This is a story about a woman who came to our hospice house and touched all of us. This was many years ago but she will always have a place in my heart.
This was a woman who touched every single person she met. She was gentle, she was kind, and she was lovelier than any human you will ever meet. And she was dying.
She was with us for several weeks. Her room was decorated in fairy lights her husband hung for her. There were cards on string that draped across the walls from friends. She considered them art and felt they were too beautiful to be kept in a drawer. There were pictures her students had drawn for her, wishing her well and hoping for a recovery. There were Origami swans placed precariously around the room and crystals and healing beads on whatever tabletop space she could find. There was a feeling of hope that always filled her room; because despite the terminal diagnosis and the fact that we knew her time was short, no one wanted to believe it to be true and none of us acted as if it were. Especially her.
She drank teas and took herbal remedies hoping it would give her more time. She welcomed healing touch often and a visit from a Shaman, which provided her with a sense of calm and inner peace.
I was drawn to her. We had many beautiful, personal moments that I will cherish forever. She was an art teacher. She loved art, she was inspired by art, and she encouraged others to tap into their creative side. I shared with her some of my paintings. She was always so supportive and complementary. I remember when I received the confirmation that I would be hanging my paintings in a restaurant. I was so excited. I told her about the “artist reception” that was being planned and I was so proud. The day before the reception, she asked me to come to her room. She handed me a rock that said, “imagine” on it and told me to start believing in myself, and to imagine that anything I wanted was possible. I kept that rock with me during the reception and I continue to touch it every morning as I start my day.
The staff loved her.
She loved the staff.
I think she said, “I love you” to every person that walked in and out of her room, and she meant it and we felt it.
As she became weaker, we all knew it was getting closer. This was a day we hoped would never come but knew it eventually would. When she had the energy, she would make each person an Origami swan that was in his or her favorite color. She gave special books, or sentimental trinkets to some, asking that they remember her always. I was a lucky recipient of one of her gifts; it was a hand carved floating dragonfly made of bamboo. It sits with my Origami swan and my rock that says, “imagine.”
We filled her room with fresh cherry blossom branches in clear vases for her to see from her bed. We hung iridescent butterflies near the window, which moved gently back and forth. And we took turns sitting quietly at her bedside while she slept. Despite how weak she was, she would open her eyes, see one of us there and smile as she would say our name, followed by an “I love you,” and then fell back to sleep.
We reminded each shift, as we would leave, to call us if she was close, because every single one of us wanted to be there when she passed. We wanted to say our goodbyes, but more than that we each needed our own closure.
I remember the day she passed very well. It was in between the NOC shift and the AM shift and we were having endorsement. One of our home health aides came and said she was close. We dropped everything and each one of us circled around her bed, held hands, and told her we loved her. I looked around at the staff and admired their beautiful hearts. There was so much love in that room. Each person kissed her cheek, told her they loved her, thanked her, and said goodbye.
A few hours later, as a small group of us were at her bedside, she took her last few breaths and passed with grace, beauty, and peace. She did not need any medications; she did not struggle; she embraced every last breath, and she closed her eyes for the very last time.
When it was time for the funeral home to take her, we filled bowls with cherry blossoms, and we scattered them on her as we all walked her out to the car. We cried. Sometimes we still cry just talking about her. Sometimes we feel her energy. She will never leave our hearts. She was that patient that touched each one of us and she was the piece of thread that connected all of our fabric pieces together. She helped secure our quilt. We are all better humans because of her.
xo
Gabby
This story was added in my first book, "Soft Landing," which is about my journey to becoming a hospice nurse in my late forties, the obstacles I went through, the many times I almost quit, and the patients who inspired me to keep going.
You can find this book here:
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