Last night just before I went to bed, L said, “I think Papa’s talking to himself again.” There was a certain temptation to just let it go, to hope that it was nothing serious and that he would simply go back to sleep. But I heard his panicked voice and realized that was not to happen.

I went into his room and discovered how far things had fallen apart. He’s pulled out both ends of his cpap tube and then tied the tube into knots around and through the metal pull handle that hangs above his bed. He’d kicked out the pad that keeps the sheet dry from brief leaks. His sheet and blanket were in a wad on the side of the bed,  both wet. His fitted sheet was wet, and his shirt was damp. In short, there was no way he would be able to go back to sleep without a major rescue operation.

Even if he were dry, his mental state was not conducive to sleep. His head was bobbing like mad, and his breathing was heavy and fast, not quite hyperventilating but close.

“Get my phone and call the hospice nurse,” K said. We knew we had to get him calmed down, and done so quickly, but I wasn’t expecting the nurse’s instructions: 5 ml of morphine.

“So we’re already to the morphine,” I thought. And that makes me think that we don’t have much more time with him. Once someone is bedridden and using morphine, the end is not far off.

We got him changed and his bed remade, then gave him the morphine. We were supposed to put it under his tongue, but I had difficulty get Papa to open his mouth let alone raise his tongue. We gave him the med and he calmed quickly. We made it through the night without further incidents, but he’s been sleeping most of the morning today.