The Undiscovered Country

A life begun, and a life near it's end.

7:30 am, I received a phone call from Judy, Dave's uncle's girlfriend.

Five years ago Uncle Bill received a double-lung transplant. Not soon after he met Judy, and they've been together ever since.

Because her first husband died from a similar lung disease, she knows how to take care of Bill, and has been doing a fantastic job.

A few months ago, Bill had to return to Saint Louis, Missouri, because his lungs were giving out. They told him they could do no more. They sent him home to die.

We've been trying to see Bill for the last three weeks, but because of his compromised immune system (due to immune-suppression drugs) and Dave and Thomas suffering from colds, we couldn't make it.

Judy called this morning because Bill took a turn for the worst. "At this point," Judy said, "that you have a cold won't make any difference." In other words, Bill won't live long enough to catch a cold.

Seeing a once active man in both mind and body reduced to a shivering, unable to walk but a few steps, and not enough brain power to keep up with the simplest conversation was, in a word, rough.

Watching Judy take care of him with a simultaneous firm and gentle hand left me in awe, and my respect for her only increased. That she could do this once with her husband had to be tough enough, but to choose to do it again and not lose her patience and sanity says a lot about her heart and love for Bill.

I don't know if I could do it. I pray I never find out.

What I found almost funny (in a sad, ironic way) is when we ate lunch. Judy fed Bill as I fed Thomas, and our technique was exactly the same.

We had to break off bites easy to chew and swallow, offer up a drink now and then (Thomas with a sippy cup, and Bill with a travel bottle and straw), and wipe their face.

Here we sat, one life just beginning and another near it's end, and -- emotions aside -- each was treated the same way.

I won't offer prayers of healing for Bill -- at least not physical healing. I know it's not going to happen. Mostly I want his frustration to end, for that was evident when he was able to speak and interact. He knows how weak he is, and can't do anything about it.

Judy said right before we left, "When the end comes, he will simply fall asleep and stop breathing."

When that moment arrives, I pray Bill sleeps well.