The Waiting Game

We wait.  

We've spent this last week waiting in a holding pattern. We spend our evenings together at the Hospice House. We eat dinner together. We laugh. We get teary eyed. We tell stories. We share memories. We say, "hey, remember that one time..." We make small talk with visitors. But mostly we wait. 

We go to work. We come back. We try to keep up with life outside of the Hospice House. Its easy to forget that the world outside is still spinning, still moving on while we sit here waiting. The dishes in the sink are piling up. The laundry stays undone. We've got more important things to worry about. Those things can wait. 

We are waiting for this to be over. For him to pass away.  For him to not be in pain any more. To start mourning. To start healing. 

That may sound harsh.

But when you see someone you love in this state,  you don't want to wait anymore. He's in pain. He can't communicate. He spends his day sleeping. Every once in awhile, when he hears our voices, or we kiss his forehead, or we touch his arm, he'll open up his eyes. We try to guess what he needs, what would make him more comfortable. The nurses give him meds to ease his pain and nausea. 

He falls back asleep. And we wait.