Tuesday, May 26, Dad was still disoriented and confused. Now he was also terribly depressed. When his nurses asked him if he’d like to get out of bed and sit in the chair he responded, “What’s the use? We’re just gonna die.”
“No one even comes to visit me,” he pouted. The nurse explained that no one could visit because of COVID, but Dad wasn’t buying it.
As the poor nurse explained to me, she kept trying to be upbeat and cheerful. She told Dad that he was recovering and doing so much better than other people, but none of it mattered to Dad that day.
He even refused to take Mom's phone call, and the nurse, who had dealt with his doom and gloom all day didn't push him on it. The next time she came into the room, Dad just pulled his blankets over his head and said, “Leave me alone!”
This was completely out of character for Dad who usually faced life head on. "Did he forget who he is as God's child?" Mom wondered. It felt like Dad had completely forgotten about God and could only see misery and death. We knew that Dad wasn't like this at all. He would never willingly do anything to hurt Mom, especially refusing to talk to her. But even though Mom knew this, it still hurt to hear. It broke my heart because Mom waited each day just to talk to him for a few minutes. We knew it was probably just a temporary phase as Dad became more and more aware, but it didn’t take away the sorrow we felt that night.
As I wrote our prayer partners, I included the verses that God had given me the night before—II Cor. 1:10-11, which fit our situation so perfectly. "He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and He will deliver us. On Him we have set our hope that He will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers." I wrote: “Thank you for being partners with us in this. We know that God called each one of you to pray for Dad. We know that God has brought him safely through so much, and we trust that God will continue to deliver him as we pray.”
While my brother and I devised ways the nurses could respond to Dad (we're BOTH people who like to "fix things"), God was still at work. And He certainly didn’t need our ideas or theories. We just had to stand still and wait.
The next day (May 27), Dad was almost bouncing off the walls. Instead of being depressed, he was pulling out his IV and trying to escape from bed. The poor nurse spent most of the day trying to keep him calmed down. Then Dad sat in the chair with his eyes closed, talking to himself and moving his hands around as though he were touching something that only he could see. The nurse was so upset that she refused to call Mom and let her talk to Dad.
And, to be honest, I was frustrated with God for giving us another valley instead of letting us just rejoice that Dad was doing better. Looking back, I wish I had had more faith that God would take care of everything. But God was gracious to me; He knew what I needed and He used a friend’s note to remind me of one of my favorite passages, Psalm 121, "I lift up my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, maker of Heaven and earth." I knew that God was our only help and each day, He was reminding me of how little I can really do. In the end, my help—Dad’s help—came only from the LORD, who knows us and loves us and who will rescue us.
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