Holiday Vigil

December 31, 2003-This quiet house, this time to myself, a call to my sister and a good night’s sleep (on clean sheets!), all blessings I can count and be thankful for.

It’s noon and my husband has gone back to bed, his sister too is still sleeping. That blessed place of no thought; no decisions, no suppression.

Where can we turn for help when it’s time to let go? It’s such a permanent place, the end. No more good-byes. No more waiting for hellos. There’s no quiet way to do it. Or it’s only quiet and the world is so noisy- how can we even understand it?

You can turn your life around and around in your hand, try to find meaning in every connection, every strand, but you can’t change any of it by looking. You can put things off- like hugs and tears and torrents. But you don’t want your anger working its way in. Better to look at the sun.

We’re all of us getting numb. Bad news or good reports all sound the same. The waiting is a process of filling time with human needs. It’s good to be near a toilet. A bed is where we’ll end up, but a chair is full of relief too.

Oranges, water, chocolate, a daily dose of coffee and some protein source- cheese, nuts, eggs or meat is what we live on. Otherwise it’s just whatever is at hand. I won’t let my own needs get to shouting- I cut them off or meet them quickly.

The torch I carry is to light up the moment and “the plan.” I look in their eyes for a hint of their needs. Take time to listen and shut up my mind from wanting to be center stage. My life’s memories are useful sometimes, but usually not needed. I’m walking behind with a bucket to put their ideas in, and bring them out when needed. I try not to keep too much trash.

It’s hard when you know that the simple pleasure of a sip of water is denied for the sake of staying alive. Would you want to live with that longing? But how can we say, “You can have the water but it will cost you your life.” Whose decision is that? Or is it right for that to even be a decision?

This limbo has a financial reality too. Whose money are we spending now? We’re not making any while we are here. Eventually one pot will fill another. And one pot will stop being filled. The checks will stop coming. The bills will have to be “Paid in Full.” The acquisitions of a life will be redeemed and a value found for them, then divided. There could be some discrepancies. Money owed or hardships never repaid. A line will have to be drawn and signatures placed there. Then there will be peace.

-While a mother’s body rests somewhere in the North Carolina next to a husband. This is what will happen- hasn’t happened, but will happen.

And I will keep walking behind with my bucket, missing my old life in new ways. Mostly I miss my cats. I say this frequently to myself. Counting how many times, less each day until the day I know I’m coming home, then a lot again. I feel bad for them. They’re in the dark. They don’t know why we keep leaving them for days. Even with someone coming over-thank God that worked out- but even that isn’t what they want. They want normal. After only one hour they looked healthy again last time. One hour of normal! That’s all it took! The last normal thing I remember doing in 2003 was wearing myself out wrapping Christmas presents. They are still sitting on my kitchen table at home.

I was feeling better after a day of rest too. And that’s all I got, 24 hours to be exact. Then we were on our way here again. Another set-back, another crisis, sent us driving through the night again because it might be her last. We arrived when everyone else was just getting up except the night shift- they were like us.

But that day dragged on to this day and may look a lot like tomorrow. Though the year is changing, we are in some other time. A time that doesn’t have days, only hours, dark ones and bright ones- with the sun seeming to be our enemy, sucking the life out of us through our eyes. And darkness like the changing shift of nurses just arriving, re-arranging things, putting in some stars, part of a moon setting, restaurant lights glowing in multi-colors.

I make art in my mind out of trees against the dying blue background, or the reflections in the many bays and ponds here. I keep it to myself because there is always something to attend to; paying attention to the conversation, trying not to think about what I will do when I get home, where I will put my things away, where I will sit and watch my cats clean themselves contentedly.

I told God (and a lot of other people) that I wanted to travel more. This isn’t what I thought it would be like when He answered. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted but I’m not complaining, just saying it’s rather odd how He does things

So I pick up on the conversation about what we did, who we knew, and where we went. I’m practicing for my job as a journalist except for one thing. I will ask why- something avoided in the news because that would be feelings, opinions and mistakes. But I’ll ask why because I want them to have the opportunity to say more. Tell me more. Why are you telling me this? Why does this story matter to you? Who does this make you?

Back when she could talk we didn’t have much to say either. Just talk about friends, relatives, the old stories. You get a laugh (a smile from her) when you make fun of her eccentricities; her love of cleaning, her fears about money. But don’t mention the things that really get her mad. That sends the blood pressure gages to buzzing or she starts shifting in the bed too much and is going to pull out the wires to the machine keeping her heart beating.

Her eyes moved slowly in her head like a robot’s. At least that’s how I remember them now that you hardly ever see them.

The first day we arrived no one even touched her when we finally saw her. We were so flustered and she looked so fragile. Then we all hugged her before we left and she said, “Love you” to each one of us. It was the first time she said that to me. Not that she doesn’t love me in some way- I’ve just never been a real part of the family, even though I’ve been with her son for 10 years. I’m not the “first.” I’ll always be an outsider. But I don’t mind that.

Now we (her daughter and me) put the drops in her eyes and sponge out her mouth like we’re old pros at it. We’re not really, but being family has its privileges or is it responsibilities? You just can’t do nothing when someone is so weak there in front of you.

And she’s their mother. They must be really hurting inside to see her so helpless and needy. Especially now that all she can do is mumble a few words and we try to guess it, and it only sounds like “water, water”, and “I don’t want to die” in a small child-like voice. What can they do but let her hold on?

She used to be so strong, just a few days ago saying, “I don’t’ want nothing foreign in my body,” back when they were going to put in a permanent pace-maker. They aren’t going to do that now. Question is- what are they going to do? Keep her in the temporary one forever? That’s not temporary.

We are all in this life temporarily. Where we go after this is anyone’s guess. Where we came from, and whatever meaning we attach to what all this is, is our own personal choice. If we have friends who care about us while we’re here that can be enough. Once we’re gone it’ll hurt for a while but they will move on, and that’s fine too.

I’m always anxious to get to the hospital. Those two drag their feet all day, sleep late and stay up watching TV. It’s not that they dread going, I don’t think, just the inevitability- it’s coming, why hurry it.

But I want to be there to catch the doctor. See if I can get him to say there is something we can do to make this better. There are no words for this. Just hinting and making it plain what her wishes were- even though she seems different now.

The doctor is very diplomatic, choosing his words carefully. He picks through them like delicate flowers and hands each one over cautiously. To family, he knows all of these things are bad.

Plus, they have all been here a thousand times; the doctors and the nurses with their tasks at hand and all knowing eyes. They treat us like good medicine, a little difficult to administer, but needed for there to be any progress at all. Which is what they think we expect- progress, because life is for the living, right?

We’re not sure what we want but it isn’t this. A life where everything is measured- breaths, beats, pulses, even urine. Her life is a chart now. We watch the cc’s fill up the bag and are pleased when there is plenty. Yet she cries for water and they say she can’t have it. She is fed through a tube now so they can measure that too. Why? -There’s that question again hardly ever asked.

I’m sure it’s all sensible and rational. You can do only so much, and you have to do it. One day her own heart rhythm will break through the pace-maker- that’s what they call it- breaking through. She’s always had such a strong will- that’s what I call it- her will. One day it is bound to break through, or let go, one or the other.

Later at the hospital Critical Care Unit I can say I understand and I understand. It’s not my fight so I won’t try to fight for her. I won’t try to peel back the layers of self-preservation that have wrapped themselves around her like a web. I won’t say what no one wants to hear because I know waiting is safer for you and just as effective. But I just can’t watch anymore.

I take my anger out to the waiting room. Reminders of the real world enter in. It’s New Year’s Eve and the announcers on TV seem like they are from another world. Tonight we will sit quietly in her little house and wait. Not for a new year, but for a change- something to give us hope that this agony will soon be over.

Nanzar!

Hi, there were some really beautiful metaphors? Similies? Well, some really bold things that stood out for me, and i thought i would tell you some of them.

quote:

---

My life’s memories are useful sometimes, but usually not needed. I’m walking behind with a bucket to put their ideas in, and bring them out when needed. I try not to keep too much trash.

---

and.....

quote:

---

The doctor is very diplomatic, choosing his words carefully. He picks through them like delicate flowers and hands each one over cautiously.

---

and....

quote:

---

A life where everything is measured- breaths, beats, pulses, even urine. Her life is a chart now. We watch the cc’s fill up the bag and are pleased when there is plenty. Yet she cries for water and they say she can’t have it.

---

and last but not least....

quote:

---

I take my anger out to the waiting room. Reminders of the real world enter in. It’s New Year’s Eve and the announcers on TV seem like they are from another world. Tonight we will sit quietly in her little house and wait. Not for a new year, but for a change- something to give us hope that this agony will soon be over.

---

Writing like this isn't asking to be judged i think, just to be heard or said or momentarily off your chest. I just wanted to say these bits came with me when i walked away from it. They were beautiful and haunting at the same time. Thanks for sharing those thoughts so beautifully.

my regards,
mons

"I never understood the whole 'no cruel and unusual' punishment thing. If it's not cruel and unusual, it' not punishment." - PFJ

Thank You mons

Even though these kinds of experiences are personal and writing them down is like therapy, when they are heard by someone else they take on new meaning. To convey one's feelings well is the heart of good writing, so I thank you for responding with your impressions.

Nanzar,

I hadn't yet read this until right at this moment (even though I'd been posting things up in here)...and while the length made me hesitate to do so, I'm glad I did. It...I dunno, I kind of feel like mons in the way of that I don't feel right saying what I "think" about the writing because it feels more like you wanted to write things down, share them, and maybe just have people share in that moment with you. In that case, I will say something about that...

I'm glad I read this because I could understand or emphasize with the situation in a way. Reading it all reminded me of when my Grammy was in her last days. How they wanted to put her on all these things to prolong her life, but she had clearly stated she didn't want that. *pauses* It's weird because...I wasn't there...when she died. But I feel like I was. From the accounts I've heard, the details-- they're so descriptive that I have the image in my head permanently. And it's hard...it's hard to sit and watch someone go through her last days, and it's hard to lastly sit there and watch her die.

To this day, that image of her death stays with me and every time I think about it, I can't help but cry. Even if I'm able to get through most other things in relation to my Grammy or her death, I can't with that. It's the little things – my mom holding her hand, the nurse listening to her pulse as it weakened, both my aunt and my mom telling Grammy it was okay to let go- that they were there with her and wouldn't leave her, and how after they said that, she slipped away, stopped breathing...and how my mom and my aunt sobbed like they've never sobbed before in each other's arms. Dang...even just typing that, I got all teary-eyed.

It's also weird because...I understand the feeling of it being a "happy occasion" (New Years Eve), but yet, you aren't feeling the happiness because of all that's going on around you. That was how it was for me back when Grammy died.

And you feel angry...but then you feel bad for being angry because she can't help it or what she's putting you through. You just want a touch of normal, of the way things used to be, but things are forever changed...and that makes you angrier.

Does the anger die someday? The bitterness? It does...may take a long time, but it does. And in it's place, you begin to let go, which is hard too.

*little smile* And notice how it's so much easier to talk about this in the "you" form rather than say "I" when I'm saying how I feel? How it's easier to detach myself from the reality?

Maybe it never gets easier... you just learn how to continue living despite it being hard.

~Keri



"If one day you discover him
Broken down, he's lost everything
No cars, no fancy clothes to make him who he's not
The woman at his side is all that he's got
Why do you ask him to move Heaven and earth to prove his love has worth?

Would he walk on water?
Would he run through fire?
Would he stand before you when it's down to the wire?
Would he be your anchor when the dark unfolds?
Will he always love you the best that he knows?
Would he give his life up to be all he can?
Is that how you measure a man?"

I don't mind talking about the writing.

I wrote this piece as it was happening, and in a state of mind that was difficult even for me to comprehend.

What I hoped about the writing was that I would tell a story without ever telling it, so that it would reveal itself in the moment and the reader would feel like they are in the moment too, perhaps even feel the state of mind I was in.

I feel now that this piece doesn't really give enough detail. In a re-write I would use some of this but add in more detail.

Gabber
Thanks for sharing your experience. I wish I had that sense of completion, and that picture in my mind of a peaceful end. Right now things are not going well. Her family is far away- trying to live their lives, and waiting, wondering what more we can do. The hospitals take over your life when you are too weak to fight them. As family we only have so much control. We are working on a plan to get her out of there. We may even have to move there to make sure she can live- and die - in peace.

Thanks for your concern

WOW! Nanzar, that was beautiful and amazing! That's exactly what I went through not too long ago. And there's no way I could have described it with such clarity! Everything you wrote is so right on. Nothing about it is easy. And yet you know that it would be unfair to make it about you. So you go through what feels like strength training in self control. You watch as people attempt to sacrifice comfort for a longevity that doesn't exist. But you know that it's that person's right to deal with what's to come in their own way. But the anger that courses through you is such a challenge. And there are difficulties on so many levels. The best I could think to do was to live moment to moment. Because, otherwise, the past and the future would swallow me. And what good would I be to the family then?

It sounds like your MIL is very lucky to have you. To be cared about and loved like that in these times is a gift that too many people never receive. I feel that even after they can't communicate, they know that they're not alone. They know that they are loved. And sometimes that can get you through to the next hour or minute. I know you must be making some intense sacrifices to do this for her. And that is so beautiful. Be proud of yourself, Nanzar, because what you are doing is amazing and so are you. Wishing you the best.

-Chi

Thank you Chiana. Your response (as others) was very touching. I am teared up. I wish I could feel like I was doing enough. I hope a time comes when I can at least try to do more. The waiting and ineffectiveness is very defeating.

Though my faith is not weakened, if my prayers are being answered I wouldn't know it. I can only hope that they are.