I am watching something beautiful
This post is about Elena. Shes not doing very well. I invite you to read this, but I don't want you to have to.
I am sitting on a couch. In the center of the room, my wife and her parents are gathered around Elena's bed. Home and Garden television has been droning on for hours at one end of the room; we are all interior design experts now and we barely notice anymore. The sun outside is bright, but the breeze is surprisingly cold. Elena has been burning up for days, but today it is cool enough that we don't need to run the AC in her window.
Last night, Elena's meds were discontinued. She's on morphine, now. She has a button that gives her more if she needs it, but she hasn't been lucid enough to use it. Today was a quiet day. I spent my working hours in the next room. Two of Elena's friends came by and spent some hours around her bed.
The drone of the television is lost under singing. Elena stirs long enough to watch my daughter singing to her. For a moment, the whole family is smiling, and just as quickly, Elena drifts back into her half-sleep. The smiles slowly fade, but Linnea is still signing. And I am still watching them as their gazes return to Elena. I am watching all of the love and prayers. Tears are streaming down my face and I quietly slip from the room.
Elena had no tolerance for visitors who wanted to sit in her room and sob and wring their hands over what is happening to her. She'd made her peace with the cancer and what it was going to do to her and didn't need to dwell on it. I am standing in the hallway now. We'll get brief glimpses of her in the next few days. We hope Maria will be back in the U.S. in time to see her. We hope that we can show her the baby that is yet to be born. Were all living hour to hour right now.