An Angel of Death

She was a middle aged woman with two teenaged daughters. I was a hospice aid, only two years older than her oldest daughter when I met her. She was a very thin woman, skin and bones, as the cancer had taken its toll. Her hair was thin but new growth made it evident that her chemo has been stopped for several months.

She was in the final stages of cancer when I cared for her. Books sat next to the bed unread; as her body and mind had become far too weak to allow her to enjoy the luxury of reading. The television sat cold; days had passed since she was awake long enough to watch. She was in the great sleep. Almost as if her body must recharge enough to make the passing from this life to the next.

As her body labored towards the finish, I did my absolute best to make her comfortable. I also tried my best to make her family comfortable; fixing meals, straightening the kitchen, talking to her girls about school and life. Hospice is not just comforting the patient but comforting the family.

As I went about my duties I felt humbled yet important at the same time. I felt blessed to participate in this life experience. I often see birth and death as parallels; transitions to and from one life into the next.

The morning she passed was peaceful and quiet. Her husband sobbed softly at her bedside, holding one hand while I held the other. Her wishes of dying peacfully in her home, without tubes, without machines and with her family at her own bedside had come to fruition. While her fight against death was lost (no one ever wins that fight) her fight for dignity and respect through a terminal illness was won. Even with the sadness of the day, her accomplishment was celebrated.