Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Donna C.

Sept 20, 2006

We welcome Donna C, writer # 357 as our newest writer for Storytime Tapestry.  She has some very interesting ideas here in her first selected piece for our newsletter.  Please email to welcome her and comment on her lovely article.

Surrender in Love and Death

Donna C.

Tenderly she wipes the old man’s wrinkled brow with a damp cloth, “I’m here Daddy.”  Turning toward me, she tosses her long reddish hair over her shoulder, pain in her expression, weary from a long night, and I pat the couch beckoning her to sit beside me.

A single slow tear drifts down her cheek as I move gently to catch it with my finger, “End of life is difficult, honey.  You are doing just fine.  He knows you love him.”  The morning sun peeks in through the sheer curtain and across the old man’s blanketed legs. 

Yesterday, she brought him home from the hospital and this cramped living room transformed into his bedroom.  The hospital bed sits on the room sized floral area rug.  A wheeled tray of medication sits wedged between the bed and the striped love seat.  The respirator sighs rhythmically in the background.

From the kitchen comes the sound of the hospice workers preparing breakfast.  She needs nourishment.  She does not sleep.  She sits vigil day and night beside the old man who offered her life, shelter, love and support.  Being here tires me, causes my heart to ache and my mind wanders from exhaustion.

Whatever brought us to this place eludes my soul.  The course of life with it’s sinewy path of twists of fate, turns of fortune, broken dreams and little joys leaves no answers to my inquiring, “Why?”  Don’t tell me these are the “lessons” of life; no, they are far more than that, but what are they?

She speaks in a whisper as if her voice might rouse him from the sleepy grasp of death, “Did I tell you about the time we went to New York?”  She reminisces, sharing bits and pieces of her youth, unburdening her soul while adding permanence to these memories by speaking them aloud.

Slowly she flips through the memories as if pages in an album, recalling and retelling the small and large events they shared.  Cradling her in the crook of my arm, stroking her shoulder, adding what little energy I have to her waning strength, she speaks quietly. 

He coughs, she jumps up, “Daddy, I’m here Daddy.”  She takes his hand, whispers in his ear, “Daddy, I love you.”  Slowly she wipes his furrowed brow again.  Bending over him, she lightly lays her head on his chest, briefly, afraid to add pressure, yet yearning to hear his beating heart. 

A hospice worker kindly sets up a tray with some blueberry muffins, a small bowl of yogurt and orange juice.  “Sweety, come and eat something.  Sit beside me.” I pat the couch once more.  She slips behind the tray, stares at the food and drops another tear.

I lift the spoon, dip it into the yogurt, and offer, “Here let me feed you like when you were little.”  She opens a bird-like mouth, her hunger grows and it pleases me to nourish her slight body.  She smiles contently, “We haven’t done this in years.  It feels good.”

“Can I tell you about when he took me to Disneyland?  Would that be alright with you?” she asks.  Nodding my head yes, she stares down at the food, afraid to meet my eyes, “We had such a good time that day.  We went on all the daring rides first, screaming and laughing.  He loved the thrill of the roller coaster rides.”

I smile ever so slightly, quelling a lump rising in my throat.  “He bought me one of those huge round spiral lollypops.  He laughed all the way home because I didn’t want to eat it, I wanted to save it forever.”  My smile breaks into a grin, yet I strain to hold back tears.

The old man shudders.  She knocks her knee into the breakfast tray and I reach to steady it.  She moves quickly to his side, “Daddy, Daddy?”  His eyes open briefly as she sighs relief.  It isn’t over yet.  He breathes.  She breathes.  A slow tear drops from my eye and I wipe it away before she turns around again.

“I have so many questions.” She speaks to me yet looks at him.  “I know,” I whisper, “I know you do.”  The sun shines now through the window, illuminating his torso, casting odd shadows as if death is near.  I place my white paper napkin over the only clock.  I don’t want to see the hours pass.  Time in this room hovers as Limbo.

She keeps her questions in her heart.  I wonder: will they break free today, tomorrow or a month from now?  Perhaps in an hour, or even in a minute, will those questions, itching for answers, cry for consolation?  How will I begin to answer?  I cannot worry about that now.  I trust the answers residing deeply in my heart that my head cannot comprehend.

His breathing labors now.  She perches beside him, holding his hand, stroking his face, stoically waiting for life to pass out of his weary body.  I observe her love, her tender caring, and her suffering soul about to lose the man who gave her everything.  Glancing over her shoulder, softly, “I love you too, you know.  You gave him to me.  I am grateful for that.”

Silence drapes the room.  The respirator sighs with deep inhales and exhales.  She climbs onto the bed aligning her body with his.  The respirations slow as his breaths stretch longer and longer between in and out.  “Please come and touch him.  Let him feel you near him too,” she pleads. 

I take his frail, limp, wrinkled hand in mine.  Connecting to them and feeling the energy spiraling toward the ceiling, flowing out the windows, offering the little I can give their loss, I finally feel validation.  For all that occurred years before now, I finally find contentment in those awkwardly executed choices.

She whispers softly to his departing soul, “I love you Daddy.  Thank you.”  This child of mine, given to him in love and trust through adoption, enjoyed a fulfilling and loving life.  As he leaves life, the sun shines upon his lifeless face.  I am grateful to him beyond words.  I love him tenderly.

Donna C