The Death Nurse
Two months ago, I buried my father. The last of my immediate familyâof anyone that had still dangled from the threads of my life.
Father joined Mother in eternal rest at Crowder Cemetery right here in Leland Grove, Illinois. A spot waits for me next to them, before an imposing slab of upright stone, gothic letters chiseled across the front declaring our family name: SWANSON. For the first part of my life, itâs where I knew I would end up, and absolutely not where my remains will reside.
Itâs been over thirty years since I buried my daughter, whose small, modest tombstone stands amid a field of stones over two hundred miles away, the years 1995-1995 etched into the marble. My place is next to her.
I like the idea of cremation. Itâs not very Catholic of me, but thereâs something lyrical and poetic about returning to dust instead of my body being embalmed. Burned to ash, carried by the wind across distant lands. I will dust the dreams of lovers, be a mote in the eyes of those who hate, grit the icy walkways to steady slippery steps, and choke the voices that lie and slander.
But no, my body needs to lie beside Kaiya. I feel Iâd be abandoning her otherwise. Instead, my organs will be removed, my blood drained, body filled with formaldehyde, and Iâll be boxed up like a time capsule. No poetic ending for Pauline Swanson. Nor do I deserve one.
Last month, my body turned fifty-three. My brain, however, holds fast to its mental age of thirty. Meanwhile, my parched and brittle soul often feels a thousand years old.
Iâve survived my parents, my offspring, several failed relationships, and lately I canât help but feel like the walking dead.
#
I just started volunteering for St. Johnâs Hospice. Iâd already been caring for my father for the last two years of his life while he slowly withered away from colon cancer. I need something else to fill that time, something to feel good about, and helping others makes me feel good.
As a volunteer, I wonât be prescribing medications. I wonât diagnose or treat. Iâm simply a companion, someone to be present and aware in between those times when healthcare professionals are called for. We volunteers make it possible for someone to remain at home in the final stages of their life. Iâm eager to feel comfortable and competent in this role as a companion and support. Admittedly, I donât yet. As is usually the case, Iâll have to rely upon my false sense of confidence to get me through. Historically, that has served me about as well as a coin flip, yet it is the social crutch I put all my weight on.
I earned my driverâs license only ten years ago and applaud my achievement at this level of independence and control, but Iâm still anxious behind the wheel of such a large and potentially dangerous machine. I know I annoy other drivers by my overly cautious speed and attention. At intersections I look both ways three times. I count out a full four seconds at every stop sign. I drive exactly the speed limit. Maybe Iâm overcompensating for a less-than-cautious younger life, but no tailgating, honking or fist waving will deter my zealous approach to safe driving.
I pull into the River Bend Senior Living Apartments parking lot. The two-story facility spreads wide, occupying a significant portion of the block it sits on. Itâs a cozy, almost Victorian vibe with a hint of Howard Johnsonâs from the outside. It looks modestly upscale, the kind of place where someone of means would reside in her final days. I could age gracefully and content in such a place, though my bartending salary couldnât afford it.
I have my big handbag stuffed full of goodiesâScrabble, a deck of cards, a well-leafed copy of The Scarlet Letter, cheese, cashews, dark chocolate, and a forty-five-year-old Catholic missal given to me for my first communion. Add to that my travel-everywhere bottle filled with aspirin, Ibuprofen, antacid, and gas pillsâmy little pharmacy I take wherever I go since hitting my fifties. The bag is left over from my past life as a librarian. Decorated with quills and scripted quotes from Shakespeare, its vinyl is cracked and has duct tape running across its bottom where it split years ago.
I park my ten-year-old Jetta up against the building by the main entrance. It runs like a dream with 190,000 miles from previous owners and 2,403 from me. I donât travel, donât drive much, and still rely on public transport whenever itâs convenient. Bag over my shoulder, I head toward the main door with a tight, wide grin stretched across my face. Almost more a grimace. I do that when Iâm nervous or stressedâgrin like a fool. I suppose itâs my equivalent of the old western tough guys biting down on a leather bit while someone digs a bullet out of their arm.
Hereâs my six-foot-one, one-hundred-ninety-five-pound middle-aged frame strutting down the hall of River Bend Senior Living, ready to meet a dying woman while wearing a big, tight grin under a blaze of wild mahogany hair streaked with silver. Anyone strolling the halls of the apartment complex might just turn around and walk the other way.
My father dead only two months and Iâm already diving into volunteer hospice care. It seemed a good idea at the time. I started the process only a few days after I buried him, trained and shadowed for a month after being vetted by the program. That doesnât prevent me from feeling completely unprepared.
I walk the long first-floor hallway through a complicated mix of odors that bring to mind potpourri, greasy food, and hospitals. Door after door displays welcome wreaths, fake flower swags, and other decorative hangings hand-made by elderly hands, young grandchildren, or some retired housewife peddling her crafts at a fair. Some look as if theyâve been here for a long time. On this summer morning, one door still displays a big, knitted Christmas wreath with pictures of young children as ornaments. Most are more seasonally relevant, patriotic, or vaguely spiritual.
I take a left, and apartment 1134 is the second on the right. Hanging from a nail in the door is a fancy black metal frame that seven white ceramic tiles are slid into, each one with a fancy calligraphic letter wrapped with vines and flowers. All together, they spell out, âDENEAUX.â Behind the door, the faint moan of a saxophone and soft thump of bass.
Deborah Deneaux. Seventy-six years old. Never married. Born in New Orleans. Went to college in San Francisco. Moved to Chicago in the eighties. Ran a successful national advertising firm. Retired to a life of philanthropy. Ended up here in Springfield, Illinois. Enrolled in the St. Johnâs Hospice Program with stage four sarcoidosis. Has a son and a granddaughter who live in the area.
Thatâs all I know as I take in a breath. Hold it. Knock.
She should be expecting me. My watch says Iâm seven minutes late. After twenty seconds, my knuckles are about to connect with wood again when the door opens to reveal a vision I wasnât expecting.
Ms. Deneaux is stunning. Her faux-wrap Caribbean print dress in royal purple patterning drapes over her lithe body in a way no dress has ever looked on me. She wears her hair short in a loose afro of elegant gray. The shine of her brown eyes under stark drawn eyebrows questions me intently. If not for the few small, reddish lesions poking out from her brow line and hiding behind the curl of sideburn, her brown skin would be flawless and radiant. Long, red polished nails curl around the door frame as she holds the door defensively ajar.
âYes?â
âMs. Deneaux. Itâs wonderful to meet you. Sorry Iâm late. Iâm Pauline with St. Johnâs Hospice.â
Those eyes travel up and down my figure. âYes. My son set this up, but this isnât necessary.â
âOh, Iâm sorry if thereâs been any misunderstanding.â
âThe misunderstanding is between me and my son.â Burgundy lips frown, and our eyes connect again. Hers might be apologetic or annoyed. âIâm afraid youâre just caught in the middle of it.â
Perhaps I should go, but I resist giving up so easily. âAre you not interested in hospice care?â
Her smile is polite, but barbed. âI donât need any death nurse, dawlinâ.â The words gently roll between her lips. They softly slide and swirl with a seductive hint of French, but accented by an off-beat cadence.
I smile. âThatâs good, because Iâm an end-of-life volunteerâemphasis on life.â I lean in just a bit. âIâll let nature and God tend to your death.â
Sheâs quiet for a moment, and I donât know if Iâve offended. Her lips purse and her smooth brow furrows, the consternation of wrinkles more closely suggesting her age.
âWell, might as well come inside. No sense airing out my life to neighbors.â
She opens the door and, after a few secondsâ hesitation, I follow her inside.
A short half-wall and closet are all that make up the entryway to a very comfortable living room adorned with over a half century of life and culture. Itâs very apparent that Ms. Deneaux has lived. Black and white family pictures on the wall suggest a fairly prosperous young family from where I assume is New Orleans, where she grew up. In one photo, a tall, broad-shouldered and burly man in pin-striped suit and fedora stands proud next to a slim woman in white dress with long curls under a womanâs white derby. Two young boys and a little girl pose before them in front of a storefront window calling out, âDeneaux Haberdashery.â Below that photo on a shelf sits a picture of a young girl frozen in dance pose. On a lower shelf, a sophisticated young woman in a sharp tan business suit shaking hands with a large man while having her arm around an elderly gentleman in front of an old-time McDonalds. Further down on the wall hangs a framed landscape photo of a stage filled with a diverse mix of children and adults holding a banner that proclaims, âThank You, DeeDee!â and a plaque declaring, âTo Deborah Deneaux, In recognition of 12 years of support and service â The American Dance Theatre of Chicago.â
Canvassed artwork on the walls, vivid colors drenched in night-life shadow, of Black jazz musicians, of old building facades and lamp posts of what must be New Orleans, and of svelte silhouettes frozen in dance. Ornate ebony pottery and sleek, sensual sculptures of bodies in motion command the spaces where they are displayed on shelves and end tables.
Despite the stale Berber carpeting and crinoline walls, Ms. Deneauxâs living room is rich and dark and textured. There are layers of story here.
âHave a seat, dear. But donât think youâll be staying long.â She sits a bit heavily on a plush black suede couch against the wall under a large oil paintingâalmost as wide as the couchâof four jazz musicians in a dark, smoky night club.
Iâm entranced. My steps are cautious and slow, eyes lingering over everything as I move through the room.
âWhat a symphony of lifeâŚâ
âPardon?â
My cheeks get hot. I didnât mean to say that out loud. âIâm sorry.â My eyes stick to every artifact and element of history, art and culture suggested by Ms. Deneauxâs room. I point to a picture. âYour family?â
She nods. âPapa and Maman. My two older brothers and me.â
âNew Orleans, isnât it?â
Ms. Deneaux reaches for a clear loop of hose sitting beside an oxygen tank and slips it around her head and under her nose. âYes.â She turns the valve at top of the tank and settles back into the couch. âPapaâs shop on Claiborne Avenue. He was a very well-respected businessman. Fitted some of the most important men in and around the Seventh Ward in the finest suits.â
âAnd this is you?â I point to the picture of the young girl dancing.
She nods. âMy first recital at Municipal Auditorium.â
âYou were a dancer?â
Ms. Deneaux sits straighter, rolls back her shoulders. âI was a student of Tony Bevinetto.â
I politely shake my head.
âMy dear. He was a famous choreographer of stage and screen. He chose me as one of the John Pela dancers on Channel 4.â She rounds her words in a poetic lilt.
âThatâs wonderful. When was that?â
Her head tilts up, eyes looking beyond this place and time. âOh, that would have beenâŚ1967? No, â68. I was seventeen.â
I move to the picture in front of the old-timey McDonalds with the two men. âAnd this is you as well?â
When I turn to her, I can see her patience faltering. Pursed lips and eyes squeezed narrow. âYes. Now, sit down, dawlinâ. Youâre making me nervous.â
I take a seat against the wall across from her in a velvety, red-upholstered Queen Anne-style chair, its cabriole legs and frame a deep mahogony.
âListen here,â she says, pulling the hose out from below her nose to let it sit under her chin. âI appreciate your interest in me. Iâm sure you mean well, but thereâs really no reason to waste more of your time. Iâm sorry you came all this way for nothing. As I said, Iâve no need for a death nurse. Not yet.â
âHospice volunteer.â
âWhatever.â
âMs. Deneaux. My visit has already been worth it just sharing these few moments with you.â
âYes, well, mind you. Iâve nothing against you, dear, but I didnât request your services. Raymond just likes to feel heâs being useful, when actually he just becomes a bother.â
âRaymond,â I say. âYour son?â
âYes. He doesnât so much try to mean well, as he likes to feel as if he tries to mean well.â A wink. âIf you know what I mean.â She snorts a sharp laugh and hacks into her hand.
âIâm sure he is feeling a little lost and helpless as you approach your end of life.â
She bristles to that, shakes her head and ties up her arms. âEnd of life. People telling me Iâm at the end of my life. Let God decide that for me. Iâm just living day to day. Donât need any death nurse helping me through my so-called âend of life.ââ
âHospice volunteer,â I correct. âAnd I agree. But, also understand, Ms. Deneaux. From the day weâre born, we need to be guided through our end of life. Our life begins to end from our very first breath. Feel free to let your life go on another thirty years. Iâm just offering to be here and share in a little part of it.â
Once again, sheâs struck silent, a reaction Iâm used to. I donât mean to, but I put people off-balance. I can turn them on or turn them offârarely anything in-between. By the scrutiny of squinted eye, it seems Ms. Deneaux is still teetering between two extremes of opinion.
âGirl, something different about you, isnât there? Hmm.â She shakes her head and laughs out loud, and Iâm realizing just how much Iâm enjoying this woman. âYou are an odd one!â
âYou wouldnât be the first to notice,â I say and smile.
Ms. Deneaux sighs, shakes her head, then gives me a puzzled grin. âWell, the time Iâve left is too precious to waste on boring people. And theyâve overwhelmed my days. The doctors, the nurses.â She waves a hand around her. âSo many of these sad souls in this building, dealing out their remaining days with solitaire and coffee klatches. I have no opinion on the weather, and I donât wish to talk about my bodily functions, and I certainly donât want to hear about theirs!â
I bark laughter. My cheeks flare red again from my loud burst.
âSomething tells me you just might be a bit more colorful company, and I suppose I could use the company, at least for today.â
Hand to my heart. âWell, I would be honored to be that company.â
She nestles back into the couch. âWhatâs your name again, dawlinâ?â
âPauline.â
âYour full name. Good to know, in case weâre related.â She winks.
âSwanson. Pauline Swanson.â
âMarried name?â
âMost certainly not.â
Ms. Deneaux grins and nods. âWell, see, already we share something in common.â Hands slap down on her lap. âSo, tell me about yourself.â
Thatâs not a question Iâm ever comfortable with, and I feel like Iâm taking far too long to answer. âNot much to tell, really. I was born here in Springfield. Well, Leland Grove. I studied library science at Northwestern University. Got my first library job in Skokie and lived there for a while. Moved around a bit for a few years. Came back here ten years ago after my mother died to look after my father. He was diagnosed with cancer two years ago, and I became his primary caregiver until he died two months ago.â
Her mouth crimps sideways. âWell, wasnât that an interesting list of details youâve just recited. Now, how about telling me about you?â
I chuckle to that. âAh, you wish to know about the mysteries of Pauline. Well, those are not so easily revealed. But, seeing as you let me in to this wonderful place of yours, I will indulge you just a little. I am a Catholic girl, a book lover, and a recovering alcoholic that tends bar at a downtown hotel.â
She laughs and brings a hand down on the arm of the couch. âOoo, child! Now youâre talking tea. Tell me more.â
âOh, no. Thatâs all you get for now, Iâm afraid.â
âYou are a tease, dawlinâ.â
âIâm selfish. I suspect yours is a far more interesting story, Ms. Deneaux. And Iâm all ears.â
