|
my grandma died last week. she was 82 years
old, but didn't know it. she often struggled to recall our names
when we appeared in her room. recently, when we asked her if
she knew where she was, she looked around her room in the intensive
care unit, white sheets, intravenous pumps, electrodes wired
to bleeping monitors, "i'm in my dining room."
This is the story of my maternal grandmother's
last days. But, for me, it's about the amazing transformations
that are part of every lifetime. It's about doing the things
we must, but finding ways to do them in the peace of who we really
are.
I think that her experience and this story
are important because they give us all an opportunity to observe
our own personal reactions to pain and suffering, fear and uncertainty,
growing confusion and loss of control -- AND the possibility
for peace, in the midst of it all.
For me, this experience captures the essence
and spirit of the work I want to do, with individuals and organizations,
in times of swirling change and breathtaking transformation.
since she was diagnosed with alzheimers disease
a few years ago, we'd grown accustomed to our own incapacity
to really connect, to truly be with her, to help her in any significant
way. "how's grandma?" we'd ask. "she's pretty
confused..." is usually how the report began. then, about
a month ago she forgot that she couldn't walk without her walker.
she ventured off without it and fell. she broke two large bones,
necessitating an ambulance ride and several invasive medical
procedures which seemed to propel her on a final crossing from
confused into lost.
but the journey downward wasn't without its
wonderful moments. one day toward the end, after a difficult
attempt at mandatory physical therapy, she laid back and closed
her eyes, "oh-boy, i just want to go to sleep" she
groaned
to which mom responded, "that's okay,
you can do that, mom"
"no, i mean for good" she reinforced.
"i know. you can do that, mom"
"oh," she said, opening her eyes.
"really?" and closing her eyes again, she continued,
"could i have a little vanilla ice cream before i do?"
in her lifetime, she'd known desperate odds
many times before -- childhood diseases, multiple cancers and
surgeries, crippling arthritis, months of unexplained blindness,
and intense lonliness after my grandfather died. she always seemed
to meet them with willful acceptance and renewed determination
to do what she could for others, even as her strength and capabilities
left her. doctors who knew her history didn't like to make predictions.
but this last time was, of course, to be different.
lost in the complexity of so many of her internal systems complaining
at once, her thoughts and communication deteriorated until we
could understand almost nothing of what she was saying, except
for key phrases like "oh, boy!" "oh my god!"
and "please help me." these always came through loud
and clear. she really wanted out of this world, but giving up
was something she'd never allowed herself to practice. and so,
after three weeks of degeneration, she'd curled herself up in
her bed, the muscles of her neck, chest and stomach tightening
with fear and tension, an involuntary retreat from overwhelming
uncertainty. she just couldn't let go.
her troubles reached a sort of climax the
last monday night of her life. after weeks of downtime, her lungs
were filling with fluid, she was falling behind on her breathing,
and she was scared. when she opened her eyes, she could barely
see us, but reached out for help, instinctively. it's hard to
know what to do at those moments when you so want to help but
have to admit that some things are beyond our control. small
doses of morphine helped calm her a little, but gave no real
comfort. we took turns sitting with her all night, following
her breathing, reassuring where we could.
at dawn, she was restless and anxious, due
for the next morphine shot. i recognized the tension in her body
as an extreme form of the tightness i feel in my own chest and
gut when i am under stress. i sighed a big sigh for her, "aaaahhhhhhh."
it gave her pause, a break in the steady stream of quietly desperate
murmuring "...oh my god, oh my goodness..." i sighed
again, "aaaahhhh," releasing my own tension. soon she
was echoing me eagerly on every exhale. mom picked up on it and
started "the sleep song," a cadence of "aaahhs"
that grandma used, to rock all of the babies she loved to sleep.
"ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah..." grandma echoed
our humming all day long, whenever she'd get anxious or restless,
we'd hum with her and she'd breathe easier, straighten out, loosen
up.
it was better than morphine -- for all of
us. it was real conversation, real connection, the likes of which
we hadn't had for years. the truth was finally clear enough,
the need strong enough, and the message simple enough for us
to connect with her. in one syllable, "aaahhh," which
means peace, we said we saw and heard her pain, remembered her
love, and reminded her that it was still deep inside of her,
beneath the pain and fear. with that same syllable in response,
she seemed to say, "i hear you trying to help, i'm doing
as you say, and it's working." it filled the room with a
new energy. even the staff took note.
we'd managed to keep them from turning on
the bright lights, sticking her with needles and making other
customary, but now unnecessary, intrusions into her space. by
tuesday evening, however, her bed had to be changed. the process,
done as gently as possible, still proved tremendously upsetting
for her. after hours of peace, she was now a tightened little
knot again, gasping for breath, crying out for help. i called
mom back to the hospital, sure the end was near. but, after several
hours of rosaries, prayers, singing, crying, releasing and even
humming, she remained as knotted as ever.
worn out, mom looked across the bed at me,
"she hasn't eaten or stood up for 25 days, where can she
be getting the strength to do this?" i paused and then it
flashed for me. "maybe she's getting it from us," i
smiled, "maybe we should go take a walk." we restated
our final goodbyes and left her room. we got a snack, resaid
our goodbyes and left her to finish her work on her own. we'd
finally accepted that she could not be coached, sung, prayed
or hummed into this transformation. she should have been dead
years ago, should have gone this morning, certainly she would
finish this up tonight.
given her history, it wasn't a total surprise
when she lived through tuesday night -- but nobody could have
predicted or even imagined the rest. none of the doctors and
nurses had ever seen anything like it, but mom could hear it
clearly, from down the hall, before she even reached grandma's
room on wednesday morning. "ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah...."
she walked in the room, sat down at the bed and listened,"ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,
ah-ah-ah-ah-ah."
"hi mom, i'm here, mom."
no response, but the chanting, "...ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,
ah-ah-ah-ah-ah...." with every exhale.
in a minute, there came a short pause which
mom filled in with her own chanting. grandma wrinkled her eyebrows
in a little scowl, eyes still closed. in a minute, another pause
and mom tried again, getting the same grumpy little scowl, that
seemed to say "it's my song, my life, my death, and i can
do it by myself, thank you very much."
and so, with eyes closed and lungs nearly
full to drowning, she chanted her sleep song without accompaniment,
without interruption, all day and all night, wednesday, thursday
and friday. by friday evening you couldn't hear her down the
hall anymore, but the sound continued loud enough to be heard
in her room and peacefully enough to be described as singing
by one listener. as she chanted and sighed, she softened and
relaxed her whole body until she finally let go, just after midnight,
on good friday night.
she had reconnected with her own deepest love
and caring - her own most important work and calling - beneath
the fear, the pain and the uncertainty of the present moment
-- and beyond the limits of her physical circumstances.
sometimes the simplest things can lead in
the most amazing directions, the most personal is most universal,
and the most obvious is hardest to remember. when seen in this
light, the moment of leadership becomes a personal quest to remember
how to do amazing things with ease.
|
Body Rests Like a Mountain
Breath Moves Like the Sea
Heart Like the Sky
|
...
--Julie Henderson
|
|