Sunday Sentiments
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Rest in Peace, My Friend
Lent and death seem to go together like apple strudel and vanilla ice cream. We’re prompted to think about our own mortality and nothingness (more about that below), how we come from ashes and turn back to ashes when we die. But typically, these have been just theoretical musings for me, not harsh realities.
This Lent—and actually since January—I’ve been confronted with death like never before. It kind of comes with the territory when you work in a nursing home: You get attached to the residents—some of them in any case—but sooner or later, they all die on you. It takes either a very thick skin or a special kind of vulnerability to deal with this continual loss.
I used to suffer from the former (I say “suffer,” because it really is a psychological defense mechanism). Now I embrace the latter. It’s a lot healthier to allow yourself to be vulnerable and feel the pain than to lock it away behind a brick wall of your own making.
B. was a resident at the nursing home too. She didn’t like to stay in her room or hang out in the lobby. Instead, she had claimed a little corner where two hallways met for herself and set up a table where she sat and did jigsaw puzzles all day.
Her table was the equivalent of the corporate water cooler—residents and aides alike stopped by to chat for a few minutes and fit together some puzzle pieces. When the puzzles were done, the housekeeping lady helped her glue and frame them. Her finished puzzles covered the walls of the hallway.
In the last six months of her life, B. started speeding up. Before, doing her puzzles had been a leisurely pastime, but now she was finishing them at a frantic pace, like she was getting paid for it. (In fact, there were a few people who paid her for making a “puzzle picture” for them, though she didn’t really need the money.)
I told her a number of times to slow down because it was becoming obvious that it stressed her out, but she didn’t listen. Something inside her drove her to produce, produce, produce… like time was running out.
We’d become friends over time because we discovered that both of us liked to openly share life stories—old traumas and wounds, a few victories, disappointments and failures and heartaches. Nothing was taboo, nothing was off limits. We looked at the puzzle instead of each other as we talked, and it made it easier to speak the unspeakable.
Finally, I asked about her faith. She wasn’t very religious, she said. She’d attended a Methodist church in the past but hadn’t been there in years. I was shocked when she said she wasn’t baptized. (In case you’re not Catholic, we believe that baptism is necessary to go to Heaven; it opens a portal for the Holy Spirit to enter a person and leaves an indelible mark on their soul that signifies them as one of God’s own children.) It started giving me sleepless nights because over time, I could see a decline in her health.
After I stopped working at the nursing home, B.’s decline accelerated. I still visited once a week, with donuts for all, and I watched her gradually lose the battle for her life. In her last month, she was in and out of the hospital every few days, it seemed, and each time I saw her, she looked worse.
She was also very concerned about the upcoming move from one nursing home to another. The old, crumbling building was about to be closed down, and the residents would be transferred to another facility. B. feared that she wouldn’t be able to do her puzzles anymore and that there would be not enough room for her (and her cat) in the new place. Unlike some other residents, she was not looking forward to the change.
The week before she passed, when I came to see her, she had problems stringing a coherent sentence together (though she did perk up a bit throughout my visit), and her hands were shaking so badly that, at lunch, I had to help her guide forkfuls of broccoli to her mouth. She was unable to fit together the puzzle pieces, so she would hand them to me and the aides, and we would do it for her.
I had thought about baptizing her myself the whole week. I’d looked up the proper procedure to make sure it would be valid. I still didn’t know how to breach the issue, but eventually I just went for it.
“B., have you thought about getting right with God?” I asked as gently as I could.
She gave me a strange look, eyebrows raised. “No, I haven’t thought about that lately,” she said.
“Please think about it,” I pressed on. “You know, you told me you’re not baptized. You could call in a priest or a pastor and have it done, but if it’s urgent, anyone can baptize others. Even I. Actually, if you are okay with it, I could do it for you right now.”
Oh gosh, I was rambling. “You don’t know how worried I am about you,” I finished, and then I lost it and started bawling.
B. stared at me sobbing, and I could see it finally dawned on her what I was really saying. Two single, big tears formed in her eyes, and she slowly nodded.
I held my breath. “Does that mean you want to be baptized now?”
“Yes.” The tears, perfectly formed tiny marbles, trickled down her cheeks.
Oh, praise be to God!
I knew time was short. No one was in the hallway at the time, but that could change any minute. I didn’t want residents or employees to barge in and ruin the moment, so I took out the holy water that I always have with me and gave B. a quick, barebones baptism, no frills.
When it was done, we smiled at each other through our tears and hugged each other tightly. I felt so elated and relieved; I could almost hear the angels rejoice over the salvation of a soul. And I was grateful that the Lord held off the public for those few precious minutes we needed to make her His beloved daughter.
“This is so good,” I said to B. “Jesus has your back now; He will take care of you.”
I gave her a key ring I found in my purse; it was the only Catholic thing I had on me, and it said, “Love one another as I have loved you.” I thought it was very fitting for a baptism gift. B. asked me to take the pendant off the key chain and add it to the necklace she was wearing. Then I left.
When I saw B. the next week, already in the new facility, she was barely hanging on. When I came into her room, she was in bed, semi-conscious, breathing heavily through her mouth, unable to speak, and just briefly looking at me before she closed her eyes again.
The aides told me she’d been refusing all food and drink for days. All they could do for her was wet her lips and the inside of her mouth with water-soaked sponges. I found a folding chair and read stories of Heaven to her from a book I’d brought. Then I guided her through the forgiveness sequence of the Unbound ministry where you forgive every person who has ever wronged you. And last, I prayed a full Rosary for the salvation of her soul, all 20 mystery sets, and explained every mystery to her as we went along.
I’m not sure she heard everything I said—but we know that even people in a coma can hear what their loved ones are saying, so I trust that God let her absorb what He deemed necessary.
I learned later that B. died that same day. She was still wearing the pendant I gave her when she passed. I’m including her in all my Rosaries right now and booked a novena of Gregorian Masses for the repose of her soul. Thank you, VatiGod*, for the privilege to accompany my dear friend in her last days. What a Lenten lesson, what an honor!