By Jan Wilson ©June 13, 2016
The call came during the evening, but it could have come anytime. “Come now if you want to see Carole alive.” I went, without question. It wasn’t the first time I’d responded to this kind of call, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. Usually, by the time the call comes I have become next of kin to some, professional friend to others, and like a sister to just a few. My patients are not ‘the dying’ but they are men and women living with a deadly diagnosis, living with AIDS.
So, what’s it like to live so close to mortality? The young man with dreadlocks told me, “There’s always a shadow, just at the edge of everything I do. It’s death. It’s close, but not so close that I can’t still live. But it never lets me forget either.”
Another man explained, “My life is totally different now. I am presently living with HIV. Heaven in view. Although I still conduct my daily affairs, this disease reminds me that eternity is not far off. I count each moment as a gift and each friend as a treasure. This disease has taken so much, but it has given me something too. I don’t take things for granted anymore since I’m living with heaven in view.”
One time, I watched and waited in the room as Tony left his broken body and stepped into eternity. His sisters and I sang gospel songs as he approached the threshold. For hours we had focused on him, noting any change in his breathing or his face, and then, something distracted us. In that moment, while we looked elsewhere, he slipped out and was gone.
When I answered the call to come to see Carole, I felt like I was sitting with a woman about to give birth. I held her hand and watched her breathe, talking quietly to her. As she worked harder and harder to breathe, the talking stopped. I spoke that silent language that said, “I’m here, it’s ok.” But then she entered a long, flat phase where she continued steady for a couple hours without weakening. My thoughts wandered. I wonder if it’s raining yet. Did my husband put the leftovers away? All kinds of mundane details bombarded me. They seemed sacrilegious given that I was sitting by someone’s deathbed.
But I’m only human and sometimes dying takes a while. So I’ll try to refocus and send all the love I have to the person I sit with, knowing full well that I can’t do the dying for them. And most of the time, all the important things that we needed to say have been said already. It’s a time of standing by, letting the other person walk the road at their own pace. Kinda like walking a friend to the departure gate and waiting for their flight number to be called. Being alert and present, but not very active. And absolutely not in control.
After the person dies I sit for a while. Saying goodbye in my own way. Sometimes I cry, but not always. I’ve usually done all my crying long before this final moment. The time for saying and doing is gone, and they are no longer here. What can be done now is done for the ones left behind and it’s time for me to go.
Outside, the cleansing breeze washes over me. The fragrance of flowers, or rotting leaves, or falling snow draws me back into the land of the living and I am so grateful to be alive.
It’s time for strawberry ice cream! It’s my own private ritual to celebrate a life just ending and it’s my way to appreciate my life that is still continuing.