A Needless Loss
“For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.”
1 Timothy 6:10
My cell phone rings. It is nine o’clock in the morning, and those who know me well, do not call me before noon, with rare exception. The night before, I had placed the phone on the dresser which houses the television, as I have water on my nightstand, and a propensity for ruining electronics. I get out of bed, and have missed the call. It is my Mother; I take a deep sigh in my state of sleep. I will need a minute. I walk through the hotel suite, and notice that before Kate left, she found Starbucks, and on the kitchen counter has left me two small cups, one with a triple shot of espresso and one with half and half. I can make a cortadito. I debate calling my Mother back later, but it occurs to me that she may be calling to tell me that the reason I am sitting in a hotel room has changed, that the person I am going to visit, in hospice today, has passed away. I take a deep breath and call.
“Hi Jill,” She answers, her voice is cheery, no one has died, but she wants to know how things are going? I have not made it to hospice yet, it will not be until this afternoon, after Kate returns. My Mother tells me that she only let the phone ring a couple of times, before hanging up, and that I should go back to sleep – she knows that my bedtime, like hers is closer to morning than night. We say good-by and I tell her that I will call later, once I arrive at hospice.
For me, this day started months ago. I began to receive emails from people who knew and loved her – she is who I will visit, I will not name her other than she. The emails were disturbing, they described her in ways I had never thought of her, and said things about her I could not understand. Even if what the emails had said was true, which I could not believe, I still could not understand her “loved ones” saying such things about her. I prayed, and I waited until I could speak with her. Her voice was the same, and as we spoke, I was reassured that she was the same. There were problems that were real, but the essence of this remarkable woman had not changed.
It is through Facebook that I learn that she in trouble. One of those who love her has made a comment, and my heart sinks as I read the words. Our phone calls to the “loved ones” go unanswered; but we decide to come anyway. How has she reached hospice and a morphine drip? What happened? Then there is an email, an answer to a “loved ones” email, which speaks only of death and letting her go – she wants to go the “loved one” says repeatedly. I can barely read the words describing doom and death. The “loved one” says that life is too painful and the recovery will be too much and that life is not worth the struggle. I am repulsed. Life is always worth the effort.
I have drunk my coffee and am not going back to sleep. I turn on the television and flip through the countless stations several times, finding nothing to watch, reminding myself why we do not have cable. In honor of Glenda and Nour, I stop at Fox, and listen to Juan Williams’ comments on being fired and the horror of being taxed to create a government funded media outlet. Perhaps, I should be watching more news, but instead I find the baseball scores, and wonder how the Miami Heat did last night, which I do not learn.
In my station flipping, I passed HBO with its images of children and teenagers, without stopping. On the third time through the channels, I see Cameron Diaz, and realize this is a movie I have not seen, and not wanted to see, My Sister’s Keeper,a film based on the Jodi Picoult novel of the same name, though not the same story. The movie deals with two sisters, one who has leukemia, and one who was birthed, for the purpose, of saving the other. It is near the end, and I watch.
The older sister, in renal failure, has asked the younger to refuse surgery to donate her kidney; she says that she is tired of fighting and ready to die. The movie ends, and I go back to the emails. I know she is tired, and I know that the quality of her life has been challenging. I am still waiting for Kate, and still wondering what I will say, when we arrive at hospice.
We walk in the room, and instantly my spirits are lifted. I had expected the worst, but I find so much better than I imagined. I am suspicious of the “loved ones” as I recall the emails, and wonder who is fighting for her. She is anxious to see us, and gets out of bed, into a wheel chair, and out to the garden we go. We speak, she is bright, lucid, and completely in control. The pain has been real, and the morphine helps. There is treatment, her disease is curable, and I feel more hope. She needs to go to the restroom, we wheel her back into her room; she wants to continue our chat, and we head back outside. Her “loved ones” are in conflict over what she should do. In my direct manner, I blurt out that I do not know how much time we have, and I need to know what she wants. I remember the movie, and try to have an open mind. She tells me she is tired, her body aches, as does her soul – she misses the love of her life that died too young. But she smiles, laughs, and begins to make plans. She wants to come to the house, is not sure when she will be able to drive, but we do make plans.
The weeks pass and news grows worse, those “loved ones” with the power of life and death chose death for her. I do not understand. I ask why, and the answer is repulsive.
Tonight I learn that the fight is finished. She has died. It is impossible to understand. This is a death that did not have to happen; this is a person who endured the unendurable. She gave everything for those she loved, was always warm, loving, cheerful, and kind. She was adored by an amazing man, and I shall try to find comfort in knowing that they have been reunited. I offer my deepest condolences to her sisters, the only people who fought for her right to live. That is all for now.
