May
21
I’m sitting in a stranger’s house. We met, but only briefly: he went over the details, introduced me to my new patient, and left for the grocery store.
Her name is N, a slender woman with a strong gaze. I was told she has a dementia diagnosis and is nonverbal, but she was able to speak when her husband introduced me. She locked eyes with me and said something about wanting to see my badge up close, and I leaned in. “Of course, I could be anyone!” I joked, and he laughed a little, and she scanned me slowly, carefully.
He said she had been up for a while, but was getting tired, so he would get her settled in bed for my stay. Picture a lovely house, immaculate. Gleaming wood floors. The kind of kitchen with space above the cupboards where decorative items are placed. Framed photos, art, everything very tasteful and free of clutter. In the midst of the living room, a bed. It is the only thing that seems out of place, yet so cozy-looking. It’s not a hospital bed, but rather a double with mesh gating along the sides like a toddler’s bed might have.
He asks her if she’s ready and she agrees. A little sharply, even; I can see just a hint of what might be brought on by the despairing, inevitable cognition changes. He is so careful with her. He is the same age but unscathed by similar decline, he’s strong-bodied and clear as a bell. He settles her on the bed, tells me this is the hardest part — the bed is high, and she must be sort of scootched back then turned — and gets her tucked in on her side.
Then he leaves, and I am there with a book and the house and N. Rod Stewart plays softly, because she likes music. She lies on her side and I can hear her whispering. She lifts her head now and then. Once she raises her arm and holds it in the air for a while. I am attuned to her like a hawk but uncertain what her needs might be. As I told him, I will get to know her.
Does it sound spooky? It isn’t. It’s immensely comforting, actually. Everything about this environment feels like care.
He has left some water in cups with straws and at one point I ask her if she would like a drink and she says yes. I maneuver behind and around the bed and bring the straw directly to her mouth and she takes some long drinks. Later I will ask the same question, and she will say yes, but how much is that? And I say oh it’s okay it’s all ready for you.
When he gets back he unloads all the groceries and says he’ll get in a quick bike ride if I can stay and I say of course. He tells me at one point that while they are only recently on hospice, he’s been caring for N for 11 years.
Can you imagine? Maybe you can. It fills me to know this. It fills me with a mix of sorrow and admiration and something wistful. No one wants to be in N’s position, but don’t we all want to be loved so fiercely? The sheer loyalty of it. And who knows the whole story, I am only seeing the tiniest slice of the pie, but it looks like love that transcends. It’s the in sickness part of the vows that no one thinks about when they say I do.
He tells me that the watercolors hanging in the halls were painted by her and I walk over to look at them and he joins me and tells me how talented she is. They are exquisitely detailed, the sort of paintings that don’t seem possible to make with watercolors. Beautiful. There’s a front room that looks like it was hers, filled with light and artwork and mementos.
When it’s time for me to leave he tells me how grateful he is. It’s just him, after all. They have children, grandchildren, but as he says, he doesn’t want to burden anyone. I tell him I had a wonderful and relaxing time there because it is true, and we set up my next visit.
I think about my own end of life a lot, I suppose I always have. But now I have an undercurrent of worry about a slow decline like N. Losing parts of me over time. Not knowing or understanding what’s happening. I can’t bear to think about someone needing to care for me in that way. And I won’t have the decades of a shared life that might fortify a person to be capable of doing that with love.
But none of that is a sure thing, just like nothing is a sure thing. Why, I might die later today, choking on a too-eagerly consumed piece of Bit’O’Honey! For now I feel grateful to have the ability to step into their life for a couple hours, held gently by gravelly, lilting Rod Stewart and the clear evidence that this world is still filled with love and selflessness.
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