Nearing the End.

This past July was a traumatic month.  I’d like to share a bit about what happened. We are near the end. Shelley is actively dying.

On July 3, we visited Shelley. I told her my birthday was the next day, and I sang the Birthday Song to me for her. It is our tradition. We always called and sang to each other on birthdays and anniversaries.

Did she understand? I don’t know. 

I sang more tunes for her. Some hymns, and I always add, “You Are My Sunshine.” I told her it was also America’sbirthday. Before we left, we quoted her favorite Scripture and prayed with her.

On July 18, Shelley’s daughter, hubby, and baby arrived from New Hampshire. We met them for dinner. On the way home—devastating news.

Shelley’s hospice nurse called, and we spoke by phone for the thirty-minute drive to our neighborhood.  She told us Shelley wasn’t doing well, and she expected her to pass at any time. When we arrived home, Paul and I stood in the kitchen, put our heads on each other’s shoulders, and cried our hearts out.  We’d been expecting such a call, but when it came, we found ourselves not ready. I slept with makeup on and clothes close by…just in case they called to say, “She’s going.” The call didn’t come.

The next day, July 19, Shelley’s daughter and family, Shelley’s sister, and us went to see Shelley. The sadness was profound. The family said their goodbyes.

On July 20, Paul and I went to see Shelley. She was in her room in bed, and it was a darkened place. One of the caregivers sat with her. I didn’t see him at first, but he arose from a straight-back chair to say hello. He didn’t say, but I instinctively knew he was there to be with our daughter if she went to heaven. He left, and I told Shelley, “You’re getting well, and you are going to be healthy again.” I meant she would be well in Heaven.  She must have understood me and thought I meant she was getting well here on Earth.

Over the next few days, Shelley plateaued at a new, declined level. Her hospice nurse said, “she’s a survivor.”  I replied, “She always has been. As a full-term baby, she weighed a whopping 4 pounds and 4 ounces at birth. The hospital nurses didn’t think she’d make it, but she did. I nicknamed her Tiny Tuffy.”

My heart breaks as I see her waiting for Heaven.

On my latest visit, she lay in bed. She stared at the ceiling and mumbled. I asked, “Who do you see? Do you see Jesus? Do you see Granny?” She babbled back, but I couldn’t understand a word she said.

Before I left, I placed my hand on her head and prayed. “Jesus, please make Shelley well again.” She replied with a resounding, “Yes!”  I said this phrase three times, and each time, she said, “Yes!”

She’s ready to go. I don’t know when she’s going, but I know where.

Points for Caregivers

1.    Your loved one can hear, so be careful what you say.

2.    Sing. Hearing and music are two of the issues that linger to the end.

3.    Be there if you can. I know she may go when I am not there. When the angel comes for them, they go alone, but I’d like to be there to hold her hand when the time comes.

4.    Guilt might come, but remind yourself, we all do the best we can.