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« Why the New Planned Parenthood Controversy Raises Old Questions | Main | The Power of Choice in 'Downton Abbey' »

February 7, 2012

Scared to Death of Death: Facing More Than Gramma’s Mortality

When my family moved my grandma cross-country to a nearby nursing home, I had no idea she would bring with her a reminder of irrevocable loss.

Karen Swallow Prior

And Gramma makes three.

Almost.

Over a year ago, my mother and father moved across the country to live with my husband and me. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, was supposed to come with them. But Gramma fell and broke her hip just before the move. She has not recovered enough to continue being cared for at home, as she had been before the fall. This meant being left behind by my parents when they relocated, much to my mother’s despair. But finally, months after my parents arrived, we were able to bring Gramma here—just not in accordance with our original plans. Instead of moving her to the room designed for her in the little home my husband built for my parents, we moved her to a nursing facility.

These events—waiting months for a space to open in the nursing home, followed by the nightmare of transporting across the country a frail 97-year-old woman in need of an airline-approved oxygen tank, an accompanying nurse, and proper identification documents (apparently, government agencies are not very sympathetic to the ways of the world a century ago, and those ways do not include the ubiquitous and standardized paperwork of today)—have given me a glimpse into recent headlines in my community predicting a shortage in services for the growing population of the elderly.

But more important, having my grandmother so near, within walking distance, also means that for the first time in my life, I have an up-close view of aging, death, and dying. Because my immediate and extended family members have always been spread out across the country, I’ve never really witnessed these things.

And to be honest, it really scares me.

It scares me to see this person—someone who once milked cows, churned butter, dug hands into soil, grew vegetables, hayed fields, stacked wood, raised hens, trekked two miles and back to church each Sunday (before she and my grandfather owned an automobile), and accompanied my grandfather’s trombone with the piano—now confined in her last days to a quiet, air-conditioned space with beige carpeting and peach-colored paint and wallpaper.

It scares me to help whittle down all of my grandmother’s worldly possessions—which once included a farmhouse, 140 acres, a tractor, a pond, a dozen Guernsey cows, a hog or two, a henhouse, goats, barn cats, a Boston Terrier, a piano, a station wagon, and decades-worth of accumulation that only those who lived through the Great Depression can understand—to just what fits into a 3’ by 5’ particle board closet, a bedside table, and a bulletin board.

It scares me to watch someone who loves animals, and who built an entire life around them express such visible, mute pleasure at the little stuffed dog in her room, the only animal she can have now.

It scares me to witness a once-feisty, robust woman—with whom “conversing” meant simply hearing impassioned, opinionated monologues punctuated by table slaps and boisterous cackles—become a quiet, docile listener who smiles and nods a lot.

It scares me to know that this strong woman—whose greatest outrage has always been that the card she was dealt from the deck of life was being a woman in a man’s world—has, finally, become like a child.

It scares me to see, every time I visit her, not only my grandmother, but room after room, row after row, of people like her, wheeling, in slow motion, ever-diminishing, toward death.

It scares me, in short, to see the process of decay and dying so close.

Yet I recognize that my fear and pain are not only about my grandmother, although they are certainly that. This fear and pain are also very much about someone else I love: me.

It scares me, whose clothes and shoes and books occupy rooms, to think of funneling all my earthly possessions into a portable closet; whose every moment at home is surrounded by dogs who never leave my side, to think of a life bereft of animals; who has labored with my husband in the years-long restoration of our beloved old farmhouse, to think of a life confined to half a room and a hallway; who runs 35-40 miles every week, to think of spending each day in a wheelchair; who was born a woman in a woman’s world and is glad of it, to think of losing my independence; who finds so much of God in the life of the mind and the body, to think of the erasure of both.

Yes, as I witness my grandmother’s journey toward her savior and mine, I am filled with fear—for myself, mainly.

But I know that watching her, being near her, offering merely my presence to her, is a gift—more so to me than to her. For I know that in witnessing the end of her life, I can learn how better to live my life. In watching my grandmother’s slow surrender of her life to death, I realize that only by surrendering all now can I be joyful and content when it is no longer mine to surrender.

Comments

Thank you for such a wonderful look into your family and your thoughts, Karen. Your closing line is a gem: "I realize that only by surrendering all now can I be joyful and content when it is no longer mine to surrender." What a great reminder of what it means to give ourselves to our Savior too, Karen.

Tim

Gorgeous Karen. Thanks for your honesty and the beautiful way you've expressed the fears that so many of us feel.

"In witnessing the end of her life, I can better learn how to live my life." I discovered this reality during the I was up close providing in-home care (along with a team of amazing hospice nurses) weeks of hospice care before my mom's death 4 years ago. That time with my mom was her final - and perhaps best - gift to me.

What a beautiful post. Thank you so much.

As someone that is facing much the same issue, thank you for writing. The man I call my father-in-law - biologically my wife's grandfather - has been having major health issues for many years, and lately he's seemed to be nearing the end.

He fell a few weeks ago, and hit his head. He was hospitalized for a week or so, and was then sent to a rehabilitation facility. He's still there. I've visited him several times, and I just can't find the words to say anything.

When I met him, he was already what I considered an "old man" - in his 70s. Yet he still worked two jobs, and was very active around his house on top of that. He didn't work the two jobs because he needed the money; he did it because he absolutely dreaded being inactive and bored.

Fastforward to now. He's been falling apart, slowly, and there's nothing I can do. He can't enunciate clearly enough for me to understand him most of the time, he doesn't move much, he can't read, and half the time he falls asleep at the drop of a hat.

When I go there to visit him, I feel horrible... but I can't think of anything to talk about or do. When I met him, he was already fairly old; we have no shared hobbies, nothing in common save my wife. And so, I'm left with nothing except the memories of him as an older but still active man that I knew... and the wasted shell he is now. And so, when I sit there with him, I mostly sit there in silence.

He is an incredible man, I've been honored to know him, and I will miss him... but I don't know how to let him know this.

Karen, thank you so much for your honesty. I, too, struggle so much with thinking of all that I will have to give up when I'm no longer able to take care of myself, or just at the point in life when we all have to give up something, usually comfort and wants. One of the most exciting aspects of Heaven for me is the idea of existing, unemcumbered by stuff, freed from death and decaying bodies, and being fulfilled in a life with God. Isn't it funny that the very thing I hold to on Earth, is exactly what I can't wait to be without in Heaven? I guess we wouldn't have needed a savior if we had it all figured out. :) Prayers to you and your family during this time. It's difficult and it hurts. But you're not alone.

Karen, your reflections are so touching and truthful. I dread the possibility of separating my healthy 94 year old father from the farm if more care becomes necessary and I know he dreads it too. The blessing of having my brother living with him has prevented that as well as my father's remarkable health. But that too will come to an end - just how it will happen, we don't know. Living 900 miles away means my care for him will be challenging to say the least. I am glad you have managed to bring all your loved ones close to you though undoubtedly at financial and personal cost if they have left places and spaces where they were deeply rooted. My best friend and I keep asking ourselves what we should do to make this process easier for our children. Those aren't easy decisions from either side of the equation.
As to spending time with family who are nearing the end; I was deeply blest to be by my mother-in-law and my husband's aunt in their last days and hours. I brought along my mother's old hymnal and quietly sang songs I knew were familiar to them. It was a gift to me as well as from me. Perhaps there is something along that line for you and your gramma. God bless you and give you peace as you tend the ones who tended you. Your gramma sounds like a delightful woman of God.

Karen, This descriptive post is beautiful to read. And as i read it I thought, well, I don't have those fears, but I do have other fears which are tied to my mortality. What if I can't care for my children any longer? What happens to my son who is 12 but has the physical skills of an infant if something happened to me? What if I actually am losing my mind? What if the RA gets so bad I no longer can write or play piano or even care for myself?

We are such frail creatures but there is blessing in every stage of life. We just have to readjust with each stage. And in that readjustment we need to give ourselves time to catch up emotionally. We need to give ourselves grace and understanding in those times too.

Well put, Karen. Well put. As one of my dear co-workers liked to put it, whose health declined over the years before her death:

"Growing old is not for sissies."

Lord, grant us courage for this test of faith.

This is lovely. Thanks for sharing.

Dr. Prior, this was very beautiful. Two of my grandparents passed away within the last year and a half. I understand the feelings of fear and seemingly irrevocable sadness. When thinking about these things I continually return to 1 Corinthians 15, especially v. 46 and the argumentation that leads up to it - "The last enemy to be destroyed is death" - as the only sure place from which to process death and suffering. I really appreciate your vulnerability (as always).

To "Newly" Karen (above)--Please continue to go see the man even if you don't have anything to say. He deals with the problems all the time so you are not revealing anything that he does not already know.

My Father died several years ago after "an extended illness." One of the sad things was before he died when a number of his friends and neighbors simply began to ignore him. He was not negative about his prospects but they still could not deal with it.

The person with the illness or physical issue deals with the problem continuously. You don't have to make any wise sayings. They have thought about it much more than you possibly can. Just show up and let them know that you care.

I, too, thank you for your beautiful, poignant and gut-wrenchingly honest piece. We face the same thing now with my 93-year-old mother-in-law, and it is overwhelmingly hard. However, I console myself with the thought that every step she takes toward her physical death (and that I take as well), is--in God's glorious reality--actually a step closer to Life, a step closer to heaven. I can only pray that I will take these steps myself with grace and good humor, albeit with sadness, as we all do.

Beautifully written and very honest. To grow old well, one must be a good loser. We lose everything eventually, except Jesus. To have Him is to have it all!

I don't think these things should scare us.

Yes, it hit home as your grandmother reminds me a lot of my mother. She did a LOT of the same things and she is presently in a home as well. Slowly slipping.

Karen,
Thank you so much for sharing the experience with your grandmother. I wrote to someone recently and said: "You will never know that Jesus is all you need until Jesus is all you have.
I have been with quite a few people when they were dying and so many family members could not bear to see them in that condition because it, too, reminded them of their own mortality. I am not afraid of death, but I fear dying - alone or unable to care for myself. God bless you.

You expressed in an amazing way what has been going on in my mine for a long time. Fear is not from God but we are human and He understands us. I have to ask for His help everyday as I watch myself and my husband slowly lose our health and abilities. In addition, we visit many friends in care facilities much like your grandmother's room. I become fearful as I watch the progression. Thank you for giving me an uplifting and Godly perspective on this subject.

"Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels as gold in a mine and be of no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction digs out and applies that gold to me, if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation and so secure myself by making my recourse to God, who is our only security."

I'm sure I don't need to be quoting Donne to you, Dr. Prior - but this is what came to my mind when reading your lovely post. Your grandmother's suffering maybe "gold" to her - something seemingly useless until she is home in heaven - but it is "cash" to the rest of us, reminding us of the brevity of life and our only recourse in it, God. Thank you, KP, for "tolling the bell."

My mother was an outgoing, opinionated, former teacher and social worker who raised African violets and later orchids for sale in her greenhouse. She joked she was six feet tall when she married but then settled down(not much). She took us camping and boating, and canoeing and taught us to love the outdoors and gardening. She was never hearvy but well figured at nearly six feet. My father died quickly one day after coming home from work, from many years of smoking. My mother lived on many years as a widow in the house we all left at adulthood.
Since we saw her less often than my brothers, who lived nearer and saw her often, my wife was the first to sound the alarm about her change. Eventually, Alshiemers evicted her and she went to live in a nursing home near my sister, many states away. She did not know who we were for the last several years.
I had not seen her in perhaps six months when we traveled to her funeral. The woman in the coffin was not my mother. The body in the coffin was much smaller and thinner than my mother had ever been. It was a real shock! It was a surplus body from the photographs taken at the liberation of the Nazi death camps, all skin and bones.

I read through this article and for the first time ever I realized the truth of the surrender that many elderly people must endure. I grew up frequently volunteering at nursing faciluties. I heard the stories of the men and women talking about life on the farms, or working in the mines, one man even told me about working on the railroad. However, these were always stories to me. My grandmother died when I was only 8 and because of the tumor on her brain the death was quick and she did not experience the prolonged journey of slowly moving toward life in Heaven. I never really thought about the surrender of life that is so apparent in observing the elderly. I never thought about the sacrifices. In my mind the stories of the elderly were only stories. Death was never what scared me it has always been a fear of life trapped in a shell that I can not remember. I suppose that is what is evident as we walk the hallways of the nursing homes. So many people just slowly becoming more and more trapped. However, the more chained and imprisoned a person is the more glorious their freedom.

Thank you, Dr. Prior, for another great article.

I agree whole-heartedly with you here:

"For I know that in witnessing the end of her life, I can learn how better to live my life."

This has been the case with my Grandpa Ed, who is also living through his last days. He is a 6 foot 4 inch large German/Polish man who used to taught about the end times for 40 years at a private school and would then come home and talk about Revelation to all of us (his grandkids). Everyone would always try to find excuses to leave the room, but I was always too scared to move, so I grew up with more knowledge about the end of the world than I wanted to have at the age of 9. He was also the first person to scowl at my tattoos and call me a pagan.

Now he is much slower, softer, and quieter. He gave Preston and I good counsel before we got married, and spent most of his time trying not to cry when he mentioned how much he loved my grandma. When I asked him what his favorite vacation that he ever took was, he said "I haven't been on it yet." It seems to me that he has surrendered all the can be surrendered in his life, and, although he is in physical pain, I think this is the most peaceful I have ever seen him.

I am so moved by the poignant, honest, and loving comments here. Thank you, all. I feel a little less scared now.

Thank you for this thoughtful article. My mom (62) is in the business of caring for elderly folks, and so that walk towards the life beyond Earth is a familiar one to us. Unfortunately many of those she works with do not know the Lord...she has such a gift for her work, and prays for her clients daily.

I don't know how I will survive when she and I are separated, except by clinging to my Savior, and the knowledge that she and I will see each other again. As you say, it will be painful but ultimately glorious.

I miss my grandparents even more after reading this beautiful piece. They died almost 6 months apart My Grandpa in the Fall of 2004 and my Grandma followed him in the Spring of 2005. I remember the feeling similarly to what KSP mentioned, remembering my Grandpa as a breadwinner as a printer's mechanic who worked hard every day in his blue coveralls. He never really retired. He worked up until he had a major stroke and spent the last year of his life in hospitals and the nursing home. I had lived and worked in Japan from the summer of 2002 and he fell ill when I was abroad. I was saddened and shocked on how much he changed when I came home to visit him in the spring of 2003. He was sitting in the hallway of the nursing home and kissed my hand and reminded me of a giddy boy as he expressed how happy he was to see me. I was surprised at that time to see how his body weakened from the stroke and what I began to see the effects of dementia. I had difficulty wrapping my mind around how the stroke and the dementia had changed the Breadwinner my Grandpa had been to the state he was when I first visited in the nursing home. I chose to flood my mind with memories of whom he was and who I had known him to be and I admit, interact with him differently as I was accustomed to. My Grandma had gone through a few hospitalizations before I left for Japan but seemed to still have her wits up until my Grandpa passed away. She dramatically appeared to slip cognitively and medically the last six months of her life. Again, I found myself when I was visiting her remembering who I had known her to be, the Happy Homemaker who busily prepared feasts for the holidays. My memories of her Big Smile as she welcomed us into her home still I hold dear. I still think of them to this day, dancing cheek to cheek in Heaven in the throne room of our Lord. It's sweet that I've had the song "Stones on a Rushing Water" by Need to Breath in my head for the last few days. I think it's the Lord's way of reminding me to treasure and being thankful for Him and the gift of my child today and not letting the years slip away and taking granted the blessings He has given me. It also reminds me to remember who He is during the difficult times to come. Thank you KSP for being so vulnerable in sharing your story.

The honesty in this post is amazing.

There is something that shrinks in us all from the thought of aging, and approaching mortality...but mostly, like you said...that process of decay, and decline.

My favorite line captures it ALL: "For I know that in witnessing the end of her life, I can learn how better to live my life."

Yes. And YES.

Love you, ma mere~

Thank you for this article. I remember watching as my mother's earthly tent was coming down. I was angry at her and did not know why. Then one day i had a talk with myself. I realized that I was having a hard time watching a once vibrant woman become fragile in body. She who had once been the life force of our family needed my arm to help steady her. Her voice and personality which once filled large concert halls and graced famous platforms across the world was shrinking to her bedroom in her large 8 bedroom house. When i dealt honestly with my fweelings of loss I was no longer angry with her. I treasured what she had given to her husband, eight children,grandchildren and a world full of friends.

Story well-told, lesson well-learned. I feel your fear. Drawing closer to my aging mom and dad, I grapple with their shrinking life ~ and my own. Thank you for this post.

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