Sunday, April 1, 2001
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Sunday, April 1, 2001 |
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The tie that binds By MARY JANE HOLT He had driven for nearly three hours to see her. He'd sat by the bed for an hour and half. As he prepared to leave, she squeezed his hand. When he tried to slip free of her grasp, she mustered what strength she could to hold tightly for a minute longer. "Don't leave me. Not yet. Just sit by me another hour," she whispered. "I've got to go, Mama, but I'll be back," he said with a lump in his throat and slowly expanding crack in the corner of his heart. On the long drive back home both the lump and the crack seemed to grow larger. Would this visit be the final one? He had asked himself that question several times in recent months. Each time he'd leave, it would be with a growing realization that it could be the last leaving. He had thought her first year as a resident at the nursing home was bad. It pained him greatly to visit her there and find her confined to her chair, no longer strong enough to stand or walk without assistance. Early on, she had been able to get up and down out of the bed and sit in her recliner. She had brought it from home. She liked her chair. During the early months she still could go to the bathroom without assistance. It would exhaust her, but she could do it. Of course, it was good not to worry about if she was going to remember to eat. Her food came three times a day and she did not have to exert her too tired body to prepare it. As institutional food went, the staff did a pretty good job. And some of the nurses and their assistants were kind. Even warm and friendly. Sometimes bubbly. It must be a gift, he thought. It had to be a gift. In spite of the good things about his mom's new residence, he hated the environment. He could not bring himself to call it her home. He hated walking up and down the halls and seeing the little old ladies curled up in the beds like shriveling, overgrown fetuses. Unresponsive. Alone. At least his mom was not like that. Not yet anyway. But that was last year. Things had changed. The hospice nurses came regularly now to help keep her more comfortable. Her body, that is. The congestive heart failure and leukemia were winning. The body was wearing out. And the mind ... that was the saddest part of all. How does one comfort a mind that has become that of a little girl again? A small child in a tired, worn-out body? How does one address the anxiety? The fear? The aloneness? Not that she was alone. Family was there all the time except when she was sleeping at night. Thank God she still could sleep at night. He was the youngest of her seven children. He was the only one who was not retired. There was comfort in knowing the others were in and out more often than he. There was great comfort in knowing that two sisters had dedicated themselves to keeping her as comfortable as possible. Yet, one thing and one thing only brought him some degree of personal comfort each time he visited the nursing home. There seemed to be at least 30 or 40 women to every man. We men may be dying off faster, he thought to himself on the long drive home, but at least we get to do it in our homes with our wives at our side. What a sad price the women were paying to live longer. God, how it hurt to leave her there in that place. Suddenly he knew there was more to his pain than that which accompanied each hard good-bye. He felt her agony. Her loneliness. Her fear. As his own. He was thinking of himself. Still. We are a self-centered people. It is our nature. Should he feel guilty? For being human? He thought how lucky those individuals are who die quickly. The instant accidental death. The sudden fatal heart attack. Did he dare hope for such a demise for his own body? Sure, he thought, he could hope. And pray. For himself and his mom. And through the connection that was there, in the oneness he felt with her, some degree of comfort might find its way into their aching hearts.
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