My 92-year-old
mother-in-law is in hospice, a day or two from death according to the
nurse. Her six adult children have
gathered, and because the facility is a beautiful home with gentle, attentive
staff, they are free to read to her, sing hymns with the music therapist, and
stroke her head and hands.
Jill Rice had eight
children in twelve years, each one confident, unique and adored. While she sleeps and her breathing changes,
while they administer pain meds every two hours, the siblings plan the funeral,
write the obituary, and share memories with various cousins, grandchildren, and
in-laws who visit. Someone is always
with her, and when I left the other day, the room had filled with eight of us.
She is
having a good death. And her dying brings up memories and questions: I’ve lost
both parents, one quickly and one in hospice care. I have regrets about how I showed up around both deaths.
I don’t have children--who will attend my death? Years ago I was a
volunteer with hospice, and during the extensive training a group
of four women spoke to us. They had worked
with a patient who didn’t have family, tag teaming for weeks so she was never alone. Would strangers do that for
me?
In the end, I
suppose it won’t matter because I’ll be dying. Although I hope to die quickly and gently in
my sleep after a day spent golfing, writing, and visiting with friends, I’m not
sure we get to precisely plan our exit. I just hope we have some say in the
when and how and that my ending will be surprising and fast, for everyone’s
sake. In the meantime, I marvel at the love of the Rices for this beautiful spirit
who was their mom.
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