Our Last "First"

Friday, January 14, 2011

One year.  Is it possible?

Tomorrow morning a mass will be said at the request of a dear friend in memory of our mother, Dorothy Leigh Scott, who passed away last year on that date.

Through the long hours of the preceding day into the still dark of that cold winter morning, we, her children, many friends and staff of the nursing home, crowded into her room, resolute in our conviction that she would not die alone.  And, so it was that at three minutes until four in the morning she peacefully took her last breath, uplifted by the power of the blessings, prayers and tears of those who truly loved and surrounded Mother at her bedside.

One year later, the ache of her death is still very much a part of me.

I am told it was stolidly mentioned to at least one friend in the minutes immediately following her death that it was acceptable to “dance a jig,” presumably, at the thought of her no longer suffering.  I didn’t understand the comment any better then than now.

While I am truly happy she no longer struggles from the ravages of her dread life with Parkinson’s Disease, I also freely admit to being just selfish enough to long for the gentle touch of her small hands to my cheeks as she kissed me goodnight or to see the smile that lit up her face when we returned the next day.

No, there were no jigs to be danced on that cold January morning nor any time since.  Not by this son.

While it may seem inconceivable that I might very well miss her more with each passing day, I can also write that the pain has paradoxically and mercifully been somehow rendered less severe with time.  But the word “less” is relative; I doubt I will ever be free of that pain altogether.  I don’t believe it is possible.

As I have struggled mightily attempting to adjust to my “new normal” these past twelve months, there are two truths of which I am now more certain than ever before:

The love between a Mother and her child is unyielding and immutable;

No matter the passage of time, this love is forever.

The pain is, too.

Eulogy for Nani

For those who do not know me, my name is Rob Marvin, and I am happy to count myself as one of Virginia’s friends ~ and quite possibly, her favorite.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s my hope that Monday, October 17, 2011 will be remembered as the day when a loving family and many friends gathered in defiance of convention to celebrate Mother’s Day … at the time and place of their choosing … in God’s house … at His table … and later, at the cemetery on hallowed ground.

I will personally never forget this incarnation of Mother’s Day when we came together to honor the enduring love of a mother and grandmother, and for others, the life of a friend and neighbor, Virginia.

~~~~~~~~~~

As I sat to think about what I would say today, one image of Virginia was foremost in my mind:  She was seated at the head of a large table surrounded by family and friends offering up an insanely large amount of food.

How had I come to sit at this table?

~~~~~~~~~~

It must have been difficult for Virginia to sit idle, watching as her three children bore the responsibility of caring for their ailing father over two and one-half years as he languished in a nursing home. 

And while she could do nothing to ease their burden, she was surely proud to see her children acting on the example she had passed along to them over many years: 

Family is everything.

During this time, our families were living parallel lives within the same nursing home; three doors down a common hall from Dominic, our Mother was living out her final days.  And, as with Virginia’s children, we had long ago learned the importance of family in our lives.
When my twin brother, Jim, recently asked Charlie why it was that Virginia had taken to the two of us, his reply was simple:  “Mom didn’t say much but she watched people and took in everything.  She watched you care for your Mother and for my Dad.”

As months became years, all of us, the children of Virginia and Dorothy, were bound by a shared affection for our beloved parents as we did the only thing we knew how to do:  we cared for them.

The love of family is the tie that binds all of us.  Virginia respected this in her children … and in my twin brother and me in turn.

~~~~~~~~~~

Since being diagnosed with an incurable brain malignancy little more than four weeks ago, no one left Virginia’s side without being impressed by the living contradiction embodied by this first-generation Italian-American.  Increasingly frail and weakened ~ she remained strong in spirit; eyes hampered by age ~ her vision remained crystal clear; and, in a world of increasingly dizzying complexity ~ she projected herself as a selfless woman of quiet practicality and grace.

When the time came for the physicians, nurses, social workers and family to make plans for her future, it was clear there would be little allowance made for debate: 

Virginia was going home; to her home of 54 years where she raised her children and their children, to the kitchen where so much food was made and shared, and to the familiarity and comfort of her own bed.

Always the Mother, even at 83, Lucille, Joe and Charlie were still children in her eyes ~ even as they navigate through middle age.  It is as if her motherly eyes wouldn’t allow her to see the children grown ~ as if adulthood was the singular province of a mother.

Perhaps it is. 

Or, at least, so it seemed, until the morning of October 12^th ~ when, with Charlie, his dog Lulu as well as a trusted friend and caregiver, Anita, at her side, Virginia slipped quietly into that long, good night.

~~~~~~~~~~

Having lost their father only five short months ago, Virginia’s children are now learning, as did my twin-brother and I this past January, that the death of a mother is unique ~ it seems to affect us in ways far different from when our father’s die.

I believe it marks an irrevocable severance with the past ~ as if cutting the umbilical cord that binds our affections, making us grounded in the world.

And, unlike with our father’s, we are intimately and inextricably linked to our mother’s ~ as flesh of their flesh, and blood of their blood.

Yes.  Their childhood died along with Virginia this past week; but, like her, they are to be born again.

~~~~~~~~~~

His holiness, the late Pope Paul VI once remarked as to the relationship between Mother’s and their children when he observed,

“Every mother is like Moses.  She does not enter the promise land but prepares a world she will not see.”

Virginia bore two healthy sons and one daughter, and nearly lived to celebrate her 84^th birthday ~ which is tomorrow.  She lived her life preparing Lucille, Joe and Charlie as well as her four grandchildren for an earthly land of promise she will no longer see ~ at least not from THIS vantage point.

But, her Lord assures us that she is now in the heavenly Promised Land alongside her beloved family who had gone on before her.

It is the contradiction of our humanity, the resurrection, and our place in it.

~~~~~~~~~~

I will end this Mother’s Day card of sorts, in prayerful reverence of Virginia, my mother, Dorothy, and for all those mentioned silently within your hearts:

“The love of a mother is a veil … of a softer light … between the heart and our Heavenly Father.”

Virginia Ann Cervello is now fully in the light of our Heavenly Father by the redemption freely given by His Son.

And, through the promise of the resurrection, I speak for many when I pray for the day when we will no longer simply be our Mother’s sons or daughters, but united as children of God.

Sweet dreams, Virginia.

Mother's Day

Below I have posted a link to the video shot this morning at the Jameson Family gravesite where Mother is now buried.

The music heard throughout is a recording of the bagpipe introit "Amazing  Grace" performed at Mother's Memorial Service in January and again at her Committal Service in late April.

The Gerber daisies sitting atop her grave are but a few of the artificial flowers which were eventually suspended from the ceiling directly over Mother's nursing home bed when she was no longer able to walk and, thus, to work in her gardens.  She truly loved these flowers ~ artificial or not.

The beautiful flowers surrounding the central family marker were planted by our sister in the days leading up to Mother's Committal Service.  After scrubbing each of the family markers clean, our sister wanted nothing less than to make certain another beautiful garden ~ of sorts ~ awaited Mother at her final resting place alongside four generations of her family.

The gardener made assurances the flowers would survive but a week; Sister was prepared for this eventuality.

No one could have been more surprised, however, to arrive at Mother's burial site to discover that her pansies had not only survived ~  they are thriving!

I don't know how anyone could have doubted this outcome;

Surely, Mother had a hand in all of this!

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

We love and miss you ... to the moon and back!

Should you go first and we remain

to walk the road alone,

we'll live in memory's Garden Mom,

with the happy days we've known.

In Spring we'll wait for roses red,

when faded, the lilacs blue.

In early Fall when brown leaves fall

we'll catch a glimpse of you.

We'll hear your voice, we'll see your smile,

though blindly we may grope,

The memory of your helping hand

will buoy us with hope.

Should you go first and we remain,

one thing we'll have you do:

Walk slowly down that long long path,

for someday we'll follow you.

We want to know each step you take,

so we may take the same.

For someday down that lonely road

you'll hear us calling your name.

(Borrowed from "Should You Go First" ~ A Rowsell)

http://youtu.be/ikxfo3qGNTw

Eighteen Hours

I ran through the snowdrifts as fast as my legs would allow.

The interregnum of the prior nine days had been all but too much to bear; the days apart weighed heavily on me.

But I abandoned all the heartache as I plowed through fresh snow blanketing an invisible but well-known path.

Rounding a bend, I made out the silhouette of my twin brother standing under an arcade beyond the head of the trail; he, too, had been anxiously awaiting my return.

“That’s really nice of him to welcome me back!” was my only thought.

But just as we began a short walk along the colonnade to the entrance of the nursing home, my brother stopped, turned abruptly to me and then said,

“Mom is not doing well … she’s not doing well at all.”

A veil of denial immediately enveloped me as I struggled to catch my breath and my legs buckled under the sheer weight of his words.

It was as if I had been punched in the stomach.

It was as if I had been driving a speeding car and then forced to come to a complete stop and reverse directions in the same instant.

Life – as I knew it – was about to be altered irrevocably.

My brain immediately became awash in the panoply of human emotions as well as thoughts too disparate to grasp. But in the midst of all the mental chaos, an eight word sentence – a fateful harbinger spoken to a trusted friend nine days earlier – took hold, repeating itself in an endless loop time and again within my head; it would continue for the next eighteen hours … and beyond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Everyone dies.”

I learned this lesson as a child. All of us do. But to a child, death is merely an abstraction; in the mind of a child, we are all immortal.

Over the years as Mother’s health declined, I will also admit to occasionally fantasizing about how I would react when Death finally came for her.

I don’t believe there is anything strange about this. How many among us has not contemplated such thoughts? Consciously or not, do not the exigencies of Life force each of us to become mentally prepared for nearly all eventualities?

But even with the benefit of nearly five years of introspective preparation for Mother’s death, my brother’s words that morning as we walked along the colonade, forced me to face – head on – an unwelcomed revision of the ill-understood lesson from my callow youth,

There is no good way to prepare;

Mother’s die, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While finally making our way into the nursing home, I do remember being conscious of how quickly the excitement of the morning had turned to trepidation and fear while simultaneously being surprised by an unanticipated calm – or numbness – that came over me. It could very well have been denial; I don’t know. After all, Mother had weathered many storms over the past two and one-half years.

As we reached her room, however, the protective instincts evaporated as quickly as they had emerged. Even though I desperately needed to personally “lay eyes” on Mother, I was not at all certain I was prepared to deal with the probability of this harsh new reality.

As I opened her door, I instinctively knew Mother’s current situation was different from all prior scares; she was surrounded by too many people, both expected and unexpected.

“This is not good.” was my only thought.

I quickly made my way through the crush of uncomfortably silent nurses, aides and family members to come face to face with Mom.

I was shocked.

Whereas nine days before I had sat laughing as Mother interacted cogently with two very surprised hospice nurses – both of whom later went on to make a glowing report, the woman in front of me that Thursday morning was nearly unrecognizable; Mother was unresponsive with her mouth agape, laboring under the burden of oxygen deprivation; her oxygen debt was outwardly manifested by the most foreign and hideous of watery rattles imaginable, presumably precipitated by either an oddly rapid onset of pneumonia or a silent but profound cardiac event.

I acknowledged the truth in that first instant – Mother’s life was rapidly coming to an end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My recollections of the ensuing eighteen hours are a blur of activity and people moving into and out of Mother’s room.

The “comfort care” medications, Roxanol and Intensol, were administered; hospice nurses came and went according to shifts; a family conference with the hospice chaplain; tears and anguished cries; family members, friends and fellow residents visited; more tears and laughter erupted sporadically as everyone spoke of Mother’s life; dinner was unexpectedly provided by the beloved family members of another resident; hugs – lots of hugs; a young, devoted private duty aide returned twice – on her own time – to continue her dedicated service to a much loved charge; more Roxanol; more Intensol; more tears; more laughter; more tears; more hand holding; silent conversations with Mom; and a hard working nursing home aide, despite completing his shift at 11 pm, who was determined to remain at Mother’s side, caring for her as well as his “second family” until …

Mom received a final dose of Roxanol.

Twenty minutes later, with her daughter, two sons, and a surrogate “family” of friends at her side, Mother was assured by each of us in turn that we would “be alright” – it was “ok” for her to “go.”

She then took one last breath and never relinquished it.

Mother’s long, wonderful life and decade’s long struggle with Parkinson’s disease came to an end with her death just before 4:00 am on Friday, January 14, 2011.

That last breath and her death were not peaceful, at least as far as I was concerned; the reality of both came at me with the force of a tidal wave; I immediately felt myself drowning in the waters of a very deep and painful private sorrow.

In that instant, I was forced to acknowledge that one of two people who had always been integral to my life was now gone – forever.

I will never again hear her laughing through tears as she delivered the punch line of a favorite joke.

I will never again hear her perky morning or afternoon greeting, “Hi, Sweetie!”

I will never again see her beautiful smile.

I will never again receive the gift of her kisses or feel the incredible strength of her tiny hand taking a firm grasp of my own.

I will never again hear her assure me with an, “I love you, Bobby.”

And, I will never again experience the intensity of her eyes locking with mine – as if peering into my soul.

No.

At that moment, her death became all too real; the promised separation could not be undone; her death was absolute.

And just as she was mercifully cut loose from the moorings of a long and blessed life ~ impaired, in the end, by debilitating infirmities ~ a part of me most surely died as well.

But even while no longer whole, I also knew that I would grieve and ultimately recover in a manner best suited for me.

And please forgive me if I ask that no one offer a recipe for grief, complete with certain ingredients and results; I will find my own way given time.

Life has taught me that Death is a mystery and is loathe to provide answers; alternatively, would any certain answer magically render the sting of Mother’s loss and our loneliness less painful?

No.

Unanswerable questions are a part of life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To this day, I still am haunted by the eight words spoken nine days earlier to a trusted friend after leaving the nursing home to the abyss of an imposed uncertain return,

“Mother will not be alive when I return.”

The Gift of Time



Mom

Lately, I don't have many thoughts about Mother without also thinking of a little boy named, Jax.

In the midst of the early morning phone call, I immediately set aside a block of time that same Saturday afternoon to speak with the young couple. The two of them had every reason to be concerned.

I also made the conscious decision to meet Rachel, then twenty-five weeks pregnant, and her husband, Marcus, in a less formal setting; another sterile, impersonal medical facility was surely the last place either of them wanted to be.

Rachel’s recent uterine sonogram had raised at least one red flag. The subsequent echocardiogram of their nascent son’s heart provided definitive evidence that all initial concerns had been warranted; their developing son was afflicted with one of the most complicated and challenging congenital cardiac anomalies, Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. By contacting me, Rachel and Marcus had hoped I might better describe both the constellation of defects associated with the syndrome as well as outlining a general roadmap for eventual treatment if their son was fortunate enough to survive beyond delivery.

The beautiful young couple was joined by her cousin, a second year medical student who brought an armload of the very same Netter Atlases of Anatomy that will become familiar to Marcus when entering medical school next fall. From the outset, the three seemed realistically mindful of the troublesome ramifications of the diagnosis while also maintaining their youthful optimism and demonstrating the requisite determination to meet the challenge head on.

With our meeting completed, I remember leaving feeling buoyed by their obvious strength, genuine expressions of faith, confident in a wellspring of support from family and friends, and decidedly humbled by their remarkable maturity in the face of this great uncertainty.

Rachel and Marcus were girding themselves to deal with whatever might come.

Three days later, however, I received another sobering message from Marcus who informed me of Rachel's amniocentesis results. The test revealed that her unborn son was faced with an even more daunting diagnosis, Trisomy 18, otherwise known as "Edward's Syndrome."

The news came as an immediate shock to my senses; it was one of those moments of surprise that often has you sensing a wave of electricity passing along the length of your spine.

With the duplication of but one seemingly insignificant strand of DNA that might mirror even a fraction of the 18th chromosome, their child’s fate was all but sealed.

Fifty percent of those born with this syndrome die within a week of birth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



JLH

On November 29, 2010, Jax Lee Hennon came into this world on his terms.

And what of his little heart?

The walnut-sized muscle was beating.

Despite any of the outward signs of imperfection brought upon by the genetic syndrome, the young couple looked at their second son and immediately declared him to be "perfect."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After twenty minutes holding her swaddled boy, Rachel was informed his pulse was rapidly growing more faint. Not wanting to deprive Marcus of intimately sharing some of these precious moments, Rachel relinquished their son, Jax, to his father's anxious arms. The memory of this moment prompted Marcus to later write of, “the life he would never lead that flashed through his Daddy’s eyes.”

“The first fall; the first snowman; T-Ball; High School; curfews; sending him off to College; meeting his wife; holding his first child; helping him fix a leaky faucet … as well as about 14,000 hugs along the way.”

"My son. My beautiful son! I Love You! I will always love you!"

“I was weeping and crying … my body was fatigued from the stress I was feeling from the tension of crying so hard. I noticed through the wells of salty water on my eyelids that I had been dripping tears on Jax. If he couldn't see or hear, maybe Jax felt my love through those tears as they washed over his weak little body."

Forty-five minutes after bounding prematurely into this world, Jax's little heart finally gave out.

Marcus went on to also write,

“Our son was now where we could not follow. We had so desperately held on to him, prayed for him to stay with us, and anxiously fought against his leaving. On the other side of time his Creator, grandpa, and two great-grandparents were patiently waiting … Jax had come to do what he was created for. His part here on earth was now done. Our capacity to love expanded beyond measure, the value of mankind became ever clearer, and the love of God triumphed again. Jax’s heart beat for forty-five minutes, but for the rest of time when we think of Jax's life, we will also hear the whispers of God's good grace.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reflections of Jax and his family are now intertwined with thoughts of Mother as she moves ever closer to her final days.

What I wouldn’t give for the opportunity to ask our late grandmother of the joy and elation she felt when ushering Mom into her life. As expressed by Rachel and Marcus, did Grandmother also deem Mother to be a perfect baby girl?

What I wouldn’t give for the opportunity to ask our late grandmother of all the unrecorded moments of Mother’s young life. Just as Marcus wrote, are the images of that which was experienced and yet unseen by my eyes over the course of her younger life somehow less important to me now?

While certainly not challenged with the genetics that would dramatically foreshorten her life, Mother’s frail little body does conspire against her today no less so than his genome guaranteed, from the moment of conception, nothing more than a brief sojourn for him here on this earth.

I do understand that none is guaranteed even a single moment of this precious commodity we call “life.”

But even as I declare an acceptance of this reality, I also continue to struggle as I seek to find answers to a good many unanswerable questions:

Why would nature allow an innocent like Jax to be conceived with the burden of potent and insurmountable odds levied against him; why would a loving God craft this beautiful boy using an unsustainable genetic paradigm?

Why would nature allow innocents like Mother to suffer under the yoke of needlessly horrific medical burdens? Why would a loving God allow some to pass away without pain during their sleep while countless others are made to endure years of cruel, inglorious decline?

Our family has spent the past few years bearing witness to Mother's painfully incremental physical and mental demise; it is an experience I would wish upon no one. But even as I have watched her life slowly ebb over time, I also struggle with recent decisions that would have the family no longer allow for the treatment of “treatable” conditions in the days or weeks ahead.

Like Marcus, I, too, have tried desperately to cling to any hope that Mother might remain with us for a while longer; after learning of the fateful treatment decision, my immediate thought was that neither she nor her loved ones should be deprived of even a moment of shared time.

“Take Rachel and Marcus as an example,” arguing to myself many times over, “surely they would have moved heaven and earth for but one additional minute with their son, Jax!”

Ten days after learning of the difficult care decision for Mother, aided by the benefit of that time to reflect on my feelings, I am now equally convinced Rachel, Marcus and their surviving son, Jace, might also be quick to add:

You need to be thankful for the gift of time you have been allowed to share at your Mother’s side.

But your Mother suffers now, no less so than did Jax during the final few minutes of his all too brief life.

No matter the difference in time allotted to each of us with loved ones, might it also be selfish not to grant your Mother leave to wash away the burden of mortal suffering and to move on to the promise of higher ground?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jax Lee Hennon. He lived, died, and offered valuable lessons within the span of but a single hour.

I will remain forever humbled by the dignity and courage exemplified by this young child and his loving family.

I also pray that when I am called upon one day to reflect on the life of our beautiful Mother, I, too, will be blessed with the guidance of the whispers of God’s good grace.

Marcus and JLH

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ada0867fbVM

Their remarkable and brave video.

Captured Life

Monday, November 15, 2010

Hospice Nurse:  "Who are the people in this picture, Dorothy?"

Mom:  "My babies!"

Mother continues to defy the odds.

Room 802

Whether conscious of it or not, when moving into a neighborhood we invariably become familiar with the rhythm and pace of our neighbor’s lives. I know a few people who would argue that this makes “nosy” people of all of us but, being neither cynical nor jaded, I have an entirely different point of view. I can’t help but believe this is simply a part of our nature; we are hard-wired to seek out the companionship of other people. And just as every family must learn to deal with the antics of a “crazy Uncle,” most newcomers eventually accept all of us as neighbors – foibles and all.

Moving on to a life within a nursing home is no exception.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every Wednesday, Honora’s daughter and son-in-law bring a hot meal for her to share with them in the Activity Room at GVM. While caring for Mother these past two years, we have come to eagerly anticipate the ritual of these dinners as it gives everyone the opportunity to catch up with the lives of those we have met and befriended along the way. The conversation, laughter and food that are the mainstay of these reunions, represent a welcomed temporary respite from the often harsh realities of life within the nursing home.

There was something different about the energy flowing from the Activity Room this past Wednesday, however, that didn’t escape the attention of another resident, Dominic. Despite suffering a stroke two years ago which left half of his body as well as his speech greatly impaired, Dominic’s razor-sharp mind seemed to tell him that he might be missing out on some excitement within the room. Never one to let such an opportunity pass, he slowly wheeled himself toward the commotion so as to quiet his growing curiosity.

While not surprised to see Honora’s family eating dinner at one of the many tables, he couldn’t help but notice the many young people milling about the room – some playing pool, others cramped together on a couch, and another two eating alongside their father. As the patriarch of a large and loving family, this scene must have surely resonated with Dominic. When I noticed him inching further into the room, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hoping to soak up some of the energy offered up by the young people.

With only another moment’s hesitation, however, he motioned me to his side. Pulling me close to him, he then mumbled, using the only patois left to him after the insult of his stroke, the garbled yet obvious question that was foremost on his mind,

“What’s going on?”

“Dominic,” I began, “these are the grandchildren of your neighbor, Aletha.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aletha became a resident at GVM nursing home two years before Mother. Having suffered with vague, sundry complaints of joint pain since her late teens, rheumatoid arthritis didn’t manifest itself fully until she was thirty-six years old, then a wife and mother with three teenagers of her own. During the intervening decades since her formal diagnosis, this cruel disease ravaged nearly every joint in her body. For all my years of practicing medicine, I had personally never encountered a more deforming and debilitating case of rheumatoid arthritis.

In the six years or so immediately preceding her arrival at GVM, the life Aletha had cultivated over many years began to unravel as a result of this merciless disease. Subjected to untold orthopedic surgical procedures as well as various stints undergoing inpatient rehabilitation, Aletha was eventually forced to come to terms with the reality that she would always require professional medical assistance as she carried on with her daily life; this is ultimately how she came to be a resident at GVM.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My family met Aletha and her husband, Leonard, soon after Mother arrived at the nursing home in July of 2008.

One wouldn’t necessarily be wrong when asserting I am prone to a level of familiarity with relative strangers that many good people simply don’t understand. Depending on my gut instinct when meeting someone, I often skip over introductions and small talk, taking the liberty of speaking to or joking with people as though I have known them over a lifetime. While many seem to understand and even appreciate this personality quirk of mine, others, admittedly, do not.

Aletha most certainly did NOT. Or so I thought.

Despite my best efforts, all initial attempts to charm this tiny woman seemed to fall flat. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t make headway with the doyenne of the 800 hall. I still wince at how effectively she could wither my fragile male ego with her knockout trio of silence, a glare that could melt ice, topped off with an ever-so-slow shake of her head. Like some tyrannical Queen from a book of childhood fairytales, Aletha held court from the perch of her Hoveround throne and might as well have been looking at me in those early days while declaring,

“I do not suffer fools gladly … and you fancy yourself my court jester? Off with your head!”

While clearly losing many of the early battles, I eventually conquered her heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t believe I truly had the opportunity to get to know and care for Aletha until after the death of her husband in the early days of 2009. Whereas many a widow may have elected to simply give up after the death of a beloved spouse, Aletha earned my respect and admiration for how she coped, at least outwardly, with his loss over time. As I became better acquainted with her over many months, I learned to appreciate her many strengths, passions, and resilience while also discovering that she was an extremely loving, amiable, devout, vulnerable as well as a wickedly funny old woman. Aletha was definitely my kind of girl.

Spending time reflecting on many of the elderly residents I have come to know at the nursing home these past two years, I often pondered the incredible physical hardships Aletha endured over more than fifty years at the whim of an indiscriminate and horrific disease. Given her cumulative suffering, she could have easily made a selfish decision long ago to simply live life on her own terms – to think only of her needs and concerns. And who would have blamed her?

Thankfully for her many family members and friends, Aletha didn’t make that choice; I seriously doubt she ever considered it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on?”

When answering Dominic’s question I hadn't yet realized he was posing a rhetorical question.

Over the past two days he had noticed the change in the flow of traffic within the 800 hall; more and more people were moving into and out of his neighbor’s room. His mind suspected that which was, as yet, unspoken but his heart didn’t want to believe it was true.

Aletha’s life was drawing to a close.

Someone asserted a belief to me this past week that “people go to nursing homes to die.”

I respectfully disagree.

On a practical level, Aletha and Mother entered the nursing home so they might obtain the level of professional assistance they could no longer achieve at home. Simply put, it was an appropriate decision for both of them.

Surely, moving into a nursing home is not simply "the beginning of the end."

I will freely admit, however, that it took me a long time to come to terms with the notion that transitioning Mother into the nursing home might represent yet another beginning.

But as a helpful friend explained to my sister, “Don’t look at this as a negative. Your Mother is simply moving on to yet another phase in her life. She is no more capable of living life on her own terms than you are able to run as fast as you could twenty years ago. It’s a fact of life.”

Over the four years of her life at GVM, Aletha became an adored member of yet another community of people both young and old. On some level, I am confident her family wouldn’t deny that the friendships and support offered within the nursing home could not have been matched had she remained at home. Her involvement within her new “neighborhood” became an invaluable asset both to Aletha and her many friends alike.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This past Saturday, Aletha’s family asked my brother and me to join them in her already crowded room as they prepared for her death. Standing at the foot of her bed reciting a silent prayer, I suddenly became aware of a low murmur percolating throughout the room. In a few seconds the sound became more pronounced and registered in my mind as the time-honored hymn, “Amazing Grace,” being sung by her entire family. My initial instinct was to leave the room out of respect for their privacy, but I was also struck by the honor of their invitation to join them – as family – to share in their sacred moment. Hymn followed hymn, each sung more boldly than the last, culminating with “In The Garden” bravely offered by her grandson, Joshua.

I stood in awe watching as family members and friends cried tears of both sorrow and joy for the Christian promise of eternal life awaiting their beloved, Aletha.

With amazing grace and abundant faith, they willingly offered her soul up to God.

The experience was profound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty-four hours later as the sun set on another beautiful, crisp Fall day, I was again privileged to stand alongside two of Aletha's grandsons as she relinquished her final breath.

Shepherded by her loving family, a team of compassionate hospice nurses, and a host of caring friends and neighbors made possible by her life lived within a nursing home over four years, Aletha’s long journey came to a fitting end exactly as she might have envisioned it.

In Room 802 – the last address she would ever call home.