Vigil

I hold my mother as she cries quietly against my shoulder. She has been here a few days now, and will be here til it is all said and done. My mother has a tremendous heart, and capacity to give -- but leaving an ailing husband behind to care for an ailing daughter means that she is worrying constantly.

My sister is so weak now, cannot lift her head even to drink. She does not open her eyes at my greeting, and it is difficult to tell if she even realizes I am here. Mom is feeding her a push pop -- a soft popsicle -- and she obediently opens her mouth when Mom tells her to, and swallows. It is terribly heartrending and touching all at once.

The room is like a hotel room. Large, spacious. There are paintings on the walls, a wooden wardrobe to store clothing, a private bath. The austerity of a hospital is well masked here. A vinyl couch is set near the bed for those family members who wish to stay. Tonight I will sleep here and keep vigil.

The nurse comes in, and asks me if I would like to help her give Kathy a bath. I agree, and so we begin the arduous task of moving her in the bed to change her many dressings, bags and pads. She moans a few times in pain but does not argue. Her eyes flicker open briefly now and again, but I do not know of she really knows it is me or not. I lift a warm cloth to her face and wipe gently across her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin.

"How does that feel?" I ask her rhetorically. "It smells like home," she responds, her words are clear and the control I had begins to slip.

Is it permissable to cry?

I swallow past the tears, the terrible ache in the back of my throat. There will be plenty of time for tears later...