End of the Road

I walked into that hospital room in Sonoma this afternoon and looked at the frail old woman lying in the nearest bed, and I knew at once. I felt that presence immediately. Death was in that room waiting, patiently or perhaps not, but there nonetheless. I saw it in the gray of her papery skin, from which it seemed that all the blood and fluids were slowly draining away. Her breath was shallow and fast as her lungs struggled to take in as much precious air as she was losing with each grunting exhale. Her good hand, tethered to the bed so she would not pull out the tubes and wires that invaded her body, moved restlessly and aimlessly on the bedcovers. Her eyes opened and closed but did not focus. Her mind wandered and could not focus. The son and daughter standing beside the bed realized clearly, for the first time since her devastating stroke a couple of weeks ago, that their mother was not going to win this final struggle, that she was slowly but inexorably slipping away, that Death was coming closer and closer and would soon claim her.

At first there had been encouraging talk. If she started to move her arm or her leg within a few days, maybe the damage would not be permanent. There was talk of convalescent homes, rehabilitation, physical therapy, coming home, hiring a nurse. Her life might pick up almost where it left off that afternoon when the clot suddenly broke away and smashed into her brain, leaving her damaged and helpless. Maybe her swallowing reflex would return with therapy so that she could eat real food, rather that being fed through the tube taped to the side of her nose. Maybe the nurses would be able to get her up so she could go to the bathroom on her own. Maybe she would soon be able to wear the dentures so carefully wrapped and placed in her bedside drawer and marked with her name. Maybe, maybe.

She was 88 this past October when her family gathered in Sonoma for a birthday party and family reunion. Ironically, we received the pictures from the party in the mail only an hour after we got the call informing us of the stroke. She was standing and smiling with her children and grandchildren, full of life, even though troubled by encroaching memory loss and the various aches and pains of advancing age. Now she lies in that hospital room, her failing body tied to life by tubes, waiting to be released from that shell that has become her prison. Her spirit has already retreated inward, preparing itself for flight….soon.

Meanwhile, her husband waits quietly up at the cemetery where she placed him almost exactly five years ago. Her five children now prepare to endure the loss of their other parent in their own very different ways. One son retreats further into his alcoholic haze. One daughter has yet to visit the hospital although she lives less that 30 minutes away-she claims she has too many responsibilities to "get away." The youngest son, who has spent most of his 50 years running from responsibility, is managing her household, coordinating with his siblings, and watching out for his drunken brother. The eldest daughter visits often, driving two hours each way to hold her mother’s hand and moisten her lips. She cries but keeps helping, doing her best as she has always done. The eldest son, the soon-to-be executor of the estate, gently whispers to his mother, then stands helplessly by her bed, his eyes filled with tears. He agonizes over the decisions he must make for his mother and worries about the family she will leave behind. I stand beside him and hold his hand.