by John Griffin - December 11, 2007
For a finish she lost all perception of time, the minutes, the hours, the days and weeks, they all ran together in her mind, or they all ceased to exist for her, or they ceased to compete with the larger impending issue she knew was more certain now, that imminent event that pestered her inexorably and would not go away. So, she sat up in bed, or, rather, all day long she slowly, agonizingly moored the wreck of body higher and higher on the pillows, all day long her knotted fists tried to hoist and lever her upwards. It was an excruciating task to even do that much, the wheezing, the incessant phlegm-filled lungs, the languor and her exhausted aching limbs. And yet, there was no waiving it now, no postponing or forgetting, though the mind might prefer to idle backwards than focus ahead, though the mind might even wander at all, whichever direction it took her there was no escaping it — and the ruin of body declared with every gesture it's final and inevitable end ...
The first attack was the worst. It literally bowled her under. She broke her arm on the fall, and was so badly bruised all over we never knew where to touch her. It was so bad the doctors rang us back immediately with the results of the blood tests. They advised admitting her without further ado. That was a year ago last July. She wouldn't hear of going to any hospital — 'Filthy damned infested places' — and that was the end of that. 'I'm 89 yrs old,' she said, 'I think I'll take my chances and stick it out at home.' End of discussion! God help anyone foolish enough to try to convince her otherwise.
But we all knew the reason. 'I'll not die alone in a hospital bed like Jack,' she said. That's what kept her at home. She didn't want to go as he had gone, silently in his sleep, alone, without a single loving presence beside him in that death-familiar, camphor-smelling ward, with nothing but the beep of the ECG to announce his end. That's what she thought of, I'm sure of it, and I remember how difficult it was for her to see his body after, returned to the mortuary, jaundiced, glistening as it used to, but duller now and visibly stanched, clean shaven and nicked, not to mention the impersonality of him, the strangeness and unfamiliarity of him asleep there like that. She had missed the moment of his passing, and that would not happen to her.
Her convalescence was slow but sure. Soon enough she began calling for us earlier each day to come up and fetch her. By August she was down before dinner, by Christmas she was receiving friends and taking part in the festivities, and by January, March and April she was up on her own, strolling slowly, then walking again, a little less confidently now, but looking better, a little too stooped perhaps, but feeling better all round, eating more, being a little contrary, and even suggesting the occasional outing. Her spirits seemed to be restored. It was quite rejuvenating for all of us — and the children were allowed around her again. It looked promising. Sister Frances came to visit for the weekend and they went off to bingo together, the pair of them like two young girls delighting in one another's company. She had a smile and healthy flash in her eyes, and the light animating her bright features exuded a contented, self-satisfying look.
But she had put up a brave front. It was too much too soon. Or so the doctor said afterwards. A couple of nights after the nun left she had a relapse, another attack. This one wasn't as severe as the first, but now she was much weaker, less able for the whole thought of convalescence again. Almost a year to the day and she was laid up again, this time more helpless, more lethargic, with much less of the fight that saw her through before. And the last year had taken its toll. It seemed now the haul wasn't worth it. Now she was less able to eat or keep track of things, her motor skills were almost entirely dissipated. And we were spending more and more time with her. The pills also failed or wouldn't alleviate the pain. Nothing worked. And yet she seemed to be pulling through. Incredulously, she fought it all the way, insisting on getting up, and so we backed off. The inordinate lengths it took her to get to the landing didn't seem to bother her much, not even the arduous descent, until finally she decided not to try to come down at all, and then we knew. 'It's only cruelty, doctor,' she said to the doctor that night. Was it then she decided where her feet would never carry her again?
... And then I had the first dream. It was an old-style Latin mass, where the priest faced away from the congregation. I can even picture the bright altar there, the old oaken one they used to have, before the marble one, remember? And the altar-cloth opened like a scroll across the top and curled at both ends. He chanted in Latin, just the naked voice, no amplification. Then I realized it was a requiem mass. The priest's vestments were black, and the altar boys' were black, and I saw the large candles fluttering, and the smell of incense as the celebrant swung the thurible ...
It was getting more difficult for her now. All the antibiotics had failed, and we were out of alternatives. Although she was more vigilant, she was also more afraid now. She panicked often, calling out to us, to come and lift her higher and higher, as if she might climb beyond the flood threatening to fill her lungs. We also panicked and feared she might get pneumonia. And still she climbed as though she'd finally scale out over the top of her suffocation and breathe effortlessly at the roof of her illness. So we raised her higher again, puffing up the pillows again. It helped. A little. I'm sure it must've helped. She said it helped.
She was becoming more and more restless. We'd barely be out of the room with her untouched dinner tray when she'd be calling again for dinner. At night she rang non-stop. The fear again. She didn't trust that she could prevent herself from slipping if she happened to be left alone. She wanted someone with her always, so we stayed with her. It was August now, Jack's anniversary, but she hadn't recalled, or it ceased to matter any longer. Anyway, we never mentioned it. On the Saturday she requested bacon and cabbage, the only such request. But by the time we had it prepared she hardly seemed to want it anymore. She nibbled. Nodded. 'Foul! Foul!' she said and pushed it aside.
She sensed the end was imminent, so asked if we would pray with her. We prayed together each morning and night, she drifting out at times and us drifting in at others ... Then, I had the second dream. This time the priest faced the congregation. He wore only an alb and cincture. His strong voice resounded throughout the church, the tall echoes bounding off pillars and booming upwards into the ribbed rafters. He stood behind the new altar ... That night we mentioned her mouth. It had 'fallen'. She was weaker. Her breathing was heavier, deeper, wheezing almost, though also more resigned, or so we supposed. We arranged to have mass said in the room.
That morning we had much difficulty from the children. They fought over their chores and filled the house with their bickering, which seemed to thrill her. In the clean-up one of them found a missal entitled, The Keys of Heaven. 'That's exactly what I've been looking for', she said. We found it afterwards tucked under her pillow. As the priest was saying mass, we felt a profoundly spiritual change come over the entire house — a great pall of peace descended on it. The whole aura of the house changed that morning. The house was filled with the murmured answers. The priest announced, "Where I am going now thou canst not follow." ... Then I had the third dream. I saw her head and above it a halo of hosts, circling and circling, but descending now, and entering her, one by one. No lights, just the dull of the room ...
The doctor warned we'd know the time by the change in her breathing. On midday on Wednesday we heard it. We were all by her bed-side as she wished. We stood by her, holding her into the last decline, the breathing of the end. Even at the last she fought it, pulling and heaving in great breaths. But then she lost consciousness. She took four last long deep breaths and then she died. She was still at last. Her face settled and was at peace.
John Griffin is a writer living in Ireland