Remembering while I can (part 4)

At 7:45 a.m. on April 15 my mom and I had readied ourselves for our visit. I remember us both taking deliberate deep breaths as we prepared to go for a visit. We knew this visit would be difficult. As the doors opened we made our way through the now familiar white hallways leading to the ICU. A center island of nurses stations, computers, doctors making notes, and IV carts were unaffected by our entry. It was business as usual. All around this square room were cubicles of rooms with glass fronts and sliding glass doors facing the center nurses station (dad’s room was on the south, fourth room on our left).

We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.