Angels Surround Us

Your room in the hospice facility was hot and dark, and smelled sweet. Covering every available space on the walls were dozens of pictures of saints, angels, and the Virgin Mary; it was instantly clear to me that you had been here for quite some time. There were vases of roses and family pictures in frames on every surface. The clutter was as stifling as the heat.

You were tucked into the hospital bed wearing pink pajamas, propped up on many pillows and apparently asleep. I quietly walked over to the chair at your bedside and sat down.

“Are you the massage person?” you whispered through heavy eyelids.

“I am, are you up for a foot rub?” I asked.

You agreed and I stepped to the foot of the bed. I placed my hands gently on top of your feet. I worked slowly, as your body was emaciated and delicate, moving up from your feet to your ankles and calves. You took deep breaths with eyes closed. “Your hands feel nice. Not many people touch me, except the nurses and my mom.”

I covered your small legs with the blanket and took one of your hands in mine. You looked up at me then, and began to tell me about your room.

“I have all these pictures to protect me.” You explained that you were plagued by night terrors, hallucinations, and disturbing thoughts every minute, of every day. The images you surrounded yourself with brought a sense of protection and calmed your unsettled nerves. You had Huntington’s disease, and you were here on hospice, at the age of twenty two.

So young, I thought, to be so afraid. This was my first, and to date, only, client with Huntington’s disease. I dropped my body weight deeper into my feet, drawing on the Tai Chi skills I had been taught at school, and anchored my energy deep into the earth. I asked for comfort and reassurance to move through my hands, so that you might feel a little less afraid.

I completed our session and said goodbye, promising to come back during my shift the following week.

I returned to see you three times in your final weeks. Each time you lit up when I walked through the door, even though your body and spirit were fading. At times I hoped you might recover and go on to live a long, happy life- but Juvenile Huntington’s disease progresses quickly and your older sister, who also had Huntington’s, had predeceased you. I wasn’t there to change the course of your treatment. I was there to support you across this threshold.

One day, I walked directly to your room at the beginning of my shift and eagerly pushed the door open with a smile and a greeting.

The room was empty except for a bed, a table and a chair. All of your angels, all your flowers, and you, were gone. My breath caught in my chest and I just stood there holding the door open. Moments of our time together flowed through my mind, and I grasped for them so as to not drop a single gem, no matter how small. I felt myself surrounded by those images of angels that walked with you, and felt you there too, free and fearless.

Seeing Me in You

It was my first day on the floor at the hospice facility, as a volunteer massage student. This particular hospital was designed to be warm and homey, not like a hospital at all. I walked through the sunlit entryway to the nurses station and asked for my assignments for the day.

The nurse handed me a file and said, “You’ll like this patient, she’s your age.” I was twenty two years old.

I read through the contents of your file and made my way down the long corridor bathed in light from the many high windows. The cathedral ceilings gave a feeling of spaciousness, something I would remember later while ensconced with you.

I took a deep breath and opened the door and paused as my eyes adjusted to the dark room. Approaching your bed timidly, I stumbled over my words a little as I introduced myself and asked if you would like a massage. You didn’t respond verbally, but your eyes searched me out in the dim light and you nodded.

I stepped to the side of your bed and gently placed my hand over your hand laying on the blanket. Your sweet face turned to me, and although you didn’t say a word I could feel that you appreciated my presence.

The room began to feel very small, and my hands unsteady. I took several deep breaths, sunk my weight into my feet and looked around, orienting myself in the darkness. I thought of those high windows in the hallway, bright blue and swimming with sunlight. I imagined that golden light pouring through my hands into your body. I might not be able to ease your pain, but I certainly could offer this light to you, as if to tell you “You are not alone; I am here, holding the light.”

As your hand softened and relaxed in mine, your eyes closed and you took a deep breath. I matched the pace of my breathing to yours, and allowed the golden light to move through my body into yours.

Your family arrived after a few minutes and asked for privacy. I said goodbye to you and stepped back out into the bright hallway, taking big gulping breaths. I walked straight to the chapel, a place set aside for quiet contemplation and grieving.

As I sat in meditation, the image of your face looking up at me returned to my mind. Seeing myself reflected in your eyes, I felt our shared humanity.

An energy was coursing through my body. That same light we found at your bedside was still with me, soothing my grief and giving me the fortitude to walk back out into the sunlit corridor.

Sometimes it’s just hard

I came to work with you the year before you died from Alzheimer’s. When we first met you were happy to have me around and treated me like a guest. We chatted on the porch, you told stories of your youth on the cattle ranch up the road, and of your children’s youth when you had a ranch and a family of your own to manage.

The initial decorum faded quickly, and you soon began asking me to leave at bedtime. Each night I would calmly explain that I was there to help you through the night, should you need anything while in bed. You were a strong and decisive woman, mother to three wild country boys; relinquishing control over your life had been exceptionally terrible for you. Unfortunately for me, you also had a violent streak, as attested to by your sons. I was hit, pinched, slapped and screamed at many times within the first few months of spending nights with you.

Sometimes in between the rages and crying fits we would have sweet moments outside, watching awestruck as the horses crossed the meadow in front of your house. We would watch television together, and you would find moments of happiness.

Most days you sat in your chair, lamenting the absence of your sons. One of them lived next door and visited you twice a day. Another lived down the road and came several times a week, and your youngest son stopped by a few times a month. Regardless of the frequency of their visits, you still missed them and longed for them to be with you. For you, there was no substitute for being with your boys.

In your final weeks, your doctors changed your medications frequently in an attempt to manage the debilitating symptoms of dementia- extreme anxiety, delusions, erratic emotional behaviors. This period was one of the most difficult of my career as a caregiver. I could see how miserable you were, how you terrified and confused most of the time and there absolutely nothing I could do or say to ease your suffering. Your teeth were falling out one by one, you were unable to recognize friends and family, you rarely slept more than a few hours at a time. You would pray and beg for help, for relief from your pain.

I was relieved when your son called to tell me you had passed. The mercy you prayed for had come. I didn’t cry at your funeral as they lowered the pink coffin into the ground, I looked up at the sun setting on the mountain behind the graveyard and felt happiness that you had finished your long walk through the shadows and finally arrived home.

From Being to Light

You were one of my beloved teachers, an instructor of Somatic Bodywork, movement, and dream exploration. After you passed, a wake was held at your home, a sacred space was created for our community to come together for a final farewell. My best friend and I attended together.

We walked into the quiet house. Many of our colleagues and classmates were in attendance, you were surrounded by people silently standing vigil. My friend and I stood close to one another, and as we settled ourselves into the quiet circle of people around you, we grabbed for each others hands in awe and wonder.

Your body was luminous, almost glowing in the same way you had glowed in life. A radiance emanated from your still body.

You appeared to be light, not all the way here, not all the way gone. Maybe you were levitating, or your body was dissolving into light.

At some points I wondered if some of your essence remained, because it felt as if your personality was in the room. I could hear your soft exclamation of “Ah!.” I was able to sense, perhaps even feel you there, with us. Later, my friend and I would wonder as to what exactly it was we witnessed that day.

I like to think that you were there. That you delighted in the ritual and sacredness created around your death, and honored our grief as important. I certainly felt your presence, and can still easily recall the timber of your voice and the way you could fill a room with your authentic joyfulness.

Tu y Yo

You were from Puerto Rico, the youngest of eighteen children. Your strong accent, and more so your strong culture, rang through your words. I was delighted to witness the youthful play between you and your husband, a midwest man to the core, with large hands and a quiet demeanor.

The two of you met when you were a young single mother, an island transplant stuck in northern Michigan. Your husband told me he could barely understand you at first, yet he was mesmerized by your beauty and spark.

There was an element of racial prejudices present in your relationship, even though you had been married for seventy years. He taunted you playfully when you mispronounced English words, or would use a mocking accent when saying words in Spanish, and you teased him with a ferocity fired by your Puerto Rican blood. The banter was always joyful, even this close to the end of your life.

Then one day you didn’t get out of bed. And the next day too. I knew the end was nearing, you had only days left to live at this point. I encouraged your husband to join you at your bedside, although he often declined.

One afternoon, your pain began to get out of hand. You were refusing morphine and asking for brandy instead. I attempted to coax you into taking the drugs, because you couldn’t really drink enough brandy to reduce the pain you were in. You were crying loudly, very distressed, so I asked your husband to console you.

He lumbered slowly into the room, and sat in the chair beside your bed. He took your hand and spoke your name, trying to get your attention. You were thrashing and crying at this point, still refusing the morphine.

Your husband leaned nearer to you, cradling your tiny hand in his, gently stroking your arm.

And then he said, in a perfect Spanish accent, “Tu y yo.”

He said it again, a whisper, a love poem, a prayer, “Tu y yo.”

He whispered it again and again, leaning ever closer, and with each repetition, you became more calm.

I stood in the doorway, witness to the waves of miracles washing over the room. Your pain seemed to dissolve as your husband reassured you, all you needed in that moment was his love. Not morphine, or brandy, or a skilled caregiver. Just love, his special love for you, and the promise you made to each other to stick together, no matter what.

Shield from my Grief

Several days had passed since you last rose from your bed. I was with you daily from that point on, giving you baths in bed and then a massage with the cannabis oil your wife made. During one of these sessions you looked up at me and said “I’ve never seen your face. Can you take off your mask?”

Without hesitation, I drew the blue paper mask down my face. You gazed at my face, and I smiled with tears welling in my eyes. You stared without speaking, as if you wanted to memorize the details.

Once I brought my portable turntable and we listened to old hippie records. You tapped your toes in time, music moving in and through your body.

The home was made a temple, soft voices and lighting, chanting in Sanskrit humming through the stereo, fresh flowers on every altar. We all walked gently through the space, holding vigil as you completed your process.

Your wife, grounded and soft, moved through the home in a constant current of care and connection. She was acutely aware of you and your needs at all times. She frequently played the recordings of your own music, recorded years ago, before Parkinson’s took your guitar skills. We set your guitar in your lap a few times, and you would strum for a few moments. Music permeated the scene, filled the silent corners with reverence and joy.

After you passed, I came to give you your final bath and dress you for transport. You felt every bit of present in those moments, your energy was near and calm. As I washed your body, tears rolled down my smiling face and I thought about that moment when you asked me to remove my mask. Again I pulled the blue paper covering off my face, and with it went the shield from my own grief.

I felt the weight we who walk with the dying bear, fall away like autumn leaves in the breeze. Unmasking my face, being authentic with my emotions at the bedside of the dying, I saw into the beyond, into the long horizon of a cold winter morning. where you and me dissolve into us and everything.

Filling in for Family

The hospice nurse left just after dinner. You had refused to eat, even though I made fried chicken just the way she liked it. You picked at the wings, uninterested, and I could see the grief in your eyes for the loss of your appetite.

The nurse told me not to force food, just to offer, and bring anything you desired. “She’s close, maybe a week at most. Call her grand daughter.” she told me as she left for the night.

Once you and your husband were tucked into bed for the night, I called your grand daughter.

“Your grandma has a day or two left. Are you coming? She keeps asking for you.”

“I, ah, I, I’m on my way to Sacramento. For a stamp convention. Been waiting all year for this one. It’s really important to me.” She said flatly.

“OK. I can stay here until, until…” I stammered.

The words caught in my throat. I had come to love you dearly, and you, I. While our connection was profound, I was essentially a stranger, not blood relation, and that meant something to you. “I don’t understand. She’s my family, why won’t she come.” you would implore. You were dying of lymphoma, yet your mind was sharp and clear.

I would lean in and hug you in these moments, or snuggle closer if we were in bed together watching reruns of “Gunsmoke”. You appreciated this closeness, and would hold my hand for hours at a time in those final days. Sometimes I would bring a chair in for your husband, so he could sit beside you and hold your other hand. But he was a stoic and unemotional man, he preferred to watch television in the living room and “let her rest”.

Your home was warm and cozy, with a massive garden in the backyard- vegetables and fruit trees, flowers of all sorts, and roses. Many of the rosebushes were over fifty years old with gnarled trunks as thick as my leg and chest high, and just now, in full bloom. I brought fresh roses to your bedside every day. As I walked into the room with arms laden you would clutch at your chest and say, “Are those from my garden?’ You knew perfectly well that they were your roses. 

I remained there for three days, sitting bedside vigil for hours, until I fell asleep sitting up. The third night I was reading in my chair, nodding off. Your husband's thunderous snores jolted me awake several times before I decided to lay down in my room for just an hour or so. When I startled awake again, I immediately felt the shift of energy in the house. I heaved my exhausted body out of bed and took a few calming breaths before walking down the dark hallway.

I peaked through the open door. They were so tiny together in that big bed, almost like children, except for his snoring. I walked to your side of the bed and reached for your hand. It was ice cold. And the wrist, up to the elbow, and the shoulder too, freezing. I laid my hand gently on your cheek, and there was no warmth or breath there.

I sunk into the chair beside the bed. How odd to be a stranger here in this most intimate place, witnessing what a son or daughter, or granddaughter might, and yet my grief crashed over me and I sat with tears running hot and quick into my lap. I checked the time, and after a few minutes, I touched my fingertips to the place on your neck where your pulse ought to be. I waited, and counted, watching the clock. There was no movement in your body.

After several minutes I stood up knowing I had calls to make. I decided not to wake your husband. Why not allow him a few hours more of sleep with his beloved wife of seventy years, as she relieved herself of this world and moved on. They had fallen asleep holding hands, yours dainty and fragile, his big and boxy. This is exactly what they wanted, to be home, together, just the two of them.

I called your granddaughter first. She answered after 2 rings, with a croaky voice, but clear minded.

“I just checked her, no pulse, no breath. She’s gone.”

“Oh, ok. Call the nurse, they’ll take care of everything. I’ll be there in a couple of days to sort out what to do with Grandpa.”

I wanted to offer my condolences, and mourn with her, the only other person who might also be feeling the agony I was experiencing. Perhaps if she had been here we would make tea and cry together in the kitchen, waiting for the sunrise and the nurses arrival. We would wake your husband together and tend to his grief too.

But your granddaughter never had any intentions of being with us for this moment, she had indeed made other plans, and passed off this most sacred duty of protecting her dying grandmother to me, the caregiver hired to deal with such matters.

I couldn’t stop my tears as I called the after hours hospice nurse, and when she arrived I was still on the couch weeping. She told me to stop crying, to be strong for my grandpa.

“He’s not my grandpa. I work here.” I said quietly.

“Then you’ve got work to do. Pull it together.” she said.

The day passed in a swirl of paperwork and tears. I tucked a purple rose from your garden into your folded hands as they carried your little body out of the house. Your husband was stunned and confused and asked why we didn’t take you to the hospital. He was 98 with dementia and prostate cancer, and needed daily reminders that you were on hospice and had come home to die.

I didn’t listen to the nurse and “pull it together”. I worked and wept and remembered my friend, and told each of your rose bushes that you had gone.