the unanticipated goodbyes

My second experience with hospice in the first 28 days of this new year. This time it was my grandfather. I had not seen him in many years and I was too late to talk with him before he slipped into a coma last week. So when I flew down to Georgia to see him I remembered the words I’d read in a hospice pamphlet just three weeks earlier when my mother-in-law passed. The hearing is one of the last things to go.

When I arrived at the hospital I ignored the wave of emotions that came from seeing family I had not spoken with in years, from seeing my Dad who, God love him, has been little more than a flash of appearances in my life since I was nine years old. I went to the hospital room to see my grandfather, my Paw Paw. He was receiving seven different medications through his IV and hooked up to round-the-clock dialysis. His ventilator pushed into his mouth and throat holding it open, drying out his mouth so it got crusty on the edges and his jaw was painfully locked into place. He had a tube going from his nose to his stomach.  His arms and legs were swollen from all the fluid that had pooled in his limbs from lying down for days. Just a few nights prior he had coded and was brought back to life after eight long minutes of CPR. His heart rate had been beating in the 150’s for days. So there he was, a shadow of the proud man with thick silver hair, a quick temper, but endearing brown eyes that I remembered. I held onto his shoulder, leaned into his ear,

“Hey Paw Paw. It’s me, Christy. I came to see you. I’ve missed you. I love you.”

The next few days I sat with family as we told stories, laughed until we cried, and took turns stepping back into the tiny ICU room where Paw Paw lay. My sister joined us after a couple of days and in that short time we learned a lot about that side of our family and about ourselves. Like where my sister got her obsession for a clean house and ironed pillow cases, our inclination towards heartburn and constipation and irreverent humor. And worst of all, the tendency to fight, and hold grudges, and miss out on the chance to love one another, to lean on one another, and to be there when one of us was close to death.

There was a final attempt at a procedure to regulate his heartbeat. A cardioversion. It failed. Then came the acknowledgement that there was nothing else to be done and with it the discussion of hospice. Paw Paw was moved to hospice the next day with one bag each of only two of the medications, the ventilator, and two different narcotics to calm his breathing and keep him still and pain-free. My grandmother stayed by his side, holding his hand, talking to him in her sweet Southern way. Lots of “sugar” and “baby” and “bless his heart.” The room was comfortable. Large enough for all of us and large enough for our stories and large enough for our laughter and our tears.

I have very little experience with hospice but I know this to be true:To be witness to someone nearing death is heart-wrenching and peaceful at the same time. It is an honor and a privilege and a gift and a chance to learn a lot about people. To be present when someone is in such a vulnerable place, fearing or accepting death, feeling surrounded by those they love or hopelessly alone as they cross over, that is like nothing else. To hear last wishes or realize that you will never hear those last wishes, to see the body as it systematically shuts itself down,  to experience the grace and wisdom and forgiveness and purity of a dying person is to be propelled forward into life and forced to grow into that corner of yourself that you thought you still had years to consider before before facing.

And so you gather the strength it takes to smile and cry and speak softly and make a promise and express love and ask for forgiveness and run your fingers through their hair and put your unproductive thoughts aside and lean closely into their ear and say,

“I love you. It’s ok to go. I’ll miss you and I’ll be ok.”

Because the hearing is one of the last things to go.