Time

{By Duane Scott}

He’s a frequent flyer, him with his crass language and inappropriate jokes.

The doctors from the big city, they inject dye into his hardened arteries, watch the way it flows and they tell us, “There’s no hope. Only 6% of the blood is being ejected from the heart with each beat.”

So he comes to us, time and again, and we give him a drug that will make his heart beat for a few more days.

Time. 

We think about it when we don’t have it. And we forget about it when there’s a belief that the clock won’t stop, that the heart will keep beating, that life will proceed in the face of the inevitable.

This is we, humans, chiming each hour and in our chiming, we lose the ability to be satisfied with life. We forget about the moments begging to be gathered between breakfast and lunch, we ignore the quiet afternoon, the sun setting before dinner. We instinctively put off until tomorrow what really should be done today.

So he comes to us, this man we’ll call Dave, and the drugs aren’t working anymore. Dave’s heart continues growing weaker and weaker and the doctor, he tells him straight, “Time. Only time. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Maybe days. What do you want to do?”

The doctor lays out the options and when the word “hospice” is mentioned, Dave starts hyperventilating and his oxygen plummets to 60%.

Maybe seconds is all he has.

The monitor alarms loud and his eyes grow wide, start twitching back and forth scared and I talk to him, tell him he needs to breathe, slowly in, slowly out, slowly in, slowly out.

“Do… everything…” he stammers, “Oh God, oh God…” and I have to put a mask over his face and give him 10 liters of oxygen, even though he has COPD, a condition where high oxygen can shut down his body’s natural drive to breathe.

He tries to pull the mask off, anxiety taking hold and he rips at the strings and he thrashes at the doctor and a nurse trips over an IV pole holding him down and nothing is calming him so I finally take the hard route and I tap him, hard, on the chest and say it sternly, “Look at me. If you take that mask off, I will have to put a tube down your throat and breathe for you. In the meantime, your heart will probably stop and one of these other nurses will start pushing on your chest. It’ll likely break your ribs and you’ll be transferred to a bigger hospital if you live through the first few minutes.”

I hate every word but he stops and his eyes grow wide and he stares at me with panic-stricken eyes and he nods and I coach him to breathe slow, nice and easy, in and out.

That night, we do this over and over.

And the cries echo “Oh God, oh God…” and he grasps my hand and I have to force his fingers open so I can move oxygen nobs, push drugs into his veins, change masks and one time, he stops and stares at the window.

“I think I’m going,” he whimpers, “Oh God, save me.” 

“Where are you going?” I ask, glancing at the window because something or someone is there but all I see is the tree branches, the birdfeeder, mere silhouettes against the night sky.

The heater below the window hums.

“I don’t want to go!” He screams, turns his face from the window and his oxygen alarms ring loud and my fellow nurses wheel the crash cart close, waiting…

His blood pressure plummets, his heart rate rises fast.

Any time now. Any second.

This may be all we have and he’s shaking now and the words continue to spill, over and over, “Oh God, Oh God.” 

“What about Him? What does He say about what’s going on in this room?” 

Dave glances again at the window and the scream pursed on his purple lips escapes.

“Oh God, save me.” 

Time sits still and I’m ready to cry now because this is too close to death and something doesn’t feel okay about what’s happening in this room, this slow gurgle to the end and this man, his heart is not ready to go and his heart won’t let him stay. 

The devil, all that darkness and twisted limbs flailing in the wind, they lurk at the window and I can’t look there anymore.

So I pray away the hours.

I pray that Dave can know God.

I pray that God can help me through.

And toward the end, I pray, “I’ve tried. It’s time. He needs to die. God, end this. If not for him, then for me.”

I watch the clock tick, waiting for 6:45 so I can go home.

3:30…

4:30…

5:30…

Dawn finally breaks and I nearly weep with relief because I’m convinced of it, God made the night so we can marvel once again how His mercies are new, blazoned warm across the Eastern sky.

I go home and fall asleep to horrific dreams.

The nurse taking over Dave’s care, she tells me later, “He wanted to make a phone call. To his son in a prison somewhere in Kentucky. Then he decided to become a hospice patient and signed a “Do Not Resuscitate” order. Shortly after, he died.”

I have to ask it, although I’m scared of the answer. “Was it a difficult death?”

Her eyes grow sober… “It was… I don’t want to talk about it. He just couldn’t catch his breath. I’m sure it was just the COPD.”

Time. 

Dave’s hourglass ran out and I am not here to judge a man’s life, whether or not he found his way home but I know this:

Today, there is Grace. And Grace reaches down, warm it touches our hearts, and it whispers…

“Today, this very moment, walk with me.

We’ll walk together through your trials, through your fears. The relationships needing mending, the sins still unrepented, the insecurities deep within. The lies you’ve believed, the scars you’ve been given, the distrust you’ve allowed.

We’ll walk, we’ll talk, and together, my child, we’ll find our way Home.”

{link to photo by Judy van der Velden}

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Duane Scott has been known to be jarred awake by a crashing of smattered M&M’s to the floor even as two angelic dogs innocently stand among the crime scene. But for the most part, Duane likes the silence and quiet of Iowa fields where he is married to his favorite Southern Gal. He also tends to the common farmer as an R.N.. A storyteller at heart, he likes to weave words with threads of this and that and believes we discover the answers by living the questions. Coffee is a critical nutrient in his opinion and anyone who drinks it, is already a friend. He quietly shares on his blog Scribing The Journey.

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