William Weitzel aka Doc aka Whitey is in his death bed. He is counting seconds and breathing tremendous breaths. The wind is choky in his throat and his heart is failing. We go in there once every two hours to turn him from side to side. The medtech Miss D, goes in every hour to give him his morphine shot. His mouth is open and he is breathing through his mouth. The nasal canula has been placed in his mouth and he seems to be sucking in great amoutns of oxygen with every gasp.
Melrose is at his side talking to him. She whispers goodbyes to the wind hoping he can hear them. "Go on Dad, it's ok. You are not doing anything wrong. Go on and we will join you as soon as we can. The dogs are probably jumping with joy thinking of you coming. Go on Dad, go. We'll come be with you as soon as we can."
His daughter Lynn sits next to her mother. She tells us that he has always been a strong man. Persistant. A family man. Perhaps that's why the journey has been delayed. His temperature is 140 and rising. His mouth looks dry. He is unresponsive and still, except for the heaving of his ribs. His face is pale and feverish, just like the rest of his body.
But his feet are cold. They have turned snow white. "The nails are turning", says Renee. The nails had turned slight purple about 4 hours ago. Now they are a ghastly grey. The nail beds are dead. Waiting for the rest of him to join them.
PS: Mon 3/22/2010/3:43pm
I called Sunrise.
Doc passed away at 7:38am.
I got done with work at 7am and had walked out the building door at 7:30am.
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