of death.
I recognized it instantly. As a pastor, you sometimes find yourself on a
deathwatch. In a hospital. A nursing home. A hospice. There are telltale
signs: the skin loses its pinkness and fades to a jaundiced yellow.
Breathing is labored. The eyes are open but the person is not present. And
most telling of all, a sinking and darkening around the eyes. I had seen this
look many times, but in a context where you might expect it, in a patient
suffering from terminal cancer or in the final phases of old age. You know
that person’s life on earth has come down to days, then hours, then
minutes. I would be there to comfort the family, to pray with them prayers
like, God, please take her soon. Please take away her pain.
This time, though, I was seeing the shadow of death again— and I was
seeing it on my son. My not-quite-four-year-old son. The sight hit me like a
bullet.
A voice screamed inside my head, We’re not doing anything!
I’m a pacer. I wore ruts in the floor of Colton’s room, crossing the tiny
space again and again like a caged lion. My stomach churned. Inside my
chest, an invisible vise squeezed my heart. He’s getting worse, God! What
do we do?
While I paced, Sonja channeled her anxiety into the role of busy
caretaker. She fluffed Colton’s pillow, arranged his blankets, made sure he
was still drinking. It was a role she was filling to keep from exploding. Each
time I looked at her, I could see the agitation growing in her eyes. Our son
was slipping away and, like me, she wanted to know: What. Was. Wrong?
The doctors would bring back test results, test results, test results. But no
answers, only useless observations. “He doesn’t seem to be responding to
the medication. I don’t know... I wish the surgeon was here.”
Sonja and I wrestled with trust. We weren’t doctors. We had no medical
experience. I’m a pastor; she’s a teacher. We wanted to trust. We wanted
to believe the medical professionals were doing everything that could be
done. We kept thinking, Next time the doctor walks in, he’ll have new test
results; he’ll change the medication; he’ll do something to get that look of
death off our son.
But he didn’t. And there came a point when we had to draw the line.