Saturday, June 27, 2009

A Promise

Entering the room was like stepping into another threshold. It is startling to see her, completely alone, bent over with an oxygen mask, loud gurgling sounds coming from her gasping breath. I immediately notice how young she seems, compared to the other patients. Her hair is dark, not gray like the others I’ve visited, her is face smooth, barely showing the effects of someone approaching 60 years of age.

Lung cancer is what put her in this facility that normally houses seniors 15 to 20 years older. Having read that 90% of lung cancer patients smoked, I assume she is a smoker. Nevertheless, no one deserves to suffer from cancer.

The loud gurgling takes some adjustment to accept. If I don’t check myself, it can have make me very uncomfortable, even sickened. I walk over to her bedside and touch her hand, announcing who I am and how long I would be visiting. I stroke her hair; it’s so soft and beautiful. She may just as well be in her 30’s rather than late 50’s, it is all the same.

Second to her age, the other striking observance is all the tiny scars on both her arms. None of the nurses know for sure, but it is hard to dismiss it as anything but a desperate response to her declining condition, a form of self abuse. This made me especially sad, I didn’t want to stop touching and praying for her.

There are photos of her on the board across the room. They show her as a round, jolly looking woman. In two of the photos, as she is being hugged by characters from Disneyworld, she has a huge smile. The rest of the board is crowded with photos of her teenage grandchildren and a recent high school graduation announcement. A yellow note pad documents visits from the hospice nurse and others, including her sister who is the only one to see her regularly in these last few days.

A short time after arriving, I notice mucus building up in her mask. I call the nurse’s attention to it. They clean it out, suction her throat, then adjust her position. The gurgling doesn’t improve but the mucus no longer fills up her mask. I can hear her moan until she is given some meds, then the moans faded but her struggle to breathe continues. I have an impulse to call everyone I know and beg them not to smoke, but no one will believe it will happen to them.

I settle into my newspaper, and then my book. I forget where I am and what I am doing for a little while. The room is cold from the low set air conditioner. When I step out to get a hot cup of coffee, I re-enter the world of bustling nurses and seniors chatting in the hallways. I wonder if anyone knows there is a woman dying in here, but It seems best left unnoticed. It too easy to enter and exit her room, walking between two worlds: one bright, busy, alive, and full of people; the other dimly lit by daylight leaking in from the closed blinds, accompanied by a life and death struggle, but still serene and compelling to me.

Her illness must have taken hold quickly, as it does with lung cancer. The older patients I’ve been with don’t want to die, but they are more resigned to the reality. Those under 65 don’t know how to stop living, or why they should have to prematurely end their life. All I ever want for these patients is for them to let go, not resist the process. Everyone else seems to know they are not going to win the battle but I don’t always know if the patients understand that.

I am not sure what makes me want to look into the face of those who are dying. I do know it is something I feel called to do, a compelling desire, and an oddly comfortable one too. I am not certain if I am on some kind of personal mission to make sure no one dies alone, or if am I trying to find something out about myself?

I do know as I’m staring right down the barrel of death when I look into their eyes I’m not afraid. Maybe it’s because I know the promise of Jesus calls me so I may escort those in transition to His outstretched arms. It is my faith that brought me here in this room, and my belief that accepts who He is and what He does. ©

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