Dying is a lonely process. No one can hold your hand and go with you. Close friends are often embarrassed to see you, or they don’t know what to say. After about five years as a hospice volunteer, I have found helping people in their last days to be uplifting. It always gives me a renewed sense of worth and makes my day a little brighter.
In my experience I have found that most people die as they have lived. Private people remain private; little wisdom is gained in the final moments of one’s life. Profound statements or words of unusual perception are seldom spoken. Often patients can’t speak at all, yet it is believed that they remain aware of voices and responsive to touch, so while there may not be verbal closure at the moment of death, there may be touching, gentle moments.
There is one patient I will never forget. She was a person I guessed to be in her early 70s. She was living, if it could be called that, in a residential housing facility in a suburb of Sacramento. When I entered her small room off a narrow hallway, I was struck by two things: the indifference of the care-giver who met me and the bleakness of her room.
With shades drawn the room was in semi-darkness; besides the bed and bedside table, the only other furniture was a cot piled high with linens and blankets. No pictures on the walls, no bedside photos of family, no postcards, nothing to break the cheerlessness of the room. A cheap set of drawers stood against one wall; on it a small lamp, giving out a faint yellow glow, sat alongside a pile of old papers and unread, outdated periodicals.
The woman was lying still and staring at the ceiling, as she had been doing most the day, rousing only for meals. Her face had a nice bone structure indicating she had been pretty in her youth, but it had become lined and drawn, aged by weather, hard work and the struggle to survive.
When I introduced myself, she apologized for having to speak slowly and barely above a whisper.
As I tried to draw her out, she became fully awake and we talked of a life devoid of family, warmth or joy. She had done manual labor in her youth and had had an unhappy home life as an adult. When she became ill she came to Sacramento to be near family but received little support. This all was matter-of-factly said, with no hint of self-pity or complaint.
Despite her lack of education or social training, she had a quiet grace and dignity that caught me off-guard. I got the feeling that although kindness and caring was seldom shown her, she was a lady in the true meaning of the word. I asked if she would like me to read to her. She thought that would be nice, and I could tell by her startled expression she had rarely, if ever, had someone offer her a caring question.
The following week, I took a small book called “The Snow Goose.” It is a beautiful story of a man and his companion, a snow goose he had nursed back to health. It took only an hour to read, and while I read she lay still, barely moving. I thought she might have dropped off to sleep, so I asked her if I should continue. She murmured, “Please go on.”
After finishing the story we discussed it briefly, and I was surprised to find she had listened to every word and remembered it in some detail. The more we talked, the more I realized this downtrodden, exhausted lady had an inner grace and spirit that seemed to actually glow as we talked, and light up the room with a warmth and a spiritual feeling that filled me with awe.
On my next visit a week later, I moved a bouquet of flowers I had sent a few days earlier to her bedside table so she could better see them. I noticed the frown on her face seemed to relax a little, as if she had been waiting for me perhaps it was the flowers. She seemed unusually quiet and when I asked her a question, it took greater effort for her just to whisper something too faint to understand.
So we just sat there, quietly holding hands. After a short while, as she looked at me with gentle eyes that I’ll never forget, I saw a small soaplike bubble appear out of one of her nostrils. As I gently wiped it away, another appeared from between her lips. I thought it odd until I realized she had stopped breathing and with elegant grace, peacefully and so gently, she had left the room.
A little overcome, I just couldn’t leave without doing something to show the deep respect I had for her. So I brushed her hair, positioned her hands on her chest, straightened her nightgown, smoothed the blankets and left her with some degree of the dignity she deserved. I wish now I had thought to place some flowers in her hands.
A line from one of my favorite poems by Kahlil Gibran crossed my mind. It went, “ And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered.”
I felt privileged to have been witness to such inner ethereal beauty and to have been part of such a powerful, spiritual event.