Vigil

I got the call to her bedside from the Hospice volunteer around mid-morning. She was unconscious when I arrived, her breathing rapid, more like panting, really, and, though she looked agitated, she seemed to be unaware that anyone was in the room.  Over the years, I‘ve come to know better so I took her hand and bent down to kiss her forehead lightly.  I softly told her that her family and friends were here and that I was here, too, and that everything would be alright.  She’d made the transition, the Hospice worker said, sometime in the night.  A person who has reached this point can be gone in a few minutes or in several hours.  It is impossible to predict.  So we settled in to wait.  Holding vigil at someone’s bedside is far from just sitting there.  A lot goes on in the presence of someone who is dying and we had only just begun.

She was seventy-ish.  A real eccentric.  She had trained as a clown (went to clown school and everything) years ago and still had that impish quality about her.  She had a head of hair so red you’d think she’d done something to color it that way.  But it was all natural and she had a redhead’s volatility.  She had turned her anger on me more than once in the ten years I’d known her.  But she was also one of the kindest and gentlest people I knew. She’d show up on my doorstep sometimes, unannounced, with a box of groceries.  She’d decided that I, as a (then) bachelor, living alone, as busy as I was, didn’t have time to go shopping for myself.  So she’d taken it upon herself to do it for me. 

Her agitation was due to the pain she still felt in her lower back.  Her legs had lost their strength and she had been bedridden for over six months.  All that time in bed had taken its toll on her muscles.  Lying in essentially the same position put an awful strain on her back.  She had begun a course of pain medication only a few weeks ago.  It helped, but not much. 

She had stopped eating and would only take juices and water.  She weighed next to nothing and was as thin as a rail.  As she lay there when I came in, I could see the pulsing of the carotid artery in her neck, belying a heart still strong, but irregular in its rhythm. 

The fire still burned within her.

She had been diagnosed with lung cancer a couple of years ago.  She didn’t want anybody to know.  Everyone did.  You know how it is in a small town.  So we played the game.

“Gee, Betsy, you’re looking great today.  How are you feeling.”

“Oh fine, fine.  Never better,” she’d say.  “I’ve been to see my doctor again, and he says I’m doing just fine.”

“That’s great, Betsy.  Well, bye for now.”

She’d show up in church, dressed to the nines.

“You look stunning this morning, Betsy.  I like it!”

“Oh, thank you,” she would say.  “I just thought I’d go for a different look today.  You know.  Just a whim.” 

No mention of the fact that she had slept through the entire service.  The chemo was taking its toll.

She finally called me one day.  Said she needed to talk.  Wouldn’t tell me over the phone.  Hush-hush stuff, she said.  Didn’t want anybody to find out.  So I went over to her house.

After a brief hello and some small talk, she lowered her voice and in a barely perceptible tone said,

“You know, I have cancer.”

“Oh, Betsy,” I said.  “I’m really sorry to hear that,”

knowing she knew that I knew and not wanting her to know I knew she knew I knew.  I also knew she knew the whole town knew.  But that’s the game that gets played with cancer or anything that threatens to set us outside the circle.  There’s a lot of game playing in the early stages.

“What does your doctor tell you?”

“Well,” she said, “he wants me to do chemo-therapy.” 

I knew she’d been doing it for some time now.

“And then I don’t know what else.”

“What about surgery?”

“Well, he doesn’t sound much like that’s an option.  And I don’t really think I want to go through that.”

“Tell me what I can do for you, now, Betsy.”

“Oh, nothing, really.  Just pray.”

I said I would.  And did.  With her.  Right then.  I put my hands on her head and we closed our eyes.

“Betsy, I lay my hands upon you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Beseeching our Lord Jesus Christ to uphold you with his presence, to drive away all sickness of body and spirit, and to give you that peace and victory of life which will enable you to serve Him both now and forever.  Amen.”

“Amen,” she said, softly.  “Thank you.”

The Hospice volunteer and I rearranged her frail body in the bed and she seemed to be more comfortable.  The visiting nurse gave her some oral pain medication and I sat back down by her side and held her hand.  The hushed voices of family and friends in the next room wafted through the door.  There were greetings for the new arrivals and I could hear the telling and retelling of the story of what had happened in the past few hours.  They remembered times they had had with Betsy and shared them with each other.  Every now and then, someone would come into the room, I would move away from her bed and let whoever it was sit down, hold her hand, and talk to her.  After they left I would return to my seat beside her bed and tell her she was doing fine and everything would be OK.  People who are going through this stage of life are going through a birthing of sorts, and, like a woman in childbirth, it really helps to have some encouragement along the way.

We had planned the funeral together a couple of weeks ago.  People are funny.  You have to wait for them to bring up the planning.  They always dodge it if you rush into it.

“Have you thought much about what you want to have done at your funeral?” I’d ask, in hopes of getting her to talk about it.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Haven’t thought about it much.  I suppose we’ll have to sometime, I guess.  But not today” 

The Litany of Denial has gone on for months. Then one day, out of the blue, she said,

“What hymns could we sing at it?”

“At what?”

“At my funeral.”

 It's a significant moment when the question comes up on its own. Something tells you that they've come to grips with their life and you can probably expect them to begin the final stages soon.

“Oh,” I said.  “Well, anything you want.”

“Well, I don’t want any of those old dirges.  Get me some Methodist hymns.  I won’t have anyone bawling.”

“It'll be a bittersweet time for all of us, Betsy.  We’ll be celebrating your life and sharing the sadness of our parting.  There’ll probably be some tears."

"Go for the laughs," she said.

"You got it," I said, smiling.

It's been several hours, now.  Her breathing has become more relaxed.  It has also slowed down.  She'll take a breath and exhale and it might be twenty or thirty seconds before she takes another one.  She'll do this for a little while, then rally and start breathing more normally.  Everyone’s around her bed now, some singing quietly, others telling her they love her and that it's OK to go.  While you can't predict it, it's very apparent when the moment has arrived.  The room seems brighter somehow as we near the end.  Her breathing has slowed again, and this time she doesn't rally.  A long breath, an exhalation, and then nothing.  We watch her heartbeat slow, gently, and then stop.  There is a perceptible sense of a leave-taking in the room.  Everyone looks around, a little sheepishly at first, because they're not sure of what they just felt.  Without speaking, they smile at each other knowing they all felt it.

This is the best thing we get to do in this line of work.  To sit with someone as they are dying.  To listen to their breathing.  To feel their heartbeat.  To talk to them as they go and to reassure them they'll be OK.  To stand on the threshold of heaven with them, if only for a moment.  If you watch carefully, you can see them let go, relax, and pass on through.  It is a beautiful moment, full of joy and sadness, full of the awareness of the presence of God, a reassurance that there is more to come for each of us, and an admonition to live life here to its fullest while we still have time.  I want to wave farewell as I make the sign of the cross on her forehead and utter the words I have so many times in the past,

"Depart, O Child of God, from out of this world, in the name of God the Father, who created you, God the Son, who redeemed you, and God the Holy Spirit, who sanctifies you.  May your rest this day be one of peace, and your dwelling place in the house of the Lord forever.  Amen.

You could almost hear Betsy's voice with the angels singing Amen, too.

The funeral was a wonderful celebration of Betsy's life.  We sang Methodist hymns, shared stories about our lives together with her, and we laughed.

I really love this job.

1:38:00 PM
Make a Comment []