There were already tears in his eyes, spilling down onto his cheek as I entered the room. "Thank you so much for coming," he said. He introduced himself, his wife, and his sister. Then he introduced the lady in the bed, his mom. Collectively, they had decided to institute a morphine drip -- the doctors had said that there was nothing more that could be done for Betty; her breathing was compromised due to fluid in her lungs.
Instantly, I sort-of fell in love with this family. This was to be a brief connection, but a deep one. A man who is brave enough to let the tears come unashamedly is a man I want to be around.
He told me that they had talked together, with the nurse, with the doctor, with Betty even, and the morphine drip was what they needed to do. I knew they were right. What was so interesting to me was Betty's active participation in the conversation, despite the struggle with each breath. It was hard to watch her, to hear the sounds of her failing lungs.
We gathered around the bed, joined hands, and spoke with God. We expressed thanks for the love of family, for the compassionate care of the medical team; we spoke of the assurance of a life with God after this one and we asked for the courage to entrust Betty to God's tender mercy. We ended with The Lord's Prayer.
Incredibly, as soon as the prayer began, Betty's breathing calmed. It wasn't as noisy. She was hearing the prayer. And when we began The Lord's Prayer, her lips moved and each word was whispered.
Throughout my shift, I was drawn to return twice more to this special family. To put my arm around the sorrowing daughter, to hold the hand of the man who let his tears flow, to pray -- one more time for Betty -- "Thy will be done."
