LIFE. AND DEATH. AND SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

I’ve had a lot of time lately to sit quietly and think.  That’s what you do when visiting a very elderly lady in the hospital.  Sometimes she is awake and up to visiting, but a lot of the time she drifts off to sleep, and I stay a bit longer and think about things.  Like life.  And death.  And where she is … somewhere in between.  Well, in reality we are all somewhere in between, but at almost 102 she is much closer to the end than most of us.

Over the past year or so, as her health and strength went into decline, we have had many conversations.  The ones I liked best were the rare occasions she would tell me stories I hadn’t heard before.  She was born in 1920 and came to this area to teach in the early ‘40’s, marrying my husband’s father in 1945.  I would have loved to hear more about this period of her history but conversations never seemed to go that way, as if that time was so long ago it wasn’t important any more.

Instead, I would get snippets like “I enjoyed raising my family.” Or “Larry was a happy baby.”  Sometimes I could steer her into a few more minutes on the subject, but not often.  Her comments were just little windows into the fleeting memories going through her mind.

One beautiful warm day this spring I offered to take her for a wheel chair ride around the block and for once she actually said ‘yes’.  Her hearing is very poor but her eyesight is phenomenal.  She spotted some lilacs so I took her over and we picked some.  She wondered what on earth all those pink birds were doing in someone’s yard so I explained about the “You’ve been flocked” fundraiser going on in town.  I wasn’t sure, between her poor hearing and the out-of-the-ordinary concept of the fundraiser, whether she understood what I told her but when she spotted another flamingo covered lawn on the next block, she pointed to it and said “There’s some more of those pink birds.  They must be making lots of money!”  She could be sharp as a tack one minute and quite lost the next, though.  We were on the street where she had lived for 30 years yet she didn’t recognize it. Going around that one block was all she was up to even though she was in a wheel chair.

The high point of that adventure was stopping for a few minutes to watch the school kids at their track and field day.  “I used to really like that day.” the former school teacher said, her voice wistful.  Times gone by; another brief window into her soul.

She has been strong and fiercely independent but it’s obvious with this hospitalization the days of living on her own are over, she will be going into respite until a permanent placement is available.  This was not in her plan.  Her most fervent wish is to ‘fall asleep and not wake up’.  She is angry and disappointed that this is not happening for her.

I am reminded, as I sit and watch her sleep, of a time when I railed at the unfairness of Death’s timing.  My first husband died in a car accident on the same day that an elderly gentleman with dementia wandered out into the winter cold in only his pyjamas.  There was no rhyme or reason, no justice, and no sense to a young husband and father dying while a sick old man was found and brought to safety. It wasn’t fair! 

She is experiencing the same frustration from the other side.  She doesn’t want to be here any more.  Why is she stuck in this failing body and now being sent off to unfamiliar surroundings?  This is just as unfair.

Many years ago I read a story that compared our lives to a tapestry … the colors, the textures, the flaws, and the worn bits all signifying the joys and sorrows, the struggles and triumphs, the bad choices and subsequent recoveries - all merging to portray our individual life spans as works of art.  I think of this from time to time and hope that my scene is full of bright colours and worthy texture, and that many of my threads are tied into other’s tapestries connecting me to the people I love.

Today I visited with my mother-in-law and thought about her tapestry.  Our conversation this afternoon was me encouraging her, trying to help her see that her life may just become more interesting because she won’t be isolated in her own home any more.  There will be people around her, she will have her own space for privacy but meals will be a time of community.  That we will come to see her.

 I may have gotten through to her because she gave me a smile as I left.

At almost 102 we all know that her tapestry is almost finished. She can’t have too many threads left to tie off.  I sincerely hope that the ones she has remaining are the color of love and as light as gossamer.