John here. I don't post often, but after the events of the last two days I feel compelled. First, as Carolyn and I discussed this morning, I am giving thanks to God that Addison's situation and circumstance is not more severe. She could easily be intubated right now, on a respirator taking fluids through a tube, but the good Lord has spared us that hardship. As I can attest after spending Christmas Eve at the Vanderbilt Children's Hospital last night, not all parents are as fortunate. I saw many who spent their Christmas Eve watching their children suffer; helpless to provide comfort or relief.
As I watched Addison during different points of the night last night I was reminded of the last time I spent Christmas Eve in the hospital (yes, I have done this before). It was during my grandfather's (on my father's side) last Christmas. Age and years of hard miles had caught up with him, and were manifesting themselves with a myriad of maladies from broken bones due to falls, to an unwillingness to eat, to a senile dementia that grew progressively and exponentially worse as he neared the end of his life. I had returned from Fort Bragg that Christmas on leave to my parents new home in Madison/Mayodan and we had gone to the hospital to visit my ailing grandfather on Christmas Eve. We took him a home cooked meal, but he merely picked at it. During most of the visit, though lucid, he was unable to recognize any of us except his son (my father) and his wife (my grandmother). As we said our goodbyes and prepared to head back to my parents home for our Christmas Eve celebration I told my family that I was going to stay. Immediately my parents were resistant. They saw precious little enough of me based on my duty with the Army and wanted me home on Christmas Eve. They thought my offer was a sweet but misplaced gesture since my grandfather could not even recognize or remember me most of the time. In fact, during these later months of his life, he called me Leroy when he addressed me (strangely mistaking me for my grandmother's brother). Despite their protestations and my own misgivings, I stayed. I was aware that this would probably be one of the last times that I would see my grandfather alive (and it was). Although there was nothing eminent about his condition that Christmas Eve, we all knew that he was fading fast. As my family left, I settled into a warm chair in the corner and watch my grandfather's restless sleep. He called out to me several times over the course of the next few hours confusing me with old friends or some person from the hospital staff. He refused to eat, tried to rip his Foley catheter out and was generally (and uncharacteristically) disagreeable to anyone who came into the room to check vital signs or take blood. Around midnight he drifted off into fitful sleep and I quietly wished him a Merry Christmas as I found enough comfort in the chair to drift off myself.
Sleep is a funny thing, and at first I thought I was dreaming when I heard the firm but gentle voice of my grandfather. "John" he said, with no labor or effort, "fetch my bible and bring it to me". I sat up in the chair and saw his clear eyes and calm face. I got the bible and came to his bedside. "I haven't my glasses", he said, "will you read for me?". I nodded slowly still in disbelief at his lucidity and cognition. "It's Christmas", he said, "let's read from the second chapter of Luke". And so I began, and read that most cherished of all stories in the bible - The Christmas Story. After I finished, he beckoned me closer and said, "Pray with me, son". And then in the manner I had come to expect from this lifelong Methodist Minister he placed his hand upon my bowed head as I knelt and prayed with me and for me. And then as gently as he had broken the silence, he faded back to sleep. The next morning I was eager to see my grandfather when he awoke, and talk to him about our special Christmas moment, but he awoke in his characteristic confused state and bearly acknowledged me when I wish him a Merry Christmas, kissed his cheek and left his room to join my parents and brothers for Christmas.
I have often thought about that Christmas Eve with my grandfather, and how God gave him back to me just long enough to have one last prayer before returning him to the dementia that tortured him until he died months later. I was reminded of it again last night as I sat by my 5 week old daughter's bedside and prayed for her health. And though I know she could not hear me through her gentle sleep, and would not understand the words even if she could, I read from the 2nd chapter of Luke. I read her the Christmas Story.
For of all the things that we are thankful for in this season of giving, the gift of God's only son is the greatest. And so years from now, when my daughters have grown I hope I can tell Addison about how I shared the Christmas Story with her on her first Christmas, and how I shared it with her great grandfather on his last.
Coby Referral Anniversary
14 years ago
