Yes, it is 5:04am in the morning, and I am still up. Because Jorge is so agitated, and won't stay in bed. I finally called the Hospice Nurse at 3:05am, and asked for sedation, either for me, or Jorge, I didn't care which. Of course, Jorge being the Hospice patient, he's the one who got the damn drugs. The Hospice nursed dosed him up with some sweet relief dispensed by eye dropper, since Jorge has suddenly forgotten how to drink out of a cup or with a straw.

The nurse left, and I put "Enya" in the CD player, hoping that would soothe him. He fought the sedation for a long time, grasping, clutchng, reaching for my hand.  Swatting at imaginary flies, petting imaginary kitties, eating and drinking imaginary food. He grabbed the sugar bowl and poured it all over himself. I told him now he was a sweet old man and he gave me a ghoulish grin. He fussed and fussed over everything on his bedside table, setting the items just so.  Finally, at 4:41am, he's sound asleep, and I'm wide awake. The sun is coming up. I've got the baby monitor right in front of me, listening to him breathe.  The first week I was here, he breathed 4 times to my one breath, which the hospice nurse had told me was a sign that death was very near. 

The music is kinda creepy... it could be worse... at least it's not "Stairway to Heaven"..... okay, I'm bad. 

We've got to re-arrange the furniture. I'm going to have to sleep in there, so I can make sure he doesn't get up by himself. And lower the bed some. It's too high for him, when he's so weak, and I can't lift him all the way up. And we need a bed rail to keep him in the bed. And re-arrange the furniture in the living room, so I can see into his room, when I'm not in there. Cause this ain't gonna be easy.

What does this have to do with
Terri Shiavo? I dunno. But I keep feeling like I should call President George Bush.

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