Nine and a half years ago, I wrote my first blog. I pondered what I should discuss as I dove into the unknown waters of blogging. What topic would draw readers and create the audience I looked for?
Death. I wrote about death.
Before you question my sanity, let me clarify that in the blog I wrote about an amazing woman who had made an imprint on my life. Although blind, confined to a wheelchair and 100 years old, she inspired me every day. She had someone read the news to her so she could keep up with politics, glowed with interest and asked about my family when I walked in her room and knitted squares for afghans by feel. When others grumbled she found a way to turn the mood of the room and she supported me in every crazy idea I suggested. She left us quietly and with dignity, as she’d lived her life, and I wrote that first blog to say good-bye.
When you work in eldercare, death visits regularly. The people we serve are in the last days of their journey. As a care partner, you know it’s inevitable. But for many years, I didn’t “do death” well.
As a newbie and for many years after that, death scared me. Hollywood glamorizes the experience, but believe me, watching someone die can be frightening. In the early years of my career I wasn’t in the position of supporting families and I made myself scarce when a resident neared death. Some people have the gift of sitting with the dying and holding their hands, but that wasn’t me. Humiliated by my inadequacy, I kept my shameful admission to myself.
Two deaths started to change me. Surprisingly, they occurred fairly close to each other, and I had a close relationship with each of them.
I stood in the room when they slowly shut down the machines, one by one, that kept my husband alive. Although our family crowded into his small cubicle of the ICU, a silence echoed as the last machine stopped. The medical staff stepped back and allowed us a few minutes. I touched his hand for the last time and said good-bye. It wasn’t scary. I’d done life with this man for the last 30 years, and now that part of the journey had ended. I felt peace as I realized his tortured body rested and he walked with Jesus.
Several months later, a resident who I loved like a mother, a mentor and a friend lay dying. I stood outside her door and took several deep breaths before entering. She recognized me and managed a smile and I knew in my heart this would be our last visit. I sat and stroked her beautiful silver hair. We talked of the day we first met in the store, and how we’d shared a hot cross bun recipe. I told her I loved when she laughed and then snorted and then laughed at snorting. I told her I loved her. The time passed, and I knew I needed to leave. “I need to go now, but I’ll see you again.” Then, because we always kept our relationship brutally honest, I whispered, “But if you need to leave first, I’ll see you in heaven.” She turned her lovely blue eyes to me and whispered, “yes.”
Since then, I’ve learned a few things.
Most of the time, the dying person is well looked after. Our care partners lovingly keep them comfortable, and the doctors and nurses ensure their last days are as pain free as possible. They aren’t my focus. The family are usually the ones who need care at this point. A basket of items they might need, a cup of tea, a meal, a blanket, a hug. My 
mission is to support them as they walk this journey with their loved one.
It’s not always horrible and gut-wrenching to sit by a family member or friend and support them as they die. One beautiful family had both laughter and tears as they spent an afternoon with their dying loved one. He wasn’t aware they were there, but they told stories of his life with laughter and joy. What a beautiful testimony to a life well-lived.
I also discovered how difficult the family who can’t get there finds it. I’ve had to support families who lived in other parts of the country and, because of other family obligations, weren’t able to come. I send daily emails and our chaplains phoned them after they visited. Their love strains across the miles, longing to hold her hand one last time, and my job was to find ways to reach out to them each day until she passes.
Death is a reality in caregiving, and is fraught with difficult decisions. Over the next months we will look at these and see if we can help each other to “do death” better.
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Thank you for your transparency. I’ve not been in the presence of anyone at their time of passing except for my dog, “Missy.” It helps when you know they are in the presence of Jesus.
In time, I came to view it as a privilege, especially in supporting the families.
This is a beautiful testimony! Thank you for sharing.
Thanks, Jodi. I’m going to be writing about various aspects of “end-of-life” in the next weeks, so stay tuned!