A few months ago, I received a phone call from a number I did not recognize. I usually assume those are SPAM calls and ignore them, but I had a feeling that I really needed to answer this call. The voice was soft, almost a whisper, and I had a hard time hearing her at first. After a few minutes I was able to find out that this was a woman who I called quite a while ago after someone had asked me to check in on her. At the time of that call, she said she did not want to talk about her diagnosis, her decline, or her death. I respected her wishes. I gave her my number, inviting her to call me, letting her know that I would be there for her, if she wanted me to be.
When I answered the phone, she quickly told me who she was and why she was calling. She chose her words carefully, and it was obvious to me that there was intention behind this call, and that she had planned exactly what she was going to say.
She asked me to help her die.
Her decline took her independence. A once strong, athletic, playful woman who loved her garden, music, baking, her cats, and dancing at any chance possible, became bedridden which in many ways dulled her sparkle. She tried to hold on to the things in her life that brought her joy, but she no longer felt that, and she wanted to be free from the pain and the suffering which were a combination of physical and emotional.
I went to visit her the next day and for several weeks after that. We talked about her life, her death, and everything in between. She asked me to help write her life story, which was an honor I will always cherish. This reminded me how little we know about the people in our lives. She reminded me that we all have layers, and stories, and a past that people don’t always share with everyone they know. She wanted to share her story, and hoped it would be told by those who love her. When we were finished, I had her life story printed, making five copies, which I bound together with colorful ribbons, and prepared them for the people most important to her.
It was in those weeks that I also helped plan her end-of-life journey, which included where she wanted to be, who she wanted there, what music she wanted to listen to, and how her last breath would be taken. The beautiful thing about this experience for me, was that the more she planned what she wanted, and was able to watch it all come to fruition, the more peace she started to feel. Her pain and her suffering seemed to be reduced in a way that medication could not have accomplished. She was feeling peace internally, and finally found a sense of acceptance for her impending death. I helped her to cross every item off her list, making sure that everything was completed.
On the day she died, I visited her. I sat at her bedside, I held her hand, and I smiled as we sat listening to her playlist of songs that took her back in time to the life she had lived. No words needed to be said, I didn’t feel the need to start a conversation, or make things feel less quiet. The quiet was comforting and when I looked over at her as she lay sleeping, I knew she felt the same, and I had a feeling she would die soon.
I squeezed her hand gently, I told her I was leaving, and I kissed her cheek. She didn’t open her eyes, but she did speak to me. She said, “I wish I could stop time.” I asked her why, she said, “So I can sit here with you a little longer.” I responded, “I wish that too.”
Her caregiver called me about two hours later to let me know that she had died. I cried, of course, I always cry… but not for the reason you might think. I have an emotional reaction to the ending of a life, and despite how many last breaths I have witnessed, the significance of that has never left me. I too would have liked time to stop so I could spend more time with her, but I am grateful for the time that we had. I didn’t “help her die,” I helped her to make peace with her death, and honor it in the way that she wanted and deserved, and that means everything to me.
xo
Gabby
Hospice nurse/end-of-life doula
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