On the subject of talking to you

So, Asia, Colleen, Dixie and I all got a little concerned Tuesday, when you seemed to be responding to our voices by getting agitated enough to open your eyes and shuffle your legs around, knocking off the little heart monitor they have on your right toe.

We became a little dubious of the whole situation, as it had seemed we'd been told that you were being kept purposely and heavily sedated so you wouldn't have to endure awarenes on the ventilator. But at the same time, the nurse that day was remarking that you'd been more responsive and had opened your eyes more, etc., etc. Our fear was that, if you were coming out of sleep to respond in that manner, you might be aware of that damn ventilator, which seemed contradictory to what they'd said they were trying to do.

Asia and I relayed this to Chaise, who really has, by the way, been a wonderful soul to have around. He offered some great perspective which was, essentially, "Hey. Your dad is theirs. They're not going to let you guys do anything to hurt him." It made sense and calmed us a bit, but we decided to pursue a conversation the next day. So, yesterday, Asia and I talked to your nurse (the guy. I promise we'll start logging names), who said that they do, during the course of the day, allow your sedative levels to come down so that they can run tests. Basically, they lift the veil to make sure you're still under there. THAT, along with Chaise's perspective from the night before was very settling for us.

Still, Asia and I decided as we went in for that visit, that we would simply hold your hand, stroke your hair, and breathe with you for a while. Just have some quiet time with you. I'm starting to be able to tune out the shaking that the ventilator does, and I think, so are you. You seemed more peaceful yesterday, even with outside stimulus. Like you were actually starting to be able to "rest" rather than just lie there, a vessel on choppy waters.

Then, the rhythm of the room gave way to a hum. And finally, gave way to song. Asia and I sang to you a song my mom sang to me, and I sang to Asia and Forrest, and yesterday, it took on a whole new meaning for us:

Well the sun is slowly sinking down
The moon is surely rising
And this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you

Well it won't be long before another day
And we're gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
And you can stay as long as you like

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes
It's alright
I don't know no love songs
I can't sing the blues
Anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone

It seemed that we were leaving you with something real during the times that we can't be there. A melody stamped with our voices that could float through your mind in one long wisp. Voices, they say, and Colleen confirmed with the staff last night once and for all, are definitely recommended medication for your recovery. The sound of your loved ones, regardless if you comprehend meaning, is healing. But you, Daddy, are a talker. A storyteller, a discussionist, a debater, a reporter, a participant. So if we speak, it feels like you want to return the favor somehow by piping up. But you've always enjoyed sitting back and listening to song. You've always given so freely and easily the gift of listening.

And so, I think, we've found a ritual that we will continue with you. Something they cannot give you in an IV drip, or squeeze into your eyes. Something we can leave with you every night.