I sit and meditate, observing every breath. It comes in, goes out … then a pause. Will it come in again …? I know it can stop any moment now. Or it can continue … for how long? Maybe days? All I know is that I will be here, observing the breath, as long as it does.
The breath remains constant. The sound of the deep breath and the soft beeping of the morphine-pump are the only sounds in the room. I try to sleep, but am aware of every change, every sound out of the ordinairy. Claire comes in every few hours. It wakes me up. She does not mean to, she just needs to check. She asks if I’m okay, if there is anything she can do for me.
When morning comes she brings me a cup of tea. Then she goes home. Soon the noice in the hallway starts again. People talking, walking around. A kind lady comes in to offer me breakfast.
I read up on the articles that had been left for too long. I meditate. I wait.
I chant the Metta Sutta for my mother. The nurses tell me she can still hear it. I do a guided Metta meditation with her. Somehow I feel peaceful and calm, tranquil and happy. There is a beauty in it that I cannot describe. … And another part feels guilty about that.
And so my days continue, just watching the breath. My mother’s breath … until the end.