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Mamaw
April 9, 2017
The head of the bed was raised slightly and the foot of the bed was eased in the direction of the bay window. Hospice had placed the hospital bed in the living room so she would be in close proximity to those who were caring for her at all times. Her eyes rarely opened but, like a compass facing north, her face always found the warmth of the sun’s rays.
She was in her late 90’s when I married her grandson and came to know her. She held many titles: mother, sister, caretaker, daughter, grandmother – I knew her as Mamaw. She had been a department store worker in her working years and provided for her family her entire life. She was a woman of fierce faith and gentle hospitality. She loved deeply and laughed as often as she cried. She held close the traditions of family and the ties that bind us together. When I met her I could see none of that.
I had moved to Tennessee from Wisconsin where I had been working as a Nursing Assistant. I had been working for the elderly patrons of an assisted living facility. Most of the patrons had dementia of some sort, the most common was Alzheimer’s. Those who didn’t have cognitive decline had a terminal illness that threatened to take their lives before old age had its turn. These were the hospice patrons. The hospice practitioners preferred for the care staff to call it “end of life care” but we knew the truth – they came to die.
I tried my best not to get attached. When you don’t know someone you can’t care about them and their death will not be personal, you will not cry. This was my mantra. I told myself that every day. I went to work, I trimmed their toenails, did their laundry, bathed and dressed them and visited with them five days a week for over two years. I promised myself I would not get attached. I failed.
With each passing day I found myself more and more enamored with their stories, with their knowledge. Every time I knocked on a door in the morning and I entered their world, they smiled at my presence. They were glad I was there, to share time, to listen, to live. There was no defense for it – my heart broke and I came to care deeply for them. They were no longer my patients, patrons of assisted living, they were my friends with whom I walked the pathways of life for two years.
One morning one of my patients, who had been sent by hospice to live out the remainder of his days, took a turn for the worse. When I answered his call light I found him covered in blood and mucus. I called for the Nurse and she and I changed his clothing and bedding and maneuvered him into a more comfortable position with the head of his bed raised slightly. By the time things had quieted down my shift was over. I clocked out and went to his room to check on him. He was asleep, but barely breathing. I was afraid that he had passed away so I went to check his pulse. He opened his big brown eyes and looked right at me and said, “Please don’t leave.” I stayed, off the clock, for the rest of the afternoon. He coughed and choked and gasped for air, but he never again spoke. He died just a few hours later, his hand between mine.
I was heartbroken and forever changed. I broke down and decided to leave nursing altogether. I moved to Tennessee where I met my husband and his family, including his grandmother – Mamaw. When I met her she had been in a slow decline as a result of vascular dementia. She didn’t recognize her daughter or her grandchildren anymore and she often woke up to a home full of the closest strangers she’d ever known. She was lost without a compass and she was slipping fast.
As a Nurse’s Aide it was logical for me to help in providing care for her at home. I vowed I would not become attached. I would not let her in, because it would only lead to heartbreak and tears. I did my best to tell myself that she was already just a shell of a human being. She was no longer herself. She was no longer the Mamaw that my husband remembered. With great effort I tried to keep her out of my heart, to not care for her, but again I was a failure. It was no longer a fight I could win and I broke down and loved her.
Her health continued to decline and by the time hospice became involved she was barely eating or drinking. She spent most of her days with her eyes closed asleep in the hospital bed facing the living room windows. I made it a point to sit with her every day and talk with her. I use the word with deliberately here because, even though she didn’t contribute words to our conversations, I learned more from her than from years at school. Her calm demeanor in the face of unthinkable confusion and loss gave me courage and taught me hope. When she fought her way to opening her eyes, even though the moments were brief, she always had a smile on her face. As I sat at her bedside and talked to her about beautiful birds I had seen that day or about the sound of the rain I started to appreciate every little detail of life. In my pity for her life and what it had become I found myself growing more and more in love with all of life – the good and the bad. I realized that her beautiful life had become a page in my life and in doing so, her story never really ended – it just went on to a new chapter. Life, in all of its varied states, is beautiful and perfect. This, a lesson I learned from a woman on her deathbed who never spoke a word.
© Nikkia4Fun
The head of the bed was raised slightly and the foot of the bed was eased in the direction of the bay window. Hospice had placed the hospital bed in the living room so she would be in close proximity to those who were caring for her at all times. Her eyes rarely opened but, like a compass facing north, her face always found the warmth of the sun’s rays.
She was in her late 90’s when I married her grandson and came to know her. She held many titles: mother, sister, caretaker, daughter, grandmother – I knew her as Mamaw. She had been a department store worker in her working years and provided for her family her entire life. She was a woman of fierce faith and gentle hospitality. She loved deeply and laughed as often as she cried. She held close the traditions of family and the ties that bind us together. When I met her I could see none of that.
I had moved to Tennessee from Wisconsin where I had been working as a Nursing Assistant. I had been working for the elderly patrons of an assisted living facility. Most of the patrons had dementia of some sort, the most common was Alzheimer’s. Those who didn’t have cognitive decline had a terminal illness that threatened to take their lives before old age had its turn. These were the hospice patrons. The hospice practitioners preferred for the care staff to call it “end of life care” but we knew the truth – they came to die.
I tried my best not to get attached. When you don’t know someone you can’t care about them and their death will not be personal, you will not cry. This was my mantra. I told myself that every day. I went to work, I trimmed their toenails, did their laundry, bathed and dressed them and visited with them five days a week for over two years. I promised myself I would not get attached. I failed.
With each passing day I found myself more and more enamored with their stories, with their knowledge. Every time I knocked on a door in the morning and I entered their world, they smiled at my presence. They were glad I was there, to share time, to listen, to live. There was no defense for it – my heart broke and I came to care deeply for them. They were no longer my patients, patrons of assisted living, they were my friends with whom I walked the pathways of life for two years.
One morning one of my patients, who had been sent by hospice to live out the remainder of his days, took a turn for the worse. When I answered his call light I found him covered in blood and mucus. I called for the Nurse and she and I changed his clothing and bedding and maneuvered him into a more comfortable position with the head of his bed raised slightly. By the time things had quieted down my shift was over. I clocked out and went to his room to check on him. He was asleep, but barely breathing. I was afraid that he had passed away so I went to check his pulse. He opened his big brown eyes and looked right at me and said, “Please don’t leave.” I stayed, off the clock, for the rest of the afternoon. He coughed and choked and gasped for air, but he never again spoke. He died just a few hours later, his hand between mine.
I was heartbroken and forever changed. I broke down and decided to leave nursing altogether. I moved to Tennessee where I met my husband and his family, including his grandmother – Mamaw. When I met her she had been in a slow decline as a result of vascular dementia. She didn’t recognize her daughter or her grandchildren anymore and she often woke up to a home full of the closest strangers she’d ever known. She was lost without a compass and she was slipping fast.
As a Nurse’s Aide it was logical for me to help in providing care for her at home. I vowed I would not become attached. I would not let her in, because it would only lead to heartbreak and tears. I did my best to tell myself that she was already just a shell of a human being. She was no longer herself. She was no longer the Mamaw that my husband remembered. With great effort I tried to keep her out of my heart, to not care for her, but again I was a failure. It was no longer a fight I could win and I broke down and loved her.
Her health continued to decline and by the time hospice became involved she was barely eating or drinking. She spent most of her days with her eyes closed asleep in the hospital bed facing the living room windows. I made it a point to sit with her every day and talk with her. I use the word with deliberately here because, even though she didn’t contribute words to our conversations, I learned more from her than from years at school. Her calm demeanor in the face of unthinkable confusion and loss gave me courage and taught me hope. When she fought her way to opening her eyes, even though the moments were brief, she always had a smile on her face. As I sat at her bedside and talked to her about beautiful birds I had seen that day or about the sound of the rain I started to appreciate every little detail of life. In my pity for her life and what it had become I found myself growing more and more in love with all of life – the good and the bad. I realized that her beautiful life had become a page in my life and in doing so, her story never really ended – it just went on to a new chapter. Life, in all of its varied states, is beautiful and perfect. This, a lesson I learned from a woman on her deathbed who never spoke a word.
© Nikkia4Fun
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