Yesterday I received news that
a dear woman I’d visited in long-term care had died. Alzheimer’s had already
stolen most of the joy from her life. Only the week before her doctor had
proclaimed her in palliative state. Gone now was the confusion that had settled
in her life, and gone the pain she seemed to be suffering on those last few
visits. I mourn her death, for she had become dear to me.
I’d known Pat
through our women’s retreat each spring. I believe she attended every one that
I did. I didn’t know her so well in those early years, but later I came to know
her kindness, her love for her family, and her wacky sense of humour as well as
her excitement when we played Pictionary on the Saturday nights. And then
nearly two years ago, my husband and I joined a new church, of which she was a
member. We sat near each other and shared the peace with a hug many times.
Despite the
growing dementia, I heard her voice loud and clear behind me, in the creed
she’d been reciting for most of her lifetime, and the Lord’s Prayer. Those she
knew by heart. And the old hymns that I heard her say she preferred to the
newer pieces. That’s okay. We appreciate different things; I love the
newer pieces too.
And then one
day I learned she’d been placed in long-term care because her wandering had
become a concern for her family and potentially dangerous to her as
well. There was a waiting time while she adjusted—when she felt upset and out
of place—but after that time I went to visit her as often as I could. We had
snacks together, a picnic in their outdoor area, and times to visit. She kept
saying she’d be back to church sometime, she didn’t know just when. And she did
ask about going to retreat again, even if she remembered the chill of the room
we stayed in last year together in late April (though she was tucked in under warm comforters).
Pat’s mutual
friend, Terry, and I kept each other posted on how Pat was adjusting. And Pat
knew us and appreciated our visits. I said each time that I’d be back. And I did go back.
In the last month or two, we sensed that Pat still liked having company but
perhaps didn’t really know who we were.
And now Pat’s
struggle is over and we’ll soon celebrate her life with her family and friends,
and church family. I imagine her family will share stories about her, ones we
don’t know, and I look forward to hearing what they tell us.
Pat's pain and
confusion are gone, but the warm memories she created have not. As June, fellow
member at church, wrote on Facebook about Pat today, “Heaven gained an angel.”
May she rest in peace.
My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? John 14:2 NIV
Carolyn Wilker is an author, editor and storyteller.
https://www.carolynwilker.ca/about/
