My friend, Etta, is going downhill fast. I don't think she will live beyond another couple weeks at the most. Etta is 95 years old. She had a stroke 8 years ago that left her unable to move her left side. She was able to walk to the bathroom with her walker until earlier this year. She's recently been sitting in a recliner chair during the day and put to bed around 8:00 at night. She stays in bed for 12 hours and is in the chair for 12 hours. Since she hasn't been able to walk, Etta has developed three small bedsores. One of them got terribly infected and she was in the hospital last weekend with a systemic infection. After a couple days of IV antibiotics, she improved. But at her age, she couldn't manage being away from her familiar settings very well, and she got very confused.
I took Etta flowers on Monday. When she saw me, she asked me how Otis (the cat) is. She thanked me for letting him come over to her house and told me that he was in the cupboard at the foot of her bed. I reminded her that she was in the hospital and that cats aren't allowed. Otis in fact was at home in his bed. She said in a loud whisper, "I've got Alzheimer's, I think!"
"No, Etta," I told her. "You got mixed up while you were here in the hospital. You'll get back to normal once you're home again." I had no reason to think she wouldn't. She's been as sharp as a whip, mentally. And funny!
Today I called Jack, her 94 year -old husband. He didn't sound too good. Etta had to have an indwelling urine catheter placed, which she hates. And she's having trouble swallowing her food. She can no longer feed herself and she chokes even on water. I didn't like the sound of that. She will probably inhale some water or food and give herself a nasty aspiration pneumonia. That will be the end of her. Jack sounded tired, but when I told him that I could bring by some soup for her he told me that he already made some. He's quite the cook--makes his own gluten burgers from scratch! But I also know that Etta isn't wild about his cooking or his meal combinations. I thought that maybe I could help by taking over some homemade cream of broccoli soup or something. No, he has everything he needs. But he was so grateful for the offer.
I hung up the phone feeling very sad. Two weeks ago on the day Etta went into the hospital, I dropped by to take her some blueberry scones. She was delighted. But she looked awful. Etta was sitting up in her wheelchair and was pasty-white in her face. "Barbara," she said with sincerity in her voice. "I'm tired. I can't go on like this."
"I know you're tired, Etta. I would be too."
"I just feel so weary. It feels like too much."
"Yes. I think it would..." I waited for several minutes just to give her room to collect her thoughts and to let her know that I was listening.
"I don't know what to do."
"Do you think there is something you should do, Etta?"
She looked at her hands in her lap. "No. I can't think of anything."
I wished I could have done something for her then--anything that could have helped her. Perhaps my listening and being someone she could say that to was enough. "Etta, you've done so well for such a long time. And it has to have been very hard."
"Yes, I did do well for a long time. But now I'm tired."
"I know." I cast about for something to say and stopped myself from saying something trite just to alleviate my dis-ease. "I don't know what to tell you, Etta. But I do know that God knows when it is time. We can be sure that He knows when to take you and we can trust Him to do that at the right time."
"Yes, I know that Barbara, and I'm glad we can trust Him that way."
She caught herself suddenly. "But I don't like being blue. Here--you tell me about you now." I took her cue and regaled her with stories for the next 10 minutes, giving her something to laugh about. She was so happy to see me and thanked me repeatedly for dropping in to see her. "It means so much, Barbara."
It certainly means more to me than she could ever know.
I am soon to lose a dear, sweet friend who has been an inspiration to me. Even with having to sit in a recliner chair for the last 8 years, I've only twice heard her make a negative comment about it. Mostly, she laughs when I see her and say, "Well, I'm still alive!" I always say, "Well, that's more fun, isn't it?" and we both chuckle.
Please say a prayer for Etta. She is such a dear soul and I will be very sorry to see her go. But I also know that it is time and she is ready. It comes to every single one of us. We just each need to be ready and live in such a way that we will be fully alive until we die. Few people live that way. Etta has.
August 23, 2008
Do you really care?
There are people in life who are carers. We typically like to be around these kind of people. They ask you if you're comfortable when you visit them, attend to you to be sure you have what you need, and follow you to your room as if to introduce you to the wallpaper or something. They just want to iron out the wrinkles, reduce awkwardness, help you ease into being in an unfamiliar place. Their warm, kind presence makes any unfamiliar room feel homey.
And there are people who are not carers. You enter their home with a "Welcome!" on their lips that quickly fades as they sit down and turn on the television, their backs to you. "Make yourself at home" you hear as you wander down the hall toward the bedroom they told you was there. Or they are on the computer, or talking on the phone, or reading and you are left alone in an unfamiliar place trying to figure out what to do, to find where the bathroom is and wonder what towel you are to use, or what is expected of you. Obviously, it is not to talk while your host is watching television. So you try to pick up a magazine and leaf through it or look out the windows at the view. You can make a couple general kinds of comments and receive a comment over the shoulder of your host, but that's where it ends. Until the commercial.
I remember a weekend I had once with a friend who is not what I'd call a carer, although she thinks she is tremendously caring and attentive. It was really hard on me because I come from a family in which when we get together we are all talking together, laughing, just enjoying hearing the other ones talk. We didn't grow up with a TV and so we know how to communicate together without having to watch a ball game or something. And we weren't the kind of family who all got together, picked up our individual books and headed to different corners of the house. We were the family who, once upon a time, all clumped together on the daybed on the front porch of the house--all four of us kids, with Mother and Daddy in rocking chairs--and one of them would read aloud to us for a couple hours sometimes. Or we would laugh and talk together all evening there. People used to remark about how much love and togetherness we had as a family. Sad to say, that is not the case between my siblings and mother now. But most of us kids are good to be around and we bend over backward to be hospitable because we all genuinely like people and enjoy chatting and just being with them. But back to the weekend with my friend. It was a really hard visit off and on over the weekend. She didn't say a whole lot and seemed to be intent on reading a book that she had just gotten. It was expected that I would have a book and sit across the room reading my book while she read hers. For the entire weekend, I think. Very few things to do together. When I left after two and a half very long days, I didn't ever want to go back again.
What is it? Why are some people so oblivious to the needs of others? It is as if they are in a world all their own, or they lack the ability to see that the other people around them need some sort of entertaining or at least conversation.
I remember one woman I roomed with once, years ago. On a weekend trip with a third friend, she fairly exploded at me. "Why does it matter whether I'm comfortable, too warm, too cold, happy, sad, or anything else? You're driving me crazy!" I was stunned. I hadn't hovered over her firing questions about her wellbeing: I had just asked her a couple questions over the weekend to check and see if I could somehow add to her experience. In my mind, that is what gracious, mannerly people do. But she came from a family of people who were all in their own worlds and she rarely felt cared for. When she did, it was such an unusual experience that she didn't know what to do about it except let fly at me.
I suppose it is also related to the fact that some people are givers and some are takers. There are groups of people that exhaust me because I know that while I am around them I will be asked for things, requested to do things, and it will all be about those people. They tell stories that are about them, steer the conversation to their topics, lose interest if we wander to something I'm interested in, and simply put--they tenaciously adhere to their agenda. There is no room for considering my needs or how they come across. I really dislike being in their company for any length of time.
Other people are such a delight to be around. I have a couple friends of whom I never tire. We have "inside" language, meanings, stories. We've been friends for 20 and 30 years respectively. They are closer to me than my own siblings. And they are both givers. They elicit stories from me and I listen while they tell theirs. We both give and take. True delights to be around. Because in addition to being creative, smart, humorous, they are also capable of seeing the world through my eyes. I guess that is what a soulmate is: someone who can see the world through your eyes and therefore goes the second mile to be sure that your experience is the best it can be in their presence.
Givers and takers. One gives of themselves and takes note of the needs and experience of the other person. The other is consumed with their own needs, feelings, wants. To be around a taker is to feel like you're drowning. To be around a giver, your heart swells and you feel like you just drank an ounce of warm brandy when you have a cold and it's time to go to bed--good, smug, happy, comfortable. I know what kind of person I'm happiest with.
And there are people who are not carers. You enter their home with a "Welcome!" on their lips that quickly fades as they sit down and turn on the television, their backs to you. "Make yourself at home" you hear as you wander down the hall toward the bedroom they told you was there. Or they are on the computer, or talking on the phone, or reading and you are left alone in an unfamiliar place trying to figure out what to do, to find where the bathroom is and wonder what towel you are to use, or what is expected of you. Obviously, it is not to talk while your host is watching television. So you try to pick up a magazine and leaf through it or look out the windows at the view. You can make a couple general kinds of comments and receive a comment over the shoulder of your host, but that's where it ends. Until the commercial.
I remember a weekend I had once with a friend who is not what I'd call a carer, although she thinks she is tremendously caring and attentive. It was really hard on me because I come from a family in which when we get together we are all talking together, laughing, just enjoying hearing the other ones talk. We didn't grow up with a TV and so we know how to communicate together without having to watch a ball game or something. And we weren't the kind of family who all got together, picked up our individual books and headed to different corners of the house. We were the family who, once upon a time, all clumped together on the daybed on the front porch of the house--all four of us kids, with Mother and Daddy in rocking chairs--and one of them would read aloud to us for a couple hours sometimes. Or we would laugh and talk together all evening there. People used to remark about how much love and togetherness we had as a family. Sad to say, that is not the case between my siblings and mother now. But most of us kids are good to be around and we bend over backward to be hospitable because we all genuinely like people and enjoy chatting and just being with them. But back to the weekend with my friend. It was a really hard visit off and on over the weekend. She didn't say a whole lot and seemed to be intent on reading a book that she had just gotten. It was expected that I would have a book and sit across the room reading my book while she read hers. For the entire weekend, I think. Very few things to do together. When I left after two and a half very long days, I didn't ever want to go back again.
What is it? Why are some people so oblivious to the needs of others? It is as if they are in a world all their own, or they lack the ability to see that the other people around them need some sort of entertaining or at least conversation.
I remember one woman I roomed with once, years ago. On a weekend trip with a third friend, she fairly exploded at me. "Why does it matter whether I'm comfortable, too warm, too cold, happy, sad, or anything else? You're driving me crazy!" I was stunned. I hadn't hovered over her firing questions about her wellbeing: I had just asked her a couple questions over the weekend to check and see if I could somehow add to her experience. In my mind, that is what gracious, mannerly people do. But she came from a family of people who were all in their own worlds and she rarely felt cared for. When she did, it was such an unusual experience that she didn't know what to do about it except let fly at me.
I suppose it is also related to the fact that some people are givers and some are takers. There are groups of people that exhaust me because I know that while I am around them I will be asked for things, requested to do things, and it will all be about those people. They tell stories that are about them, steer the conversation to their topics, lose interest if we wander to something I'm interested in, and simply put--they tenaciously adhere to their agenda. There is no room for considering my needs or how they come across. I really dislike being in their company for any length of time.
Other people are such a delight to be around. I have a couple friends of whom I never tire. We have "inside" language, meanings, stories. We've been friends for 20 and 30 years respectively. They are closer to me than my own siblings. And they are both givers. They elicit stories from me and I listen while they tell theirs. We both give and take. True delights to be around. Because in addition to being creative, smart, humorous, they are also capable of seeing the world through my eyes. I guess that is what a soulmate is: someone who can see the world through your eyes and therefore goes the second mile to be sure that your experience is the best it can be in their presence.
Givers and takers. One gives of themselves and takes note of the needs and experience of the other person. The other is consumed with their own needs, feelings, wants. To be around a taker is to feel like you're drowning. To be around a giver, your heart swells and you feel like you just drank an ounce of warm brandy when you have a cold and it's time to go to bed--good, smug, happy, comfortable. I know what kind of person I'm happiest with.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)