Now that’s a terrible heading for this story. (The first part, anyway.) Maybe I should have titled it, “acute stress attack” or “physiology and psychology of the stress response.” Whatever you call it, when the dying person you love goes into their first dangerous “oh-my-God-I can’t breath” attack, you, the caregiver, are put to The First Big Test. (Mmm, maybe that’s a better title).
Bette was turning red then purple as she coughed and tried to get a breath. I ran to the refrigerator and opened the morphine that hospice had provided, figuring out how to put the plunger in, turn the bottle upside down, take the plunger out to the right dose, and oh dear God, hope that I wouldn’t spill the morphine all over the place because we’re probably going to need much more of this drug.
Bette was trying to give instructions but couldn’t talk for lack of air. I squeezed the morphine under her tongue. She gagged at the taste, still fighting for air. I propped some pillows and helped her sit up, hoping that position would make her more comfortable. Then I called hospice and left a message, and got Bette a little cranberry juice to help her overcome the taste of the morphine.
Through it all, I stayed calm, talked slowly and reassured Bette that she’d be just fine once the drug kicked in. I sat on her bed a while as she settled, shaken but able to breath.
Now anyone who knows me knows that I tend to be hyper, overly excited and occasionally manic when I’m stressed. Not today, though I felt scared through my whole being. Scared shitless as hardcore Bostonians would say.
But I also felt a spiritual otherness, being able to love Bette by helping and in doing so finding grace.
