A Privileged Death? 

The diminishment of my health these past months has brought the certainty of death up close and personal. It has expanded my view, expanded my compassion for others. It connects for me with the deaths of people I’ll never know.

Last year Robert and I went on a border trip to Arizona with others from our church. What we witnessed there shook me to the core, bringing awareness and feelings I’m still processing.

One day, about 20 miles north of the border, we walked from a woman’s remote home out into the desert. Even with walking sticks, I struggled to keep my balance on the uneven terrain, dodging dangerously prickly vegetation. As we walked, we occasionally saw a forsaken back pack, a shoe, a jacket, sun glasses. And then we came to the first memorial. Caring volunteers scour these trails regularly, leaving jugs of water and searching for human remains. Sadly, they find them. They put together crude piles of stones and crosses and tokens of who they think that person might have been.

Our little group stood silently in the January sun, hot even then, as we gazed upon all that remained of someone’s life--someone whose name we didn’t know--and we read poems and prayed, tearfully paying respect to this lost one. And on down the trail there was another, and another, and another.

As these usually desperate men and women, boys and girls, scurry across some of the most inhospitable environment on earth, they swelter during the day and freeze at night. Somehow they have gotten across the border, but must now navigate the torturous route to Tucson, hoping against hope they won’t be caught, that someone will help, that they can melt into the city, become invisible to the authorities, find work, a place to live, make a life again. Many survive; some do not.

I have read that over 10,000 immigrants have died in this process since the United States built the wall. THE wall. When we approached it I was aghast. It is so tall, so long, so formidable, so red, almost like blood! We crossed into Nogales, Mexico, a sad little town, poor, dusty, garish, with many barking dogs. All along the wall were memorials and signs of protest and anguish. I felt sick and terribly sad.

We visited a humble, cement block building where deported Mexican citizens await transportation back to where they came from. At least they have a place to shower and sleep. There is no place for those from other countries to rest. Two of our group spoke Spanish and asked questions of the half dozen or so men and women sitting outside, who shyly shared their stories.

After a while, a middle-aged man sitting on a bench across the yard from me began telling his story, in perfect English. He had been in America for years and now through a series of mis-steps he had been deported. How true all of it was, how “innocent” he was, seemed immaterial to me. He was a human being who had been separated from his family and had little prospect of legally re-entering the US. The fear, the depression, the exhaustion, the sense of hopelessness, permeated the air. 

Our hearts were heavy as we made our way back to the
country we love, to the country whose practices of inhumanity and exclusion fill us with disappointment and anger. Surely there is a better way. Surely all persons deserve a chance to live and love and work and finally die at the end of a long life.

Which brings me back to my mortality. I admit to fear. I don’t want to leave. But I can expect to die with some dignity, surrounded by those who love me, looked after by compassionate care-givers. Even in death I realize I have enormous privilege. I’m not likely to die in a wilderness, my flesh eaten by scavengers, my scattered bones left to bleach in the sun, my identity unknown, my loved ones unable to find me.

I don’t want this for any human being, no matter how complicated or confused or cruel that person may be. I want to use my voice, as long as it lasts, to say no. The God I love, a loving God, does not want this and as a humble little creation of that God, I feel called to bear witness to the evil and use whatever power I have to combat it. What this will require of me? I have no idea. I hope I have the courage to find out.

TURNING TOWARD HOME 

Recovery from a stroke was not a bend in the road I could refuse. There was no turning around, no shortcut or alternate route that I could discern. I did, however, have choices. How hard was I willing to work? Would I even bother to try or be content to be dependent, weak, unable to really be me?

So here I was in the rehab unit of the hospital. As is characteristic of me, I was warm and polite to my caretakers there. This, after all, was not their fault. They were there to help me grow strong, if I chose to do so. 

I admit to some grumpiness during late night calls for help to the bathroom. Here is the typical nightly scenario: I woke up, realized this couldn’t be put off, rang the bell for help, then waited. Eventually someone came and there followed the ritual of putting on the hospital socks and being harnessed into the dreaded safety belt. I despised that belt! But its presence around my waist was required. Some care givers were more adroit at “belting” than others. One young man, very large and not very friendly, yanked so hard I lost my breath. 

Meanwhile, the call of nature became increasingly demanding. Finally we walked slowly to the bathroom and I sat. The helper left. “Call when you’re ready.” I did my thing, pulled the call chain, and waited. And waited. Now, my bladder relieved, I longed to snuggle back into my bed. After a while, the dear helper returned, helped me off the toilet, flushed it, aided me in minimal hand washing, and off we shuffled. Ah! Belt off, socks off, hospital gown and covers adjusted, and with any luck, I was back to sleep until the next urge or the 6 a.m. medication or the 6:45 call for breakfast.

One morning the nurse left me gripping the bathroom sink while she attended someone else’s need. I managed to wash my face and shakily brush my teeth. The nurse didn’t return and there I weakly stood. What could I do? My legs weren’t going to hold me up much longer. In what seemed like a monumental moment of wisdom and courage on my part, I carefully maneuvered my body over to the

close-by toilet and sat down. Sounds like such a simple thing now, but making that decision and acting on it was a major step forward.

Another turning point was leaving rehab. I longed to come home, counted the days till freedom, but was terrified. Functioning there seemed formidable. I was afraid to even enter the house. Though using my walker, the one step threshold felt dangerous. How could a place so familiar, which I had helped to create, seem so overwhelming? Every move had to be thought about. Nothing could be done automatically, especially when it involved standing or walking. I felt so vulnerable.

There was lots I could do, like talking and sitting and eating. Yet the weakness in my left side meant that even an ordinary fork felt heavy and I had to “tell” my arm how to move smoothly from the plate to my mouth. The need to be aware of such formerly automatic things made attention to other stimuli, such as casual conversation, difficult and tiring.

The home health care providers were a great encouragement. How thrilled I was then my PT said I could try using a cane. Or when I told the OT I felt trapped in the house and she immediately taught me how to get out the door with my walker. I did it alone. With a walker! Down the step and back up again--twice. It was awkward, but I could do it. Now I no longer felt like a prisoner in my own home.

Perhaps mentors are not limited by time or space. Reflecting back, I believe my mother was a mentor on this part of my journey, though she died in 1998. I inherited some of her inner grit, sense of humor, and resilience. Her stroke left her with major deficits the last five years of her life. I watched her accept her situation with grace. She was pleasant, even funny at times. She was, after all, in her late 80’s and a widow. She was ready. By contrast, it’s as though she’s telling me, “You aren’t ready. You have Robert and lots more life to live. Do it, dear!” 

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH


So there I was, driving home from Albuquerque, having seen Melissa, my daughter and 
only child, off at the airport. As she headed back to Michigan, I wept, knowing how much I would miss her. Otherwise, all seemed normal as I returned to the Santa Fe home to which I had moved three years ago. That was a major journey when I chose to move in with the man I love. It was a good decision and following major adjustments, I was settling into a rich and love-filled life with Robert.


The following day I wondered why I needed to grab hold of the furniture as I moved through the house. Yes, I am 73 years old and certainly not in great physical condition. I would much rather read or talk with a friend than exercise. Yet this felt much different. By the end of the day I mentioned it to Robert, who took note, but didn’t seem concerned. However, when the next morning the clumsiness continued, he gently suggested I call the doctor. I called. No appointments  were available till late afternoon. “OK. I’ll be there,” I said with more than a little trepidation. 

Immediately upon hearing my story, the doctor sent us to the emergency room at Christus St. Vincent hospital and before I could settle into the waiting room, I was whisked off in a wheel chair. Deposited in what passes for a room in ER, I began a very long journey indeed. I had had a stroke! 

The next days are a blur. I was taken here; I was taken there. Chest x-rays, a CT scan, a cardiac ultrasound, a coratid artery ultrasound; finally an arterial CT scan. Hours passed and eventually I took up residence in a semi-private hospital room. A bedside commode was my toilet, that being as far from bed as I was allowed to travel. My left hand looked like a claw, the fingers curled up and unable to move. Hospital food came on schedule. My minister came and prayed with me. I couldn’t pray. 

The one constant was Robert. If he wasn’t there beside me, I knew where he’d gone and when he would return. He notified my daughter, my sister, and several close friends that I had suffered a ‘small, but serious” stroke.
 
How can I do this, I thought? I have no control. I am being “done to” and all I can do is float along. As when I went into labor with Melissa, I desperately wanted to turn back. But the only way out is through, one of my favorite spiritual teachers used to say. 

In three days I was admitted to the hospital’s in-patient rehab unit, where I would reside for two weeks, two weeks that felt like two years...in a prison. Yes, a nice prison with kind and capable staff, but a prison nonetheless. 

I would emerge from that prison a different person, one who not only had to regain the use of her left side, but her self-confidence, her identity, and her faith.