O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.

Saying Goodbye to Gloria

Early this morning my first Hospice patient, "Gloria," died peacefully in her sleep. I know this is the natural outcome of most Hospice stays, but it's my first experience with the death of a resident. I'm glad I had those four visits with her during training and then as a supervised volunteer...but I so wish I had had one last visit. In fact, my husband and I were called a few days ago to volunteer either last night or tonight, and by the time we responded, only tonight was still open. We'll be there with only one resident, who no doubt will be sound asleep, as we have the last shift of the evening. I can't tell a lie, this is hard for me. It's my faith tradition to believe that Gloria is in a better place now. I was lucky in that the last time I sat with her, we had a lively conversation about Thanksgiving Dinner. She was in and out of our reality; at one point she asked me how many people were coming (I said 6), how we should cook the turkey (I vetoed the pressure cooker), and if dinner would be held "here." In class later that week, I asked the instructors if it's OK to go with the reality of the dying...they said yes...so Gloria and I had planned a feast for either the past or the future...perhaps for both. Time seems very elastic for the dying. It is hard to say goodbye. Even though I only knew Gloria for a brief while, we took comfort in each other's presence. She tolerated my singing (for the most part), and I held her hand while she dropped off to sleep. As a Hospice volunteer, I know this pattern will repeat itself over and over again. I only hope that I can be fully present, be engaged, and then be able to step away as each person makes their final journey. Good bye, Gloria. May your Thanksgiving feast be a beautiful one.