Thirst, Healing and the Anticipation of Dying

Thirst, Healing And The Anticipation of Dying

By Penni Warford

Breakthrough Between Family Members

(This story revolves around death)

When I entered her room at the nursing home early that morning, I stood in the doorway and observed for a moment. Even beneath thick layers of blankets, it was apparent that she was skin and bone thin. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, with her skeletal, blue-tinged hands resting on her chest like a metaphor for the death that beset her.

I stroked her upper arm softly and whispered, “Hi mom.” As she peeled her eyes open and saw me there, I almost detected a smile. She seemed pensive, but her countenance depicted relief, which was an enormous, unanticipated improvement from the prior week.

For the months that she had been in skilled nursing, she had consistently greeted me with cold indifference. She seemed to be caught in a rip tide of deep, swirling sadness, but was incapable of uttering even one word about the reality of what was coming. She was completely cognitively aware, and able to speak, but when I tried to have a conversation with her about death or her desires, she would put her hand up like stop sign to shut down the words; as if she could keep death at bay by never hearing or speaking its name. Attempting closure, relational healing, saying goodbye, all seemed unattainable for her. She was trapped in the prison of her body and deeply troubled mind, and she seemed tormented by the anticipation of dying.

On a good day she would ask how I was doing, but good days had ceased months ago and over the past several weeks, she just stared blankly or threw her hands up in exasperation. On her worst days, she would close her eyes and pretend to be asleep. On the rare occasion when she did respond when I asked about her final wishes, she would say, “you do it,” or “do it without me.” Talk of death was off limits and all decision making was abdicated to me.

So, when I entered her room that morning and she greeted me with guarded warmth, it was a much-welcomed change. Especially since this would be our last goodbye. Instead of the unwavering, impenetrable attitude that she had clothed herself with, her demeanor was uncharacteristically responsive.

When I told her that I was on my way to the airport but had decided to see her again before leaving town, her emotional reaction was palpable. For the first time through the many months of her decline, she was emotive and seemed genuinely upset.

I hadn’t planned to see her again before leaving town because of how poorly she had treated me the prior week. I had poured out my heart to her, which was a first. I told her that I recognized that she had a very difficult childhood which had affected her throughout her life, and that as much as I could, I understood. She had been forced to quit school at age 8 to pick cotton and other crops when her family travelled from Oklahoma to California toward the end of the Dust Bowl. One of 13 children, she suffered many abuses during that time. Many, that I’m sure she was never able to divulge. I told her that I felt only compassion for her. I said, “I see you. I wish you peace.” And I told her that I forgave her (for the neglect and abuse that I had experienced as a child). And I told her that I loved her, words that had never been shared easily in our relationship. Tears fell as I spoke, which she had not seen from me since I was a child. She responded with a blank stare. I asked if there was anything she wanted to say to me. She simply nodded her head in the negative, then remained silent. I stayed a little while, then asked again if she wanted to say anything, but her obstinance remained unchanged.

As I packed for my trip, something told me that I needed to see her one last time, even though my failed efforts over the recent months - and especially the prior week - had left me feeling empty and frustrated. I knew it was a risk, but I wanted each of us to experience some semblance of grace before she died.

Because she had greeted me with guarded warmth during that final visit, I pulled a chair close to her bed and asked again if there was anything she wanted to talk about. She responded with a shrug of apathy. It was not a hard no, and something felt different, so I decided to try a different approach and asked if I could tell her a story.

With some reluctance, she nodded her head in the affirmative. It was huge. Granting me permission to tell her a story meant risking hearing things that she did not want to hear, and feeling emotions that she did not want to feel. Perhaps, she sensed that the last thing I wanted was to cause her pain. Perhaps she realized that I would likely be the last family member she saw in this life. In either case, she seemed interested in what I was about to say and observed me as I spoke. And I observed her.

She was waif-like, her light blue eyes translucent, vacant, the skin on her face puckered like leather that had been left in the sun, her thin-white hair messy around concave temples, her breathing shallow. She coughed frequently as she tried to clear fluid from her lungs. The bitter facial expression that she had worn so often throughout her life seemed somehow dissolved.

I moved the chair closer to her bed, and began:

“This story begins with two girls; The first girl, Mary, was shy, overweight, pimple-faced and had greasy-hair. Mary didn’t have a mean bone in her body, or any friends. The second girl was a mean-spirited, she-devil, whose wardrobe consisted of denim, cowgirl boots and a sharp tongue. Since mean-spirited, she-devil is a bit long, I will just call her Little Shit, or LS for short. LS thought she was better than everyone (especially Mary), because her daddy owned half of the county. Obsessed with belittling Mary on a regular basis, LS (who was small in stature), resembled a chihuahua that constantly yapped empty threats. Mary on the other hand, resembled a Saint Bernard, that lumbered through life a as a quiet giant.

One day, after a lunchtime softball game at school, LS was being particularly vicious toward Mary. As the students made their way back toward the classroom, LS lobbed insult after insult at Mary for her meek behavior, her weight, her stringy hair - anything and everything that popped into LS’s walnut-sized brain seemed to pop out of her grapefruit-sized mouth. Mary did not defend herself and none of the students stood up for her, even though many of them were bothered by LS’s cruelty.

Here’s where a third girl enters the story, I will just call her PL. Unlike Mary and LS, who grew up in the shelter of their small-town country school, PL was an outsider. She had attended a bigger school, in a bigger town, where bigger fish swam in a bigger pond, and she had been on the receiving end of unkindness many times herself. PL did not like bullies.”

Mom interrupted, “I’m thirsty, … water.”

I paused the story and lifted a cup of water from the bedside table and placed a straw to her lips.

“Not cold enough,” she said, her words punctuated by a moist cough.

I scooped ice from a plastic hospital pitcher into the cup and helped her take another sip.

“Thank you,” she said, weakly, settling back as I continued my story.

“As the students walked from the softball game toward the class, PL trailed behind the other girls. LS was berating Mary and PL had had enough, so she told LS to “knock it off.” Like a Tasmanian Devil, LS spun around and turned her attack on PL as they walked into the classroom. Words flew, then fists, hair was pulled and the two girls wrestled in a snarled mess on the floor. Their teacher, Mr. H. was returning from his lunch break and was totally shocked to find his class cheering on a fight. Mr. H. quickly pulled the girls apart, admonished them, then sent them to the principal’s office.

Even as the girls walked toward the office, LS never shut up or stopped taunting. The principal warned PL that he would have to inform her parents and that consequences would be decided later. All seemed to be quelled. But the story doesn’t end there.

Rumors spread like wildfire that LS’s parents had demanded that Mr. H. be fired because of the fight and the issue was added to the agenda for an upcoming school board meeting.

PL asked her mom to take her to the meeting, even though students were not supposed to attend. When they arrived, the multipurpose room was standing room only. Parents sat on folding metal chairs and students stood along the walls. PL and her mom managed to grab the last two seats in the middle of the audience just as the meeting convened. After formalities were completed, the proposal to fire Mr. H. was the first topic on the agenda. To the surprise of no one, LS’s mom; a mean-spirited, she-devil, adorned with gaudy turquoise jewelry, cowgirl boots and a sharp tongue (I will just call her Big LS), proceeded to have a public conniption. She ranted about how her poor innocent daughter had been attacked by the new girl - who she referred to as “riffraff” and “the girl.” Big LS blustered on about a gold necklace getting broken during the fight (like someone had stolen the crown jewels), and about how violent gangs would be the inevitable result if “the girl” were allowed to stay in the school. Having been a student at a large, multi-grade middle school where actual gangs and violence were a daily event, PL almost laughed out loud at this.

When Big LS was done flying off the handle about PL, she went after Mr. H. She blamed him for not providing adequate supervision (during his lunch hour) and said it was his fault that her daughter had been attacked. She demanded that Mr. H be fired.

At this, the packed room became a cacophony of muffled discussion. Some parents asked for the microphone to defend Mr. H., while others just seemed enthralled with the drama.

PL sat quietly as her stomach roiled. They were talking about her, and they were thinking about firing the best teacher she had ever had, so PL took a deep breath and raised her hand. She waited for the chairman to call on her. She waited - and waited. The chairman continued allowing parents to take the mic while PL sat silently with her hand raised. When he didn’t call on her, she raised her hand higher, even looking at the chairman who was directly in her sightline. He still ignored her.

PL was trying not to cry from frustration, when her mom abruptly stood up, and interrupted the din, saying loudly, “excuse me, my daughter has had her hand up and would like to say something. Please allow her to speak.” All eyes turned toward PL and her mom and as soon as Big LS figured out who was speaking, she interrupted in protest, demanding that students should not be allowed to speak. The chairman contemplated for a moment, then reluctantly allowed PL to take the mic.

Through a trembling voice PL explained that she was the new girl who they were talking about and accusing of bringing violence to the school. She told them about the large school that she had come from, where actual violence (gang fights and riots) happened almost daily. She told them that Mr. H. was the best teacher she had ever had and that it would be wrong to fire him because of something SHE did. A memory flashed through PL’s mind of when Mr. H. had greeted her with kindness when she had returned to school after being a runaway. PL told the people in the room that Mr. H. truly cared about his students and that what happened wasn’t his fault. She never mentioned that the fight started because her classmate was being bullied by Big LS’s daughter. With tears in her eyes, PL thanked the crowd for listening and took her seat.

Mr. H. was not fired.”

My 86-year-old mother seemed a bit confused, so I asked her if she remembered the story or if she knew who the girl was that stood up to the bully, and the school board.

Mom softly replied, “no.”

“That girl was me” I said, “and the mom who bravely stood up that night, was you. I just wanted to tell you that I think my journey as an advocate started that day and I wanted to thank you for standing up for me and helping me learn how to stand up for others.”

My mom, who hadn’t really looked at me or interacted in a meaningful way for several months, fixed her tear-blurred eyes on me and said simply, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I said.

I told her again, “I see you, I wish you comfort, I wish you peace.”

Tears seeped from her almond shaped eyes and her breaths quickened. “Water, more water,” she requested.

“Ok, I’ll have the nurse bring more ice.” I answered.

The nurse brought ice, which I added to her cup, then placed the plastic straw between her lips so she could sip.

“Is it cold enough?” I asked.

She nodded yes.

“I’d like to read you something. Is that ok?” I asked.

She nodded her head slightly in the affirmative.

“This was written by John on the Island of Patmos,” I clarified.

She looked at me in confusion, so I explained.

“Remember John, the disciple of Jesus? He wrote about what happened when God took him to an island called Patmos to show him things that would occur in the future. It’s from the book of Revelation.”

She nodded in understanding.

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the old heaven and the old earth had disappeared. And the sea was also gone. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem coming down from God, out of heaven like a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. I heard a loud shout from the throne saying, “look, God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death, or sorrow, or crying, or pain. All these things are gone forever.” And the one sitting on the throne said, “Look, I am making everything new!” And then he said to me, “write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true.” And he also said, “it is finished, I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end - to all who are thirsty ............”

My voice cracked as I struggled to speak the word, “thirsty.” I took a long breath, regained my composure and continued.

“To all who are thirsty I will give freely from the springs of the water of life. All who are victorious will inherit all these blessings, and I will be their God, and they will be my children.”

“More water,” mom whispered, her voice barely audible.

I held the straw to her mouth again, and as she sipped I inwardly contemplated the meaning of the word “victorious” in the context of death. In my distraction I let the straw fall from her lips.

Her failing voice interrupted my wandering thoughts, “I’m thirsty, more water” she said breathless.

“OK, here you go, is it cold enough?” I asked.

A nod of the head, another sip, a wet cough, too weak to clear the fluid filling her lungs. Her eyes closed intermittently, but they no longer did so to keep me out.

I took her cold and gnarled hand into mine and asked gently, “Is there anything you’d like to say to me?”

She opened her eyes fully, looked at me and said words that she had spoken sparingly, if ever, over the course of my nearly 60 years, “I love you.”

“I love you too mom,” I said, tenderly stroking her head.

“I see you, I wish you peace, …. I wish me peace.”

I let the words linger in the quiet room as I contemplated the reality that my frail and dying mother’s only request, in her final hours, was to be given a drink of water.

“I need to go now,” I said quietly, reluctantly, then kissed her forehead and whispered, “goodbye, mom,” through choked words.

As I walked toward the door and looked back, she lifted her weak hand and mouthed “goodbye.”

That was the last time I saw her. She closed her eyes for the last time less than 24 hours later.

I’m documenting the last day I saw my mom so that I can revisit the memory and keep it clear as time passes, knowing that one day it will be fragmented in my recollection. I want to remember it, all of it, the pain, the poignance, the grace, the thirst - and the quenching of thirst. I don’t want to forget the woman I called my mother, who I hope to share a drink with one day - from the springs of the water of life.