Last night was lively. Although Nate had his usual medications for pain, nausea and anxiety throughout the day, by evening he was agitated and restless rather than his usual mellow. For a man with stage 4 cancer, he had way too much energy. As bedtime drew closer, I wondered if he would go to sleep. It reminded me of the feeling I got with a newborn, wondering when I put him/her to bed if we’d have an active night or a restful one. New babies are unpredictable. A man with pancreatic cancer is the same.
The rest of the household drifted off to their various beds and their expected sleep. Once Nate was settled, I sat beside him in the dim light of his room and wrote the blog, wondering why he didn’t “clunk” right off to sleep as he so often does. I went to bed at about 1:00 AM, hoping to sleep right through.
By 1:45, I was awakened by Nate checking to see if I was sleeping. I remember the same experience with one of my pre-schoolers tapping me on the shoulder during the night and saying, “Mom, I’m not going to wake you up, but I just have one question…” That, of course, was after he’d woken me up.
I took Nate’s hand and led him back to his hospital bed. He wasn’t tired and wanted my attention. “I’d like a drink of water.” After that, he said, “I’d like a drink of milk.” He seemed to be in toddler mode trying to postpone bed time.
I opened the shade in his room and showed him the night sky. “See?” I said. “It’s night time. Everyone is in bed. You have to sleep, too.” He nodded and obediently got back into bed.
Around 3:00 AM I heard kitchen cabinet doors and water running. Shuffling toward the commotion, I found Nate in the middle of making coffee. “I’m feeling like a cup of coffee,” he said, as if it was the middle of the afternoon. “Want one?”
Taking the decanter out of his hand and pouring the water out, I shut off the lights and said, “Look at the clock. It’s still night time, and we’re both tired.”
Once again he nodded and without resistance took my hand to head back to the bedroom. I wondered how many more episodes we’d have before dawn. This kind of a night goes on forever.
In an hour I heard him again, rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. “I can’t find my comb,” he said, as if he was getting ready for work. “I have so many but can’t find even one.”
Around 5:30, I heard him vomiting in the bathroom and found him struggling to stay standing while hanging onto the towel shelf above the toilet. It was long-distance vomiting, but of course he couldn’t get down on his knees. Soon it was morning, and I got up, walking to Nate’s room to check on him, fully expecting to find his bed empty, but there he was, sleeping soundly with his mouth open and his hands clasped across his chest. Just like a baby who’d been up all night, he needed rest.
Finally, at 2:00 PM, I wondered if he was in a coma or some other distress that was keeping him unconscious. It was difficult to wake him, but he finally roused and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked out the open window shade and said, “Oh. Morning. I can get up.”
“You’re partly right,” I corrected. “You can get up, but its not morning. It’s afternoon.”
Today he slept most of the day in his chair, waving away our attempts to bring him food. The mug of coffee he requested had been reheated four times but was still unsipped at the end of the day, and when he finally crawled into bed, he was completely worn out from doing nothing.
As I tucked him in, I quoted some Scripture, but he was too tired to participate. I sang two hymns, but his eyes were closed, and at the end, barely moving his lips, he whispered, “I’m so tired.”
“Though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:32, 22-23)
