A Reflection on Death and Dying

I watch her breathe . . . quick shallow breathes,
and I see the IV drip its medicine and morphine into her arm.
They provide an artificial, but necessary, peace
and a relief from any pain she may feel.
I listen to the oxygen as it bubbles in the water in the small jar hanging on the wall behind her bed
and I hear, as she exhales, the gurgling sounds of congestion and struggle.

Her chest rises and falls with each swallow of air,
and she tosses and turns on her bed.
At one point she turns on her side and her hand finds mine resting on the bed and she grasps it in her sleep.
Her grip is still strong, and she squeezes my hand and holds on to it.
I wonder if she is dreaming and if she sees in her dreams her husband or her son or a daughter or a long lost friend.

I imagine her talking to a friend,
speaking her mind, as she has always done since I have known her.
After all, when woman reaches a certain age
(and she is now 85),
she is exempt from holding her tongue,
she can say what she thinks, when she thinks it,
and no one is allowed to reproach her with remarks like,
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” or
“You really should keep those kinds of thought to yourself.”

But tonight the only word she could say was “okay.”
“Bettie, I’m going to pray with you now.”
“Okay.”
Bettie, I’ll be back later tonight.  I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”

And so here I am, back at her bedside.
No one else is here now.
But someone before me has attempted to fill the silence and beat back death by turning on the TV and turning up the volume so that a constant chatter fills the air. 
The darkness has also been kept at bay, at least temporarily, in the fluorescent lights that glare right above her head —
lights that flicker from time to time and cast a unhealthy pallor over everyone and everything in the room.
It would be bad enough without them,
but with them on, even the most vigorous of people look pale and sickly.

I turn down the volume of the TV,
and I call out her name,
but there is no response.
She can’t hear me or maybe she can’t respond.
I don’t know which,
and so I pray . . .
Our Father in heaven,
holy is your name . . .

I quote some scriptures that I know by heart . . .
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. . .
I love the Lord, because he hears my prayers and answers them. . .
I lift up my eyes to the hills . . .

And then I sing softly and slowly.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come.
Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

And then,

I am a poor wayfaring stranger . . .
I wonder as I wander . . .
When I survey the wondrous cross . . .

I sing song after song until silence creeps into my heart and back into the room.
I hold her hand and watch her breathing.

I think about other bedsides I have attended,
and other men and women I have prayed for and over.
I am all too familiar with death,
with what it looks like and how it sounds.
If the truth be told,
I am sick to death of it.
And yet, here it is again . . . and soon enough it will take another life from us.

I sit and wait and listen.
I watch her breathing,
and I can feel the slight tremors in her hand and her papery thin skin,
stretched and relieved, for a time, of its wrinkles.
Finally I pray again.
I pray for her peace,
for the grace of God to be with her.
I pray for her family and friends, for their consolation.
And I pray for myself - for the people I have known and loved and lost.
I squeeze her hand one more time,
and I lean down over her face,
“Bettie,” I say, “I will see you in the morning.”
But no “okay” is forthcoming from her now,
and so I add it myself, “Okay. . . okay.”

Written on Friday evening, June 1st after visiting with Bettie between 10 and 11:30 pm.  Bettie died this morning at 7:20 am.  I went to see her one last time just after 8 am.