60: (December 2004)
I’d never been with someone at the moment of their death until a few weeks ago. Along with other family members, I had the privilege of being with my sweet 97-year-old mother-in-law as she took her last breath. Being at her bedside for the several days prior to her death was such a very intimate and extraordinary passage to witness.
Hospice was called in two weeks earlier, a superb service with nurses and aides who I can only describe as angelic. A visit by one of the home health aides, Kay, the day before my mother-in-law’s death will remain seared into my heart. When Kay arrived, it was clear from a variety of indicators that my mother-in-law had roughly a day or so left on this earth. Kay could have performed a perfunctory service, knowing that a cremation was likely to take place very soon. Instead, she treated my mother-in-law like she was a queen. No, actually, she treated her far better—as if her body was a holy vessel.
Kay, with assistance from my mother-in-law’s longtime caregiver Colleen, bathed her fragile, pain-filled body with exquisitely gentle care before applying soothing cream to her back. My mother-in-law could barely move, yet the two of them were somehow able to change the sheets under her with minimal disruption. During this process, Colleen cradled my mother-in-law’s upper body in an embrace and told her a joke, producing the last chuckle we would ever hear from her. The word consecrate kept coming to my mind: by practicing profound kindness, these two women performed a sacred act and created a moment of transcendence.
Less than 24 hours later, my mother-in-law entered a full-fledged period of active dying. Death did not come easily to her. It took many hours during which she labored at it; her breathing was pronounced and at times fitful, despite medication. It struck me how there is hard labor both at the beginning and end of life. A mother labors to give birth to a new life, and then that new life will eventually labor at its own dying. My mother-in-law’s incredibly strong life force was being wrested out of her body during those last hours as it was being birthed to whatever its new form would be.
When that final breath came, it was clear that our matriarch was no longer there. Her spirit was onto its next adventure.
40: (December 2004)
Sometimes I lament over the fact that living in a small, rural town necessitates driving fairly long distances to go just about anywhere. I chauffeur my children around on a daily basis, employment opportunities are generally far away, and even buying groceries requires miles on the road. But there is something that I do not need to drive to, that is right here in my little town: community.
Every year, a very loving woman organizes Christmas caroling to elderly neighbors. A group of children and adults form a convoy (in our cars!), and go to various houses on the list, bringing songs and baskets of goodies or poinsettias. My daughters and I have been part of this tradition for several years. This year, we caroled at a home that particularly touched my heart.
When we got there, the woman who answered the door said, “Oh, you must be here for my mother.” She ushered us into the house to a bedroom, where a very old woman was confined to a hospital bed. The 15 or so of us gathered around her: children, teenagers, adults with developmental disabilities from a local residence, and parents. We sang quiet hymns to this dignified, frail woman, while her daughter held her hand and said, “Only in our town!” She told us how many children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even a great-great-grandchild her mother had. I felt honored to be able to sing at the bedside of this matriarch, so palpably enfolded by the love of her extended family. What a special privilege it was to be a tiny part of that leg of her life’s journey. That is one of the gifts community has to offer.
But it is not only in our town. Hopefully, people can experience community wherever they find themselves, although I think living in a small town can facilitate its cultivation. In a sense, the ease with which we can all be isolated from the world in our individual houses tucked in the woods paradoxically makes us reach out to each other more consciously at times, so that we are not alone. We weave in and out of each other’s lives in small ways that add richness and occasional flashes of beauty.
I found out that the elderly woman died two days after we sang to her. So I drive. And sometimes on the long stretches of road, I return to her bedside, with a prayer, and I smile.
60-40:
As December draws to a close, the wheel turns, as always. Hold fast to all your good memories and to all that brings hope. And may the spirit of love brighten all your days yet to come.
60-40 