Last Day. In The Pole Barn

 

I went to Cambridge yesterday and today to sign books for Connie and Marilyn and I was approached by two people, one inside the store and the other outside, as I left. Both were eager to know what illness resulted in Rose’s death.  How had it been diagnosed, how was it treated, what were the details of her decline. To be honest, I didn’t wish to talk about it, and I should have said so. I wished they hadn’t asked.

I mumbled something inconclusive and got away. I thought about whether I should write more about Rose’s illness, decline, treatment and death, but I have chosen not to. It is Rose’s business, really, and mine and Maria and I just don’t feel easy discussing her pain, disorientation and occasional humiliation. Some things are mine to keep. I don’t really know the exact cause of death – the tests and examinations didn’t reveal anything conclusive – and it doesn’t matter much to me, to be truthful. She declined rapidly and painfully from the beginning of the summer to her death.

In our society,  where health and profit are no longer distinguishable from one another, the dying are often overwhelmed by medicine, technology, politics, and  the voiceless soul is shoved aside, smothered and lost. My responsibility was to make sure Rose died well and that her soul shone brightly to the end. That was my steadiness of purpose.

As a hospice volunteer, and a writer who has had some contact with death, I have always believe our way of dying is  cruel to the point of barbarism. How ironic, we can give this gift of comfort and dignity to our dogs,  but not to our mothers and fathers.

I have always loved St. Augustine’s definition of love. He believed that love is the beauty of the soul. Rose’s soul was distinct to me – dignified, brave, vulnerable and faithful. Her love was a kind of devotion, and so was mine for hers. I could not give her her health back or save her life, but I could make sure she died in a loving way, the opportunity denied to so many human beings. It was the least I owed her.

Last Thursday, I woke up, disturbed for her. Rose and I have always been almost telepathically aware of one another.  It felt as if she was calling out to me, and I got up and wandered the house looking for her. I found her, awash in her own waste and vomit, trembling by the back door. This most dignified of creatures was trying with some of her last breath to get outside, as if to preserve her dignity and control. She had never lost control of herself inside the farmhouse.She could not stand up. She looked at me, in a way that seemed pleading, and I heard – felt her call out to me – I am lost. Help me. And my heart just shattered to see this brave and resolute creature nearly paralyzed on the kitchen floor, calling out to me for help.

At that moment, carrying her to a cushion, I knew Rose needed to leave the material world.  True love is, I think, selfless, not selfish. She needn’t stay here any longer for me. At first, Maria found this difficult to accept, and she said she wasn’t ready, she wasn’t sure. And then I burst into tears, and I said, “Rose is lost, she needs me to help her,” and Maria, who has never seen me cry like that, saw  my face and looked at Rose, and came over to me and now she was crying, too, and she took my hands in hers and said, “I understand, I see it, we will do it together.” And once more I was reminded that St. Augustine said it well, that  love is, in fact, the beauty of the soul. And to the end,  Rose’s soul was present in her eyes, and her beating heart, to her last breath.

So this was the story of my decision. Do not ask me about the medical details, as they are not significant to me.  I chose to see the beauty of Rose’s soul, and give her the gift of death.