A friend of mine is playing the waiting-game. As we sat at lunch, she told me she's just waiting for the phone to ring at any moment and have someone tell her that her Mother had passed away. Although she may not feel it, but I'm willing to bet she's got more anxiety than she realizes. I remember those days. I have a lot of empathy for her right now.
Waiting for that call. Pacing the floor. Wondering at what moment will it happen. I can't decide which is worse. Getting an unexpected phone call or the one that you've been waiting for. Neither are good.
It's been one whole year, twelve months, since last October. I can still see my Father sitting in the doctor's examination room, looking like a tired and weak old man. His pants baggy, held up by suspenders because he had lost so much weight. His cheeks sunken in and his gums all flappy because he couldn't wear his dentures anymore. He had lost even more hair. This old man didn't look like my Father, but it was.
The doctor told us "You're kidneys are almost shut down. They're working at only about ten percent." I could tell we were living on borrowed time and from that moment on, we would be playing the waiting game. Waiting for the time for him to go. Outside of the examination room, I asked the big question. "How long?" The doctor's gut feeling was "six months." And sure enough -- six months and about two weeks.
The moment that it happens. You break down. I'm not so sure it's over the final moment. Nor is it grief. I think it's from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. This was the moment that you had waited for. The moment you fretted about. The moment that the call came. The moment had now come and gone. No more waiting.
That's when you notice it. Your body loosens up. Tension levels go down. It had built over so much time that it crept up on you. By then, the stress has taken its toll and you're a physical and mental mess without ever knowing it. Until it was too late. Now, you spend the next year repairing all the damage, hoping that it's not too bad.
CSM
Waiting for that call. Pacing the floor. Wondering at what moment will it happen. I can't decide which is worse. Getting an unexpected phone call or the one that you've been waiting for. Neither are good.
It's been one whole year, twelve months, since last October. I can still see my Father sitting in the doctor's examination room, looking like a tired and weak old man. His pants baggy, held up by suspenders because he had lost so much weight. His cheeks sunken in and his gums all flappy because he couldn't wear his dentures anymore. He had lost even more hair. This old man didn't look like my Father, but it was.
The doctor told us "You're kidneys are almost shut down. They're working at only about ten percent." I could tell we were living on borrowed time and from that moment on, we would be playing the waiting game. Waiting for the time for him to go. Outside of the examination room, I asked the big question. "How long?" The doctor's gut feeling was "six months." And sure enough -- six months and about two weeks.
The moment that it happens. You break down. I'm not so sure it's over the final moment. Nor is it grief. I think it's from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. This was the moment that you had waited for. The moment you fretted about. The moment that the call came. The moment had now come and gone. No more waiting.
That's when you notice it. Your body loosens up. Tension levels go down. It had built over so much time that it crept up on you. By then, the stress has taken its toll and you're a physical and mental mess without ever knowing it. Until it was too late. Now, you spend the next year repairing all the damage, hoping that it's not too bad.
CSM
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