I spent the first Thursday afternoon of 2010 sitting in the cafeteria of a skilled nursing facility crying into my coffee with a colleague. I was recounting the recent death of a client and the way he and his wife loved each other through sickness and then death. I told her of how they pushed their beds together and slept side-by-side holding hands until the morning she became a widow. We looked into our coffee, quiet for a moment. I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat.
Mr. D was an 84 year-old Jewish man with a malignant form of cancer known as multiple myeloma. I was told he needed help adjusting to his condition; to the fact that he was dying. I wondered how I might help him come to terms with dying when I myself knew so little about the subject. He was not ready and neither was I. Mr. D was born in Brooklyn right before the Great Depression. He met his wife when he was 14½, and she 13½ through a neighborhood Jewish event. They married four years later and had two daughters. Proudly, he shared about his career as a plumber and how he managed to move his family to New Jersey, into a house he himself built.
For six months, I met with him and became a part of his life. At times, he stared at the hallways before telling me of his plans to change the facility into a better place. Other times, he cursed with anger as he recounted the letters he had sent to management on issues related to the food. We discussed the importance of rest and letting go. I listened as his daughter expressed concern over his outbursts towards friends and family members. We discussed learning to forgive, be thankful, and find peace. I watched his wife cry confused tears as he stormed off clanging his walker against the floor with each step. We discussed how to leave behind a loved one and say goodbye.
In December, Mr. D asked me to help him write letters to his loved ones. He had many words he wanted to say and needed a scribe since he had lost the ability to hold a pen. He was grateful for his friends and asked them to look after his family. He thanked his daughters for their care over him in his old age, said he was proud of them in their adulthood, and apologized for being hard on them in their youth. We started the letter to his wife four times before he became frustrated and tore it up. He wanted to leave behind encouraging words, but was unable to do so. He was worried she would miss him, cry, and not be able to carry on by herself. I suggested that he tell her how he felt even if he thought he was doing it poorly, but that he do it anyways with all his worry, sadness, and love. And that was how the letter came to be.
I was told that the morning he died, his wife remained by his side for hours quietly looking at his face. When it came time for the orderlies to move his body, she rested her head on his chest for a moment before she said goodbye. There was silence, rest, and peace as death did part them.
That morning I cried for the family and their loss. I cried for the community and the collective pang that comes with the passing of a resident. I realized that when people you care for pass, it is difficult to mourn and accept the end of a life, but that it is not the end of hope. Something awakens when the life of a good man concludes. Through his words of gratitude, kindness, forgiveness, and love I discovered that dying is an integral part of living. With dying, comes the opportunity to set free those who are left behind.
