How To Hold A Dying Hand
Memories that stay for a lifetime, unfortunately
There it was again. This rattle. Steadily, like a second hand wandering across the dial. Quiet, as if it didn’t want to be heard, but loud enough to wake me from my sleep. I opened my eyes.
I was lying on the sofa in our living room. Wondering how I got here. As my eyes slowly wandered over my shoulder, I recognized the hospital bed standing in the middle of the room. Hundreds of memories shot into my head. Like bullets from a pistol, they perforated my sleepiness that shielded me from reality.
With the memories came the stabbing pain. I was hurting everywhere, as you would expect from gunshot wounds.
The rattle came from the hospital bed. How could I have fallen asleep? I suddenly jumped off the couch and ran to the person lying on the sheets. My dad. His eyes were staring into the darkness, while his lungs desperately searched for air through his open mouth.
“Are you thirsty?” I heard myself ask. But there was no answer. No shake of his head, no wink, not even a grunt. Was it already time?
I felt the heat spreading from my stomach area through my entire body. Breathing became much more difficult with a pounding heart, I figured. I felt the first beads of sweat running down my back. The sweat of fear.
“How long has he been lying like this?” my mother asked behind me.
“I don’t know,“ I answered with a shaky voice. “Mom, he doesn’t respond anymore!”
She went to the other side of the hospital bed and stroked the bald head of her husband. Like she always brushed away his blond hair from his forehead before chemotherapy took it away. As well as the strength in his legs. Neither of us said a word for a while. All you could hear was my father’s rattling breath.
“Call her!” said my mom without taking her eyes from the shell that used to be the love of her life. And still was at that moment.
I searched for my cell phone and dialed a number.
“Hello?” another female voice answered on the other end of the line.
“Hey! You should come over immediately. It won’t take much longer!”
I didn’t have to say more. I felt the first tear making its way over my cheek down to my chin until it fell on the white blanket of the hospital bed.
Time was invisible that night, but I knew it was running through our fingers. I made myself look at my father. His eyes weren’t staring directly at me, rather purposeless at the ceiling. He hadn’t blinked a single time since I woke. His skin was white and thin, like a sheet of paper. His face, which used to be a little too chubby has sunken in. His bones looked as if they were about to cut their way through the pale leftovers of his skin.
I reached for a lip balm on his bedside table to moister his lips, which were brittle from the lack of water and covered with white flanks due to too little oxygen. I caressed his emaciated arm, as thin as a five-year-old’s thigh. I reached for his hand. Carefully so as not to crush it.
Even though I knew that this moment would come for months, I was scared.
Thoughts emerged in my head. Memories from my childhood when we were a happy family: my dad teaching me to ski or hiding all the Easter eggs in our small flat. That he — plucking his guitar — was the first thing I heard on a regular Sunday morning. The smell of his homemade lasagna, which was the best in the world. I swear!
Moments of horror from the past few months pushed themselves between these wonderful memories. The night he threw himself around in bed, crying in pain because none of the painkillers seemed to help. How helpless and hopeless I felt because there was nothing I could do. I stopped counting the times he vomited because his stomach was completely ruined by his medicine. That he couldn’t sit upright anymore and how I had to sit behind his back so he wouldn’t fall over.
I also imagined my future, my dreams. He wouldn’t have the chance to be part of it. My dad wouldn’t walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He would never get to know my children, his grandchildren, even though he was supposed to be the best and most funny grandfather in the world. I know he would!
A sudden silence brought me back to the here and now. I held back my own breath and stared at my father’s mouth. I quietly counted the seconds until the relieving rattle started again. Agonal respiration, the doctors called it. The last fight of his lungs to get some air in and keep him from suffocating. As cruel as his struggle was, I didn’t want him to go just now.
My mom began to cry. I heard a key turn in the front door. My sister appeared beside us.
“Is he in pain?” she asked softly, while she gently stroked his covered feet.
“I hope not!” somebody answered.
We were holding onto his cold hands and feet as if we ourselves were in open water with only one lifebuoy to save us. The rattling became quieter, coming to a standstill more and more often.
“He’s fighting for you,” his urologist said at the last meeting. “Any other patient I know would have given up already. I’ve given him five years and he has made it to six. He fights for every second that he has left with you in this world! He doesn’t want to die, but there is nothing left that I can do.“
Even now, being only skin and bones, I recognized his body was fighting for his life. I’ve never really noticed what kind of warrior my father was until recently. I feared how many other things I’ve failed to notice, to cherish, to love. I couldn’t hold the tears anymore, neither the headache which announces itself.
“I think we have to tell him it’s okay to let go!” my sister put our thoughts into words. I still held his hand and caressed it gently. I pressed out a sigh to let out the pent-up pain that almost made my skull explode. He shouldn’t have to fight anymore, right? I managed a tiny nod.
“Dad, we love you so much! We are so grateful for everything you’ve given!” her voice was trembling. “No matter what you decide, whether you want to keep fighting or not, we’re here. But you should know that you don’t have to fight anymore. You have endured enough, daddy. It’s okay! It’s okay to let go. No matter how you decide, we’re here!”
Very, very slowly my father turned his head to her voice. As if he actually listened. Still staring, mouth open, searching for air.
“It’s okay, my darling!” added my mom, crying. She never stopped stroking his head.
Then suddenly, I felt a movement in my hand. He squeezed my fingers as if to cheer me up one last time. It wasn’t firm, just very light, hardly noticeable, but it was real. I could hear his familiar voice in my head saying: “It will be alright, my girl!” Like he always did.
Then his grip loosened. His head tipped to one side. The rattling stopped. A second went by. A minute. But it never started again.
Noooo!
I felt my heart explode into thousand pieces. I felt so many emotions, I never thought a human being could feel. There was nothing left but hurt and helplessness. But there was also love.
I felt the warmth creeping out of his hand, but I couldn’t let go. If I did, they would take him away from me. I wasn’t ready yet. I never would be.
Eventually, I stood up, my eyes full of burning water drops. I kissed my father on the forehead. Then I softly whispered in his ear: “It will be alright, dad, my hero.”
