Today, I had to write an end-of-life notice for someone who is dear to me. I struggled, deleted, started over and re-wrote. This notice is an email we send when a resident has been declared end-of-life by their doctor. The purpose is to let people know, so they can visit and say good-bye. We 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 grace.
Her attitude toward life is simple. If an activity is offered, it might be fun, so let’s try it. Always positive, and encouraging, Florence was game for anything.
Florence 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. Time alone in her room was never healthy for her, and Florence knew that. 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 was still 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, when I was pondering what to give someone for their birthday who was 101 and couldn’t see, I got an idea. Together, Florence and I made bread. She smelled the yeast and felt the silkiness of the dough when it rose. Here 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. As I write this, I know I need to say good-bye and this hurts like crazy. I know it’s time, and I hold my hands open to release her, through tears.
Thank you, Florence, for the gift of you.
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