Every Thursday I take three hours out of my day...
To watch someone's life ebb away.
It seems almost cruel for me to waltz in there, all cheery and good deed'y. To skip around the room, smiling brightly about everything and anything. I can leave the room in the end. She will not.
She says please for everything, "will you please see if there is anymore peanut butter, please turn on the DVD player, please leave the door." Would we all say please if we knew we were to never leave the room?
It seems almost cruel to come in there, panting and out of breath, still bearing the musty scent of rain, hair all curled and frizzy. "I've been outside today too," she says, and indeed she has, pushed by a nurse, for the nurse's cigarette break. I've been outside, because I went from place to place, walked on my own feet, stood on crowded platforms, jumped for a seat. I've been outside living my life and you've been outside for a cigarette break.
I keep thinking I'll change, I keep thinking that today I'll really appreciate life. I do- in my own little way. I appreciate the way I am too busy to appreciate life.
Every Thursday I try to come up with original excuses why I cannot go. It's something awful to go week after week, with the same false cheer. "Excuse me, I know you're dying but would you like a soda?" "How are you feeling today?"
What is she supposed to answer, "Oh I think I may live a few more weeks?"
So we continue the charade, I with the cheeriness and she with the hope. Because all a dying person has is hope. The sad kind of hope. We chat about her children, which high-school the eighth grader is going to, knowing full well she will not see her child enter that grade.
I often want to ask her, aren't you scared, aren't you sad? I'm scared for her, I'm sad for her.
My problem with death is that it does not affect me as it does others. I walk out of there, count my lucky stars and go grab some dinner. Because in the end, we are all human.
Tolstoy is right, we are glad it isn't us.
We are sad that it is someone else, but every time I'm home, I hug my mother a little tighter.
Because Tolstoy is right, ("The Death of Ivan Illych") we are glad it is not us.
It seems almost cruel for me to waltz in there, all cheery and good deed'y. To skip around the room, smiling brightly about everything and anything. I can leave the room in the end. She will not.
She says please for everything, "will you please see if there is anymore peanut butter, please turn on the DVD player, please leave the door." Would we all say please if we knew we were to never leave the room?
It seems almost cruel to come in there, panting and out of breath, still bearing the musty scent of rain, hair all curled and frizzy. "I've been outside today too," she says, and indeed she has, pushed by a nurse, for the nurse's cigarette break. I've been outside, because I went from place to place, walked on my own feet, stood on crowded platforms, jumped for a seat. I've been outside living my life and you've been outside for a cigarette break.
I keep thinking I'll change, I keep thinking that today I'll really appreciate life. I do- in my own little way. I appreciate the way I am too busy to appreciate life.
Every Thursday I try to come up with original excuses why I cannot go. It's something awful to go week after week, with the same false cheer. "Excuse me, I know you're dying but would you like a soda?" "How are you feeling today?"
What is she supposed to answer, "Oh I think I may live a few more weeks?"
So we continue the charade, I with the cheeriness and she with the hope. Because all a dying person has is hope. The sad kind of hope. We chat about her children, which high-school the eighth grader is going to, knowing full well she will not see her child enter that grade.
I often want to ask her, aren't you scared, aren't you sad? I'm scared for her, I'm sad for her.
My problem with death is that it does not affect me as it does others. I walk out of there, count my lucky stars and go grab some dinner. Because in the end, we are all human.
Tolstoy is right, we are glad it isn't us.
We are sad that it is someone else, but every time I'm home, I hug my mother a little tighter.
Because Tolstoy is right, ("The Death of Ivan Illych") we are glad it is not us.
posted by Rachel at
5:27 PM
5 Comments:
How agonizing, but at least you're giving her the momentary pleasure in her final days. We live life to live, not to die. If someone were to know their oncoming death, they would make the most out of their final moments, not sulking over the end. And if you are there giving here her final moments of joy, good for you. It's not something that you can gain from, it's Chessed Shel Emes.
Maybe this is your mission {"for 70-80 years... just to do a favor for another"}. It's hard to see the joy, but imagine the pleasure that you are giving her. You must find satisfaction.
I too am becoming numb to death. I remember losing sleep when my friends grandfather passed away. It struck me then that people suffer. But now that feeling is gone. I'm used to it. I see it so often. I had an incident last week where I momentarily thought that I might have been the cause of someone's murder. I forgot to deliver a message. It bothered me for a second, but only because I was surprised, not because I felt bad. Thankfully, I wasn't responsible in any way, but it struck me how far I've come from being sensitive about death.
By
Nemo, at 8:07 AM
We are all human, but don't focus on the shaudenfreude that is inevitable. Instead focus on what Nemo said; the fact that you are there and affording her human contact at a time when it must be so diifficult for her own family to bear. Please never lose your sensitivity- you are a very special person.
By
kasamba, at 9:07 AM
hey, super great blog! looking forward to additional posts!
By
kaenahora, at 4:25 PM
love your blog
By
Anonymous, at 1:12 PM
Thanks everyone... it is hard- especially since I know this woman since I was born. It's scary to leave the room wondering if she'll be there next week.
By
Rachel, at 9:58 PM
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