Just Breathe

There’s been a steady rhythm accompanying my life script these last thirty six years. It’s been the sound of Harold breathing. I imagine that all married couples come to recognize this rhythm, but we talked about it before we were married. Shortly after our engagement, his college roommates warned that Harold snored with such force that the wind draft caused his bedroom door to swing open and shut. Thankfully it wasn’t true.

Later I remember listening to him breathe, oh so peacefully, as he slept through our first argument. How could he not know or somehow sense what was warring in my mind? Finally in desperation, I woke him. “Harold, we’re having an argument and you’re losing. Defend yourself.”

The years have brought many nights of waking and listening as our family has grown and we’ve faced the normal challenges of life. Through it all Harold’s breathing has been the pulse, the rhythm, the comforting constant.

The rapid decline in Harold’s condition magnified our awareness of his breathing. When he was moved to a hospital bed out of our room, I could still hear that steady rhythm through a monitor we’d set up. It was a comfort. Yesterday the sound changed. It was loud and labored as he worked to draw in each breath. I knew his time was short.

Harold has been too weak to talk since Sunday and would rarely open his eyes, yet we knew he could hear everything we said. He would respond with a hand squeeze or a gesture until yesterday when he was too weak even for that. Our daughter Rebecca had a flight home on a ticket she had purchased the week before, little knowing how rapidly her father would decline. I desperately hoped she would make it in time.

“Keep breathing, Harold. Becca will be here in two hours.”

There was no response but I kept talking, kept holding his hand, kept listening.

“Harold, she’ll be here in 30 minutes. Kaylene is picking her up at the airport right now. Keep breathing.”

Several of our children were at work during this time, also making arrangements to get home. I was comforted that they had been able to spend time with their dad, helping to care for him day and night.

“Hi, Daddy, this is Becca. I’m home.”

By then most of the family had arrived and we had word the last were about an hour away. I now realized it was possible we would all be together.

“Harold, hold on a little longer.”

Harold did. We had two hours after the family had gathered. It was a sacred time. We shared stories and were able to express gratitude to Harold for his life’s example and work on our behalf. We expressed gratitude for the tender mercy of the Lord who had made this time possible.

Eventually we started to sing, tentatively at first but then growing in strength and harmony. Sometime during the singing, Harold's breathing relaxed, growing shallower and fainter. I placed my hand on his chest so I could feel his breaths. During the last verse of “Abide With Me,” he left.

It was a fitting benediction. This hymn invites the Savior to stay the night with us, to carry us through dark times. Our Savior’s spirit was there and he has indeed stayed and lifted us.

I woke this morning to the rhythm of breathing. Not mine and not Harold’s but a daughter’s gentle breaths, mindful that her mother might need a reminder . . . to still breathe.