Being there
By Becky Lyn Rickman
One of the perks of being a woman is the privilege of being there when life begins and being there when it ends.
One of my fondest memories surrounds the long-term illness of my grandmother-in-law, Rosetta Williams. It was, as Dickens stated, the best of times and the worst of times.
I was living in New York at the time with my then husband, Bruce, and our children. We were going through horrendous trials as a couple and I was fairly certain divorce was in the future. I had agreed, however, to help care for his grandmother, who the children called Gram from North Rose. It was my privilege to do so, out of my great love and respect for the life she had led.
She had Parkinson's Disease, one of those horribly cruel diseases—the kind that drag on, leaving a wake of debilitation in their path and rob their victims of any sort of human dignity as they progress.
At first, caring for her meant taking her to medical appointments and making a few meals when she was tired. As the involuntary tremors and muscle constriction in her hands worsened, it meant doing housekeeping, errand running, and physical therapy with her.
Then, the dementia hit and it was now time to move her into our home.
At this point, our marriage was really on the skids and this was a welcome diversion for my heartache. She quickly became a 24-hour a day chore and blessing. For months, I bathed, fed, laughed with and medicated her. I got her affairs in order.
She began to get paralysis in her throat, which caused her to choke. I had to thicken all her liquids and pulverize all her food. Twice she got aspiration pneumonia, and the doctor comforted me by telling me that it would likely be the cause of her death. He said it was the most merciful way to go and I trusted him.
There was one incident when she began to lash out at my children exactly 20 minutes after she took one particular blood pressure pill. I spoke with the doctor about it and he said that could not possibly be a side effect of the pill, but told me to cut it in half and give her a half dose and see how it went. When I did so, I quickly found out it was an extended release pill and by cutting it, she got the whole dose and once and nearly had a stroke. I only mention this because I believe you should always trust your instincts and the evidence before you. Just because there were no diagnosed cases of this side effect did not mean she wasn't experiencing it.
That little episode landed her in the hospital for a couple of days and while she was there, I went in to feed her her meals. One evening, I lifted her from the bed to put her in the chair to feed her, and she tooted. Broke wind. Fluffed. Farted. It was rather loud and without skipping a beat and in a glorious moment of lucidity, she looked me deadpan in the face and said, "Becky! Shame on you!" We both chuckled. I lived for those moments. They were becoming more and more rare and the rest of the time I would have to fake going out to gather the pigs in the yard, admonish her children who were long grown and had children and grandchildren of their own, and a lot of other play acting to placate her.
Prior to her getting so bad, she had fallen on a tombstone and broken her shoulder, so she had hardware in that shoulder. Her surgeon told me he wanted to operate and remove it. Now, I understand the careless greed in that decision. She was now within months of dying and he wanted to operate to remove nuts and bolts and rods that would go into the garbage. It was a way to milk the insurance and one reason why it is so outlandishly high. At the time, I asked her and she believed in him wholeheartedly so we went through with it. If I had it to do over, I would have denied it and reported him. I say this because I think we should always get second opinions and carefully decide before rushing into procedures that can cost us or a loved one their life.
The end was drawing near and the doctor told me exactly what to look for. He said her respiration would become quite rapid and then, eventually, become so slow you wouldn't know from minute to minute whether she was still actually there.
One Sunday morning, I drug myself out of bed reluctantly. I was exhausted. I hadn't been out of the house in months. The night before was filled with changing linens due to incontinence and comforting her through her shame over it. I am awfully good at that. But this particular morning, I was worn thin. I went to her to try to convince her to skip the morning sponge bath because we were both so exhausted. She grabbed my hand and said, "No, I have to be clean. I'm gong home today."
At first, I thought she was having some dementia, but she added, "I have to be clean when I meet Jesus."
I smiled and was constrained from shrugging it off and saying something like, "Oh, you've got time left. Don't talk that way." I knew the time was here. I knew today was the day and I knew my job was to give her the comfort and support she needed to get through that next great door.
I took my time bathing her. I did not insist that she eat. We smiled at one another, sharing a secret we weren't ready to share with anyone else. At one point, she grabbed my arm again and looked me in the eye and mouthed the words, "Thank you." I fought back tears, but knew without a doubt I had taken better are of her than anyone else would have.
I dressed her and asked her what she wanted next. She said she wanted to sit in the recliner. I lifted her and called her children and grandchildren and begged them to come visit and say goodbye. They declined the offer, having not been the least bit involved in her final journey. I called my own children in to sit with her and we all just sat and remembered her part in our lives. I told them what to watch for. We all silently celebrated as her respiration reached epic speed, around 60 or 70 per minute. Then, just as the doctor had warned, we watched it slow to 5 per minute, then 4 . . .
I lifted her frail 68-pound frame and carried her to the sofa so I could hold her. This was a precious moment. I knew where she was going and I knew she would be surrounded by those who had gone before her. I held her and talked to her, recounting favorite memories, including the toot, until she drew her last breath. She died in my arms, where she belonged.
I called the ambulance and she was gone, but not forgotten. I was given a special epiphany. We, as women, get to feel the first moments of life, that quickening that reassures us there really is a human renting a womb from us. And, if we are truly blessed, we have the opportunity of ushering someone we love back where they came from, to a home more glorious and magnificent than it is possible to imagine.
Her funeral and interment did not go well for me. I was asked to go to another room so the absentee family could be there with her. I was left standing on the sidewalk when they drove away to the cemetery. I had to walk 2 miles to her home to prepare food for the thoughtless horde. But I have something no one else has. Sweet memories of a lovely woman I can't wait to see again and the knowledge that I did the work of angels. The reason I know this is that I was sustained through a violent, horrible marriage, tending my own 4 children, and caring for Rosetta. I felt safe and watched over. Though I wasn't able to attend church for those long months, I felt the spirit closer than ever before. I was equal to a task that should have overwhelmed me. Caring for God's children carries its own rewards and they are immediate and long-lasting.
I was living in New York at the time with my then husband, Bruce, and our children. We were going through horrendous trials as a couple and I was fairly certain divorce was in the future. I had agreed, however, to help care for his grandmother, who the children called Gram from North Rose. It was my privilege to do so, out of my great love and respect for the life she had led.
She had Parkinson's Disease, one of those horribly cruel diseases—the kind that drag on, leaving a wake of debilitation in their path and rob their victims of any sort of human dignity as they progress.
At first, caring for her meant taking her to medical appointments and making a few meals when she was tired. As the involuntary tremors and muscle constriction in her hands worsened, it meant doing housekeeping, errand running, and physical therapy with her.
Then, the dementia hit and it was now time to move her into our home.
At this point, our marriage was really on the skids and this was a welcome diversion for my heartache. She quickly became a 24-hour a day chore and blessing. For months, I bathed, fed, laughed with and medicated her. I got her affairs in order.
She began to get paralysis in her throat, which caused her to choke. I had to thicken all her liquids and pulverize all her food. Twice she got aspiration pneumonia, and the doctor comforted me by telling me that it would likely be the cause of her death. He said it was the most merciful way to go and I trusted him.
There was one incident when she began to lash out at my children exactly 20 minutes after she took one particular blood pressure pill. I spoke with the doctor about it and he said that could not possibly be a side effect of the pill, but told me to cut it in half and give her a half dose and see how it went. When I did so, I quickly found out it was an extended release pill and by cutting it, she got the whole dose and once and nearly had a stroke. I only mention this because I believe you should always trust your instincts and the evidence before you. Just because there were no diagnosed cases of this side effect did not mean she wasn't experiencing it.
That little episode landed her in the hospital for a couple of days and while she was there, I went in to feed her her meals. One evening, I lifted her from the bed to put her in the chair to feed her, and she tooted. Broke wind. Fluffed. Farted. It was rather loud and without skipping a beat and in a glorious moment of lucidity, she looked me deadpan in the face and said, "Becky! Shame on you!" We both chuckled. I lived for those moments. They were becoming more and more rare and the rest of the time I would have to fake going out to gather the pigs in the yard, admonish her children who were long grown and had children and grandchildren of their own, and a lot of other play acting to placate her.
Prior to her getting so bad, she had fallen on a tombstone and broken her shoulder, so she had hardware in that shoulder. Her surgeon told me he wanted to operate and remove it. Now, I understand the careless greed in that decision. She was now within months of dying and he wanted to operate to remove nuts and bolts and rods that would go into the garbage. It was a way to milk the insurance and one reason why it is so outlandishly high. At the time, I asked her and she believed in him wholeheartedly so we went through with it. If I had it to do over, I would have denied it and reported him. I say this because I think we should always get second opinions and carefully decide before rushing into procedures that can cost us or a loved one their life.
The end was drawing near and the doctor told me exactly what to look for. He said her respiration would become quite rapid and then, eventually, become so slow you wouldn't know from minute to minute whether she was still actually there.
One Sunday morning, I drug myself out of bed reluctantly. I was exhausted. I hadn't been out of the house in months. The night before was filled with changing linens due to incontinence and comforting her through her shame over it. I am awfully good at that. But this particular morning, I was worn thin. I went to her to try to convince her to skip the morning sponge bath because we were both so exhausted. She grabbed my hand and said, "No, I have to be clean. I'm gong home today."
At first, I thought she was having some dementia, but she added, "I have to be clean when I meet Jesus."
I smiled and was constrained from shrugging it off and saying something like, "Oh, you've got time left. Don't talk that way." I knew the time was here. I knew today was the day and I knew my job was to give her the comfort and support she needed to get through that next great door.
I took my time bathing her. I did not insist that she eat. We smiled at one another, sharing a secret we weren't ready to share with anyone else. At one point, she grabbed my arm again and looked me in the eye and mouthed the words, "Thank you." I fought back tears, but knew without a doubt I had taken better are of her than anyone else would have.
I dressed her and asked her what she wanted next. She said she wanted to sit in the recliner. I lifted her and called her children and grandchildren and begged them to come visit and say goodbye. They declined the offer, having not been the least bit involved in her final journey. I called my own children in to sit with her and we all just sat and remembered her part in our lives. I told them what to watch for. We all silently celebrated as her respiration reached epic speed, around 60 or 70 per minute. Then, just as the doctor had warned, we watched it slow to 5 per minute, then 4 . . .
I lifted her frail 68-pound frame and carried her to the sofa so I could hold her. This was a precious moment. I knew where she was going and I knew she would be surrounded by those who had gone before her. I held her and talked to her, recounting favorite memories, including the toot, until she drew her last breath. She died in my arms, where she belonged.
I called the ambulance and she was gone, but not forgotten. I was given a special epiphany. We, as women, get to feel the first moments of life, that quickening that reassures us there really is a human renting a womb from us. And, if we are truly blessed, we have the opportunity of ushering someone we love back where they came from, to a home more glorious and magnificent than it is possible to imagine.
Her funeral and interment did not go well for me. I was asked to go to another room so the absentee family could be there with her. I was left standing on the sidewalk when they drove away to the cemetery. I had to walk 2 miles to her home to prepare food for the thoughtless horde. But I have something no one else has. Sweet memories of a lovely woman I can't wait to see again and the knowledge that I did the work of angels. The reason I know this is that I was sustained through a violent, horrible marriage, tending my own 4 children, and caring for Rosetta. I felt safe and watched over. Though I wasn't able to attend church for those long months, I felt the spirit closer than ever before. I was equal to a task that should have overwhelmed me. Caring for God's children carries its own rewards and they are immediate and long-lasting.
Like Becky Lyn Rickman's story? Here's more by her:
MilitaReality—a brat's perspective
How I still haven't learn to keep my smart mouth shut!
Cacti and Geraniums
Some mysterious goosebumps or "What is that on the wall?"
Finding my metal in wood
Some of my favorite herbal recipes are . . .
I love my cat, but . . .
I love all creatures, but . . .
You might be addicted to Harry Potter if . . .
My shot at the big time
A cautionary tale
Why I do it
How I chill
How to clean up an egg and other helpful hints
Most embarrassing moments—automotive edition
The thing about getting older is . . .
MilitaReality—a brat's perspective
How I still haven't learn to keep my smart mouth shut!
Cacti and Geraniums
Some mysterious goosebumps or "What is that on the wall?"
Finding my metal in wood
Some of my favorite herbal recipes are . . .
I love my cat, but . . .
I love all creatures, but . . .
You might be addicted to Harry Potter if . . .
My shot at the big time
A cautionary tale
Why I do it
How I chill
How to clean up an egg and other helpful hints
Most embarrassing moments—automotive edition
The thing about getting older is . . .
Copyright © 2015 by Rent's Due Publications
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.