We sat on a stretcher in the ER basement hallway of Mass General Hospital with the fluorescent lights making sounds a lot like those cheap bug catchers zapping mosquitoes. It was 1:30 a.m., Bette had just been told that she had terminal brain cancer, and she was waiting for a bed in the neurosurgery ward to open up.
“We can do this,” she said to me. “It won’t be easy but we can.” I believed her, as I always believed my mother when she was convinced something was possible when others didn’t. It was a pattern of our lives.
In this case “do” meant that Bette would do everything in her power to help us help her in these final months. She would do for us, and we for her.
Bette’s belief that we “can do this” was like her belief that if you know how to swim you’ll be fine even when you swim too far out and the current starts pulling.
My father would sit on the beach worrying that my mother was swimming too far out into the ocean. She paid him no attention, believing in her soul that there was nothing to worry about. Worse case you turn over and float on your back, letting the buoyancy and goodness of the salt water guide you back.
There were times during Bette’s illness when she or we, her loyal but often bumbling caretakers, would stumble into depression, guilt, frustration or exhaustion. (And sometimes all at the same time.) One of us would often say to the other, “We can do this.”
That phrase became like one of those Styrofoam swimming noodles that kids use in deep water. It doesn’t look like a float. It’s not sturdy and it’s usually a crazy fluorescent color like lime green. Nothing that conveys durability or safety. But those noodles give you a weird kind of support. You still have to use your arms to paddle and kick your feet to get back to the beach. But that little piece of Styrofoam, like the “we can do this” mantra, is a flimsy reassurance that gets you past danger, over fear, and through exhaustion.
My father really believed that Bette would die from swimming too far out. He would be suprised to learn that she’s trying to get to the end by holding onto a noodle.
She can do it. And we caretakers can too.
Part of helping people with this dying process is shutting up and listening. And respecting dreams, signs, and, who knows, maybe some sort of spirit guides hovering around.
People who are very ill love receiving cards and notes. It’s a simple gesture we can all do for those who are dying, whether we’re close to the person or are just work, neighborhood or church acquaintances.
Some days dying people can handle visits, other days they’re just too weak and tired. We’re learning that the on-duty caregiver needs to politely police visits.