“Happy 91st birthday! I wish you a long and healthy life …” As I had been reading aloud all of the birthday cards that “Anna” had not been able to read due to her deteriorated eyesight, she stopped to comment at the end of this letter as she had with every other one. Usually, it was reminiscing about the memories about the senders –her nephews, granddaughters, or a dear friends. This time, her tone shifted completely and sternly replied, “No”.
Her sudden dismissal came as a surprise. Initially, I couldn’t understand the sudden rejection to a phrase wishing someone well. Clearly seeing my perplexion, she continued to explain. It wasn’t that she did not appreciate the good intentions behind the sender but they had not been able to empathize about her position. Unlike some other patients in hospice facilities, her mind was clear and conscious and the disease that afflicted her was localized in her lungs. Due to the nature of her condition that admitted her into hospice care, she was already fully aware that she was close to knocking on death’s door. She was living in a constant state of pain and the prospect of living longer would only lengthen the time of her sentence. For her, longevity was unimportant; it was the quality of life that really mattered.
As she reflected back on her days as a youth in India, traveling to teach in Africa, becoming an accomplished children’s storybook writer, and being a loving mother and grandmother, she admitted that she had no regrets in life. Her advice was to “travel and seek out every opportunity that comes your way because every chance you take will be an adventure.” From her perspective, she had already lived the best life she could, fulfilled with precious memories and connections and with a whisper, she concluded her thought with, “I’m ready. God can take me now”.
After that visit, she began to develop a small cough that progressed into a fit of uncontrollable coughs to a point to which even talking became a laborious task for her. As a person who took joy in conversing with anyone who would take the time to chat with her, not being able to provide that conversation upset her greatly. Even through the pain, she would force herself to mutter in order to make people feel welcome.
Little did I know, the next visit would be my last. As soon as I walked in the room, I could hear her gasping for air and barely managing to murmur for me to alert a doctor. She was placed on an oxygen mask. With the loudness of the ventilator replacing the usual calming voice of Anna, I found myself holding and caressing her hand by her bedside. Though no words were exchanged, I felt that just through contact, we were able to mutually understand and appreciate each other’s company. As I began to prepare to leave, she briefly removed the oxygen mask from her face to say, “Thank you for being next to me through the pain — thank you”. I wasn’t able to relieve her pain and being a simple presence next to her was consolation to her in and of itself.
Not even a week later, I was alerted of her passing. Though I was not glad, I was relieved that she did not have to experience any more pain and was now at peace. For her, death become a friend, not a foe. Although she may have left Earth after 91 wholesome years, the memories of her and her works will be preserved throughout our lifetime and beyond.