I slip my arms into the blue paper robe, let a stranger tie it in back, strap the N95 over fresh curls, and follow my young escorts through double security doors into the sterile hall. They motion toward the first door on the right. So she's still in her old room. I give thanks for that...at least something is familiar to her.
She's been in isolation for 12 days now based on a positive viral test result. Even though a subsequent test returned a negative result, she remains alone. The isolation seems to have stolen her will to live and she has taken "a turn for the worse" as we say. So much so, that she was placed under hospice care yesterday. This is the only reason I'm allowed in to see her...and I'm thankful for the unexpected blessing to be present with her one more time.
When we chatted last week, the conversation went much as it has for the past year...long pauses where she has nothing to say and where I struggle to engage her in a way that doesn't leave her frustrated by her failing memory. I'd reach for a name or topic until I hit one that struck a chord of recognition. Even then, the conversation was brief because the memory would evaporate as quickly as it had come. But that's ok...there were moments of connection and she'd always assure me that "it's so good to hear your voice" - a longtime familiar phrase of hers. Nothing much seemed out of the ordinary other than her parting words: "I hope you have a good life, Lori. And I hope you'll be good." I chuckled and cringed because those sweet but unfamiliar words felt very final.
As we enter the room, my escorts assure me Gma has refused the dinner that sits untouched at her bedside, then they close the door and leave us. I am thankful for that too. No admonitions to keep my distance. No restrictions on time. No hovering to hear our "conversation." Just the two of us alone together.
I pull the institutional chair as close to her beside as I can. She lies quiet and largely unresponsive, either unaware of or unable to acknowledge my presence, so I strike up a rather lengthy one-sided conversation about summers spent living in her home, of finding her every single day without fail sitting on the couch with her Bible open, of discovering her marked up copy of The Letters of John Newton. When she passed that book on to me, I added my own markings to hers, reading it so many times it fell apart. Our lives are bound up together in that disheveled little paperback full of amazing graces.
We humans surmise much about what does and doesn't happen in our loved ones' final hours but, truth is, it remains - like so much in this earthbound experience - a mystery. Are my words for her or for me? I don't know. But I imagine what might comfort her if she can actually hear me. I reassure her that her 4 sons are strong and healthy and will be fine...that they love her and they love Jesus because she taught them to and showed them how. That of her 48 grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren, all who are old enough to know her, love and admire her. And of course, I remind her that her Sweet Daughter Riesa is already safe in Jesus' "big beautiful house" and she will soon be joining her there in the presence of the Lord. I tell her it is OK to go now...to enter into that joy...that she has done everything she has been called to do, that her work here is finished, and that Jesus will receive her with open arms and "Well done, good and faithful servant."
I recite Psalms of comfort and hope (23, 27, 91, 121) and sing old hymns, sometimes knowing, sometimes guessing at the ones she loves. Though she never fixes her gaze on me, there are moments I sense she is aware of my presence and hears. I am beyond grateful for those 2 hours. For the opportunity to hold her hands, to speak words of gratitude for her life, to kiss her forehead, and to say goodbye. It is a great and unexpected gift.
As I doff my PPE at the exit, I'm reminded that though Grandma will soon shed her perishable earthly garment, she will be raised with an imperishable, immortal garment. "Therefore, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Give yourself fully to the work of the Lord because your labor is not in vain."
Rest in Peace, Shirley Ann Waggoner. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
