Clasping Hands
The scans have come back with little hope for survival. The time has come for the hard decision of life or death.
The respiratory therapist turns off the heart monitor's sound. He says he will just watch it. No need for the noise.
The life support machine is turned off. No more breathing help.
We stand around is a circle. Holding hands. Waiting. Hoping. But ultimately knowing that there's no turning back after this moment.
His chest does not rise. His coloring does not improve. If anything, his face is becoming more pale.
I squeeze the hand holding mine.
This can't be happening. I'm only twenty two. I've only been married a year. He barely knows the love of my life. He hasn't even met the children I will bear. He leaves so much behind.
I glance over at my mom, the tears making her blurry. Her cheeks are flushed, the pain evident on her face.
His hand starts to pull away from mine. His arms flexing, bringing his hands together in front of him. Clasping.
Hope blossoms in my chest. If he's moving, that's a sign he's still alive. His spirit is still inside his body. Maybe he can make it through this.
Minutes pass. The waiting is agony.
The therapist turns off the machine and places a stethoscope to his chest. He moves it around. Listening.
The look he gives us is one he's probably given countless times. One of compassion and sympathy.
There are no words needed. Just like that. The rock that our family has been built on is gone, ripped from this life.
My father's dead.
Families are forever....in this life and in the next life. Dad is with us here. He knows you and your family. We miss him every day.
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