It’s hard to say “goodbye.”
My four-year-old granddaughter stood with her eyes brimming. We’d had a magical weekend together at a cottage, and because they lived so far away, this kind of time almost never happened. We were going to see them again in a month when they came to our house to visit, so that took away some of the sting, but she felt sad. I felt sad. There was never enough time.
Someday, you will realize the time is drawing near to say good-bye to your elder. There may be a sense of relief as you see their quality of life waning and you face your own exhaustion. Yet there is a finality about death. A chapter ends forever, and it hurts.
This month, we will look at end-of-life. What does it look like, and how do you cope with it?
When a resident was approaching this stage, one of my duties as an advocate was to write an “end-of-life” notice. This was sent to all departments so that their friends could come to visit and say “good-bye.” On this particular day, I wrote one for a resident who touched my life even more than most. I struggled, deleted, started over and re-wrote. Normally, I tell a little about their life, perhaps include a touching anecdote and a few special pictures. Composing these emails usually isn’t difficult for this writer, but today, I couldn’t find the words.
What I wanted to say was, “When I grow up, I want to be like you.”
I’ve talked about learning from elders. Sometimes I learn who I don’t want to be. People who are demanding, manipulative, complaining and draining are obviously not my role models. I don’t want to be the lady who uses her call bell 200 times in two weeks, the one who asks me the same question multiple times (she doesn’t have dementia) or the one who says one thing to her family and another to me. Some people have little patience, no sense of humour and can be downright nasty.
I’ve learned from them.
Florence (not her real name) taught me a different lesson. She showed me the quiet grace of dealing with losses, such as the loss of her eyesight, with creativity and a sense of humour. When she couldn’t read the songbook, she sang what she could from memory. When she couldn’t see the puzzle book, she showed amazing skill at solving puzzles by knowing only the clue and the number of spaces. When she could no longer walk, she rode with joy, greeting all she passed.
Her attitude toward life was simple. If an activity was offered, it might be fun, so let’s try it. Always positive and encouraging, Florence was game for anything.
She knew that even at her advanced age, she could give. She became best friends with someone with an anxiety disorder. June’s first response to an invitation was to say, “No.” She was too tired, too sick, too whatever, to attend. Florence knew how destructive time alone in her room was for June. She would “call” on her by standing quietly at her door. In her gentle voice, she would say, “Are you coming?”
“No.”
Minutes would pass, and Florence stood patiently standing. Waiting.
Finally, June would emerge, and the two of them would head to an activity.
“I am her eyes, but she is my courage,” said June.
All her life, Florence made delicious bread. When she moved to Christie Gardens, she continued, and her whole floor would smell amazing as it baked. Blindness stole that from her, too. Last spring, as I pondered what to give someone for their 101st birthday. I got an idea. Together, Florence and I made bread. She smelled the yeast and felt the silkiness of the dough when it rose. Her son came for lunch, and when we were ready to sing “Happy birthday,” the bread came out of the oven, looking golden and smelling delicious. Florence beamed for the pictures, and then the loaf was cut and buttered for her friends to enjoy.
I want to be Florence when I grow up. Quiet but encouraging, positive and fun, gentle and giving. She taught me, even in her last days.
Thank you, Florence, for the gift of you.
Next week: What does “end-of-life” look like?
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