LOVING THE DYING

One of the things that had disturbed me so much when my mom had a stroke back in 2007 was that she seemed, in the span of a day, to go from a vibrant, interesting person worthy of attention, to the anonymity of being simply “the patient” in room 200.  In a way it was easy to understand how this happened, though not at all easy to accept.

In the middle of a medical procedure she had a stroke that left her paralyzed on one side of her body.  That was limiting to be sure, but the worst effect was that it also seriously affected her speech.  For someone like mom, who lived to talk and tell stories, this was a catastrophic injury.  Make no mistake, it never stopped her from talking, but from that moment on, Mom was nearly unable to communicate at all. Over a long time some of us family members could, with great patience, decipher her words. But I was shocked at how her inability to communicate with others demonstrably changed the way they saw her.

One night, not long after Mom was in the rehab center where she lived for a while, I arrived to find her extremely agitated.  I found out why when the man caring for her explained.  He said he had been trying to get her to take a shower, when she got so angry she threw the TV remote at him.  A few minutes of talking with her and patiently trying to unravel the issue, revealed that she was trying to tell him that she never took a shower at night, she always took one in the morning and would prefer that.  I could understand how it happened.  He was busy and he was a stranger. Maybe he didn’t give her the time and attention she needed to make her need clear.  And his inability to understand made Mom frustrated and increasingly angry. Hence, the throwing of the remote, which would ordinarily have been very out of character for Mom.

 I longed for that young man and all those who cared for Mom to know her in the way I’d known her.  I was so proud of her.  Having begun her life with the disadvantage of losing both her parents when she was young, and then having to drop out of school in the 7^th grade to support her grandmother and younger sister, she managed to rise to the level of vice president in the bank where she’d worked.  She got her GED at the age of 69.  And she was a woman of great compassion, as well as the funniest person and best story teller I knew.  I wished they could have known THAT person. 

If they’d known her they would have been endlessly amused by her humor, even after her stroke.  Like the time a nurse, having already asked a number of questions about Mom’s history in order to complete a form, asked her what language she spoke (as if she couldn’t already have figured that out).  Mom’s answer:  “Chinese.”

Or the time her false teeth had somehow slipped out of her mouth and her doctor caught them before they fell on the floor.  Mom’s comment:  “You didn’t happen to see the salami sandwich I was eating down there with my teeth, did you?” Thankfully, for those of us who loved her and really wanted to know what she said, we managed to translate those gems and pass them on.  Oh, what those caretakers missed!

It made me sad to watch people do FOR her, but never really know her. So back in the spring of 2013, when I saw a flyer at my church advertising a training class for hospice volunteers, I eagerly signed up!  I’d had experience with hospice and it changed the way I viewed death and dying.

Just two days before Mom died she entered a hospice home in Fort Myers, Florida. I was so impressed.  Here, because they were free from the enormity of having to care so much for Mom’s body (hospice’s role was to simply make her comfortable), they were able to concentrate on making her last days pain free and restful.  They were unfailingly kind and caring.  They cared about Mom’s comfort, but they also treated her with the dignity deserving the still living.  They made an effort to listen to her and know her.  I fell in love with hospice for treating my mom with the same kind of tender loving care with which I would care for her.

So when I heard about this hospice training, I knew becoming a hospice volunteer was something I wanted to do, and as with so many things I’ve undertaken, I knew that the Lord had prepared me for this very thing with my own mom and was opening up this door of opportunity to me.

One of the hospice patients I’ve been visiting for a while now has Alzheimers.  Much of the time he seems completely out of it.  He sometimes makes eye contact, and he does speak, but when he does, what he says makes no sense to me, even though it seems to make perfect sense to him.  Occasionally, amazingly, he’ll say something that demonstrates that he knows exactly what he’s saying and he says it clearly.  Such as the day when he looked me right in the eyes and said, “You’re young.  Take care of yourself.”  I knew what he meant.  He meant, “You’re young. Don’t you have anything better to do than come to see me?”

In the time since I began visiting, I have come to truly love and care about this man.  And when he has those lucid moments, I know he feels the same about me.  He may think I have better things to do, but I believe he’s glad I come to see him.  We have formed a bond in these months of visits.  The “connection” amazes me because so little real communication happens when we’re together.

If I had met this man in the prime of his life we may have had nothing whatsoever in common.  We may have traveled in different kinds of social circles, enjoyed different books, disagreed on politics.  Those things no longer matter to him, but it doesn’t stop me from asking.  Most of what I know about him before this terrible mind sucking disease took hold, I find out from his wife.   

This week, as I was helping him with his meal, he looked into my eyes and stroked my face.  Sensing the affection I thought he was communicating, I replied, “I feel the same way about you.”   Watching this exchange, his wife commented about my patience, surprised that I talk to him as if he understands (which he does!).  She attributed my patience to having helped raise my granddaughter.  I said something in response, although it was insignificant and not what I wanted to say at all, but I’ve had time to think about it since and if I get a chance I’ll tell her next time.

I realize that my reason for doing this has everything to do with the way I view life.  Life is a gift from God, the Creator of all living things. The Bible tells us in Genesis that when God created man, He created him in His own image. He created man to know and love Him.  Life is precious to God. We were meant to know and enjoy Him forever.  Each person who lives and breathes has an opportunity to respond to the God who loves them and died to rescue them from sin and its curse.  One day Jesus will return and restore all things to the way God intended, but until then sickness and death are part of the package of living in this natural world, but they don't keep us from knowing God in the person of His Son Jesus.

My mom, ravaged by stroke, was loved by God.  He made her to be the vibrant person she was and I have no doubt her stroke and what it took from her grieved Him as much as it grieved me.  The man I visit was also created in God’s image, but the ravages of sin has taken its toll on him as well. Yet, he is still abundantly loved by His Creator – even if many others no longer see him as someone still among the living.

I volunteer with hospice because God values the likes of Mom and this man with Alzheimers.  He made them in His image, and He loves them. He has given me His heart and His eyes with which to see them.  And because Jesus said, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” 

I confess I don’t serve in this way because I’m hoping that when my turn comes I’ll be treated with the dignity and respect I hope I give them (although it would be nice).  But I do serve in this way because it’s the kind of care my mom had, the kind of care of which everyone is deserving – even if they can no longer communicate, even if it’s impossible now to truly know them.

Dying is the final, natural act of living. The process of dying should not diminish in any way the value of the one living out his or her last days.  One of the things that strikes me so much when I read about Jesus in the Bible is that He SAW with compassion what others only saw in passing. When He saw beggars and blind men and lepers and grieving mothers and prostitutes who longed for forgiveness – He stopped and really SAW them.  His seeing led to action.  I simply want to SEE what Jesus sees, stop where Jesus would stop, and then do something to extend His compassion, to communicate value to the ones He brings across my path. And if I'm able, to tell them how much Jesus loves them.

 When someone’s last days draw near we need to treat them, not as the “almost dead”, but as the “still living”.  We need to use those days we’re given to celebrate the person each one has been and STILL IS and be thankful for the contributions they have made to our world, while lovingly caring for them through the days that remain in a way that affirms their great worth – to God and to us.