhealthy pallor over everyone and everything in the room. It would be bad enough without them, but with them on, even the most vigorous of people look pale and sickly.
He reaches over and turns down the volume of the TV, and he calls out her name,
but there is no response. Either she can’t hear him just can't respond. He doesn't know which, and it really doesn't matter. And so he prays.
Our Father in heaven, holy is your name . . .
He quotes some scriptures that he knows by heart . . .
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. . .
I love the Lord, because he hears my prayers and answers them. . .
I lift up my eyes to the hills . . .
And then he begins to sing, slowly and softly. Partly because he doesn't want to disturb anyone else and partly because he is a little embarrassed. Nevertheless, he sings;
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.
Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come.
Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.
And then other songs come into his mind and he sings them as well.
I am a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world of woe . . .
I wonder as I wander out under the sky . . .
When I survey the wondrous cross, on which the Prince of Glory died.
He sings song after song until silence creeps into his heart and back into the room.
He holds her hand and watches her breathing, and he thinks about other bedsides he has attended; other men and women he has prayed for and over. After 20 years in pastoral ministry, he is all too familiar with death -- with what it looks like and how it sounds. And if the truth be told, he is sick to death of death. And yet, here it is again . . . and soon enough it will take another life.
He sits and waits and listens. He watches her breathing, and he can feel the slight tremors in her hand and her papery thin skin, stretched and relieved, for a time, of its wrinkles. Finally he prays again. He prays for her peace, for the grace of God to be with her. He prays for her family and friends, for their consolation. And he prays for himself - for all the people he has known and loved and lost.
He squeezes her hand one more time and leans down over her face. “Bettie,” he says, "I will see you in the morning.” But no “okay” is forthcoming from her now,
and so he adds it himself, “Okay. . . okay.”
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