Photo by Chichacha |
I visit Grandma in the nursing home where she is rehabbing
from pneumonia. It is a lovely, mild summer day, and I wheel her out into the
garden. We sit on a bench and talk. She asks about my job situation, and I
launch into it all. I am renewing my contract to teach adult literacy and I
enjoy it and it is stressful and not forever and it is good experience and
helps my resume and I am learning and I love working with low-income and
marginalized people and I am somehow not using all my gifts and I want to work
in an area more basic and physical and human.
“You think very deeply about your career,” she says when I
finally stop to take a breath. “I’ve never been so deep and thoughtful as you.”
I start to protest but she keeps going. “I am sure you will be wonderful at
whatever you do.”
*
We are standing around her bed in the ICU. We have just made
the decision to pull the feeding tube and the oxygen, because we have all, in
the last week, slowly come to terms with the fact that this stroke was fatal, that even if she were
to wake up she would not be herself, that this is not another cancer she is
going to fight off or another bout with pneumonia that she will come through. This
is the time to say goodbye.
The doctors say after they pull the oxygen, it will be a
matter of hours. We gather and call in her pastor, and we begin to pray and
sing hymns. Our family is founded on music, so in four-part harmony, we sing her
favorite songs from the Presbyterian hymnal. The words to the hymns have never
meant so much. This is grief, this is letting go, this is worship. The pastor
brings our singing to a close with a liturgy for the dying. We unclasp our
hands, touch our faces to her still-warm body, and exhale, surrendering to the
blips on the monitor.
At one a.m. we are still sitting there, blinking to stay
awake, alternating laughs and tears, waiting for her to go. We are her
children, all, and this grief has brought us together, and we have never been
so certain of our calling as this
moment, in which are called to be with her, to be a family, to fill this room
with love.
On Friday afternoon when it is finally over, I go home and
write three poems for her and then I cry and fall asleep.
*
I write a thank you note to her pastor, enclosing the generous
donation of my friends. I say, You will probably never know how meaningful your
presence was, how life-changing those days were for me, learning to lean into
the loss and celebrate the life and release her into resurrection. I think,
what meaningful work it is to be a pastor, to be with people in those crucial
moments, to offer a prayer and a liturgy in which they can pour out their
goodbye in the presence of God. I think, I would love a job where I could be
with people in that basic, human way.
*
Now, four years have passed, and I have enrolled in
seminary, and this summer as a pastoral intern in the country, I visit lovely
old ladies in homes and nursing homes and hospitals. There is one
ninety-something firecracker who is organizing a Fourth-of-July parade; she
shows me the archives of photos for the last eight parades. There is another ninety-something
who is thoughtful and kind and wants to hear about my life even though her hearing impairment prevents understanding
most of it.
There is a little bit of Grandma in both of these women, and
I think of her often this summer.
*
I am waiting in an airport when the desire hits me
strong—for just a cup of coffee and a couple hours to catch up.
I would tell her about my new path, seminary, the road to
becoming a pastor or chaplain or minister of some sort. She would ask me how I
came to this path, and whether I mind public speaking. The idea of me as a
minister would make her happy, I think, and over it she would speak a word of encouragement and acceptance and love.
She loved you, Katie. She loved us all. Thank you for sharing that love again with us. May you be as caring, loving, understanding, patient, and successful in your path as Grandma was in hers.
ReplyDeleteLove, Uncle Tom
A beautiful piece , Katie. Thank you!
ReplyDelete