Grace

Her name is Grace. That's all I know.

And, that she is dying.

The hospital nurses have asked that someone be by her side. They are busy with other patients ~ the patients who will heal and go home.

I am told that Grace is alone because her husband, who spent the night by her side, had to go to work. There are no children. She is not alert, or even awake when I arrive, but her eyes are open and she stares toward the window of her small, single bed hospital room.

I place a chair close to her bed between the bed and the window so as not to divert her attention away from where she seems to be so focused. She is lying on her left side.

I gently take hold of one of her hands in both of mine. She does not look at me or acknowledge me in any way.

I have closed the door to her room in an effort to minimize the noise of a busy nurses station and the bustling acute care wing of our small rural hospital.

There is a calmness and peacefulness in the room. I am aware of my heart beating and I remember the words of my friend Jo, telling me to “find my seat” and thus, my place in the world, during one of our deep discussions around holding space for the dying. So I focus on my breathing ~ closing my eyes and feeling myself settle….

My breathing slows with my heartbeat and I feel the calm I am looking for. I whisper to Grace that she is not alone. 

And, I hold her hand.

A nurse comes in and I wonder to myself why there is still an IV dripping into her veins. This experience was long before I knew to ask those kinds of questions aloud, long before I knew it was safe to question for someone who cannot. My only experience, until then, in being with someone doing the work of dying was with my own mother earlier in the year. My mother, who was at home, surrounded by her children, under hospice care and drenched in our love.

I wonder where Grace’s husband is and why he is not here with her. I wonder what kind of man would leave his dying wife just to go to work. In my naivety and newness to this, I judge him and very quickly deem him unworthy of her. 

And, still, I hold her hand.

I reach up and stroke the stringy strands of thinning hair away from her face and whisper to her, “You are so beautiful” and “You are doing a great job” and “I’m sure your husband will be here soon”. I have no idea what to say so I stop talking and simply sit. I am reminded of being with my mom; the laughter, the crying, the telling of stories and the times of revered silence. I am reminded of my mom’s confessions to us all of her near death experience 35 years prior. 

Her telling us that the feeling was one of ‘pure love’ and I feel curious to know what is happening inside Grace. But none of this is spoken of. I am quiet and Grace is quiet.

So, I hold her hand.

I relax more fully into the experience of being with Grace and I begin to really see her. She is staring and I wonder what she is feeling. I wonder what it must be like to be dying. I wonder how much she knows and whether she is really even still in the room. Time passes and the sun moves to the other side of the valley. I wonder about her life, her childhood and other people she may or may not have loved in her lifetime. I wonder if she has known love safely; if she has had a good life, or one filled with regrets and disappointments.

And, still, I gently hold her hand.

I hear dinner trays and shift change sounds from the hallway. Bursts of laughter, doors opening and closing and somewhere a baby cries. Once, a nurse comes in asking if I am all right and do I need anything. Again, in my newness and naivety I do not think to ask for water for myself, not does it occur to me to leave her side long enough to get it for myself. The nurse explains that it has been several hours since Grace was last repositioned. 

She has the necessary help now to do some of the ‘housekeeping’ tasks she has been assigned to do and asks if I would mind giving them about 30 minutes to freshen things up. It is only then that I notice the unmistakable odor of someone having had a bowel movement. I knew it wasn’t me and I understood that it was Grace. She had never even blinked. I left the room and used the time to stretch my legs and check in with my husband and daughter to tell them I might be late for dinner. I found water, used the restroom and returned to Grace. 

She was fresh, the room was aired out and she was wearing a clean gown. She was now lying on her back slightly propped up in her bed. Her eyes had closed and the IV had been removed. It was very quiet in her room. The nurses thanked me for coming back and I said I would stay until someone else came.

And so I stayed, in stillness, and in silence, holding her hand. 

About the time it is growing dark her door opens and a man enters. He appears much younger than Grace. He rushes to her side and wraps her in his arms, lifting her from the bed she’s been in all day, sobbing softly into her shoulder. 

I am embarrassed, suddenly, to be there, as though I am witnessing something intimate and personal between a man and his wife. He gently lowers her back onto her pillows and straightens. 

He wipes tears away from his eyes and I notice that his hands are large and dirty. He has grease permanently embedded in his cracked skin and on his knuckles. He no longer looks young. His clothes are worn and ragged but clean. He has a look on his face of someone in desperate and lonely pain. I rise from my chair and indicate that he may take my place and as he does, I place her hand in his, briefly laying my own hand, the one that has held hers for the past 5 hours, softly on his shoulder and I know my time with her is over. 

Grace dies that night…in those quiet wee hours when the earth is standing still and the heavens are alive with starlight and love….

with her most worthy and loving husband holding her hand.