January 14: Colds and Grippes, Pieces of Air, Not Good

Santiago thinks about turtles and grippes . . . 

The iridescent bubbles were beautiful. But they were the falsest thing in the sea and the old man loved to see the big sea turtles eating them. The turtles saw them, approached them from the front, then shut their eyes so they were completely carapaced and ate them filaments and all. The old man loved to see the turtles eat them and he loved to walk on them on the beach after a storm and hear them pop when he stepped on them with the horny soles of his feet.

He loved green turtles and hawks-bills with their elegance and speed and their great value and he had a friendly contempt for the huge, stupid loggerheads, yellow in their armour-plating, strange in their love-making, and happily eating the Portuguese men-of-war with their eyes shut.

He had no mysticism about turtles although he had gone in turtle boats for many years. He was sorry for them all, even the great trunk backs that were as long as the skiff and weighed a ton. Most people are heartless about turtles because a turtle's heart will beat for hours after he has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought, I have such a heart too and my feet and hands are like theirs. He ate the white eggs to give himself strength. He ate them all through May to be strong in September and October for the truly big fish.

He also drank a cup of shark liver oil each day from the big drum in the shack where many of the fishermen kept their gear. It was there for all fishermen who wanted it. Most fishermen hated the taste. But it was no worse than getting up at the hours that they rose and it was very good against all colds and grippes and it was good for the eyes.

Santiago tries to keep himself healthy and strong by eating turtle eggs and drinking shark liver oil.  It seems as though he has been doing this for quite some time so that he is ready to land the "truly big fish" when the time comes.  Of course, he's old now.  Past his prime, most of the other fishermen would say.  Yet, he's still on the sea, searching for shadows under the waves.

I went to see my sister, Rose, tonight at the hospital.  She's in the ICU, on oxygen and IV antibiotics.  She's connected to a machine that monitors her respirations.  While I was there, she was taking eleven breaths per minute.  That's about one breath every six seconds, and those breaths are hard.  Like she's biting off pieces of air.

The doctor spoke about hospice to my other sister again today.  The plan, at the moment, is to wait and see how Rose does over the weekend.  Intubation was discussed and ruled out.  Her body isn't strong enough to recover from that.  There's a wound on her arm where her skin started peeling away.  Her bladder is barely producing any urine.  When I asked my sister about prognosis, she has used terms like "very serious" and "not good."

I wish that I could feed my sister turtle eggs and shark liver oil to make her well, but I think her days of landing "truly big fish" are done.  She's suffering, and it's difficult to see.  I don't want to see her struggle any more.  I also am having difficulty with the idea of letting her go.  So, I don't really know what I'm hoping and praying for.

I have a feeling, by Sunday, we will have a clearer idea of how this will end.  

Until that time, Saint Marty will keep his phone close by and hope that it doesn't ring.