Just Breathe

Early Sunday morning, I woke on a blue foam mat that was stretched across the floor in my Grandpa's retirement home room. Dad loomed tall above me and asked, "What can I do to help?"

Without hesitation I answered, "Coffee. I need coffee. A big Dunkin Donuts cup of coffee."

"You got it," he promised before searching google maps for the closest brew.

I napped while he was gone, just like I had all night. Having caved to sleep around 11pm, I stirred every hour or so, checked on Grandpa's stats, and then faded back into oblivion certain he wouldn't last the night.

But he did. Much to everyone's surprise.

In fact he breathed another 19 hours before finally letting go. While his stats indicated he was hanging on by a thread, that piece of thread must have been made of steel.

But that was my grandpa. Strong. Stubborn. Determined.

Grandpa and my mom

In the days before Gramps became unresponsive I started a blog post about stillness. While my cough had abated, sinus pressure still slowed my days and as it dragged on, the continued illness made it easy to give into fatigue, aka: stillness.

Being still makes me somewhat crazy. Or perhaps I should say being still challenged my sense of self until week five and six of bronchitis unfolded. Somewhere in the midst of vaporizer steam, mucinex, antibiotics, sudafed, steroids, albuterol, grapefruit seed extract, bronchial syrup, cold and flu soup, etc., I leaned into the stillness and accepted that simply breathing was enough for now.

I didn't have to do anything to feel purpose. I just had to be His.

Like a rose.

Or a wild flower.

 Or a brook.

"Be still and know that I am God..." (Psalm 46: 10 NIV).

or

Just breathe and know that I am God.

or

Just lay in bed and know that I am God.

"... I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth" (Psalm 46: 10 NIV).

I was still valuing stillness when mom called and said Grandpa was unresponsive. We spent a lot of time at his beside over the weekend, singing, praying, and sharing. But one memory trumped them all.

It was late Saturday night. Dad had stopped by with Lily (the King Charles Cavalier) and we'd sat around talking and laughing and waiting.

At some point, one of Grandpa's caregivers stopped by. She peered around the corner at his tired frame and immediately teared up.

"Oh Mr. Hughes," she began, "we won't fight at bedtime no more. But I'll miss you."

Her tears fell in earnest as she prayerfully blessed him and his family and said goodbye. By the time she finished, we all wiped tears, including the hospice nurse.

What got to me was that the woman who stirred our emotion only knew my grandfather less than a year. During that time, he was fully dazed by Alzheimer's.

He rarely talked, played with his food, slept for hours, and occasionally caused problems. Stubborn to the end, nurses developed a dance routine to get him ready for bed.

Lost in a mental fog none of us want to experience, he still meant something to that nurse. Something enough to make her say more than once that she will miss Mr. Hughes, my grandpa.

He was far from a perfect man. Alcoholism marred his life after his platoon followed Patton's into the Battle of the Bulge. Haunted by foxhole memories of WWII, he struggled, but fought on.

And in the end, he blessed a woman who's paid little to care for those on the dementia ward.

Be still.

Live quiet.

Just breathe.

And be healed.

Like Grandpa.

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