A STEPHEN MINISTER'S STORY
ON CARING FOR A DYING CARE RECEIVER
"Who are the poorest of the poor? They are the unloved, the ignored, the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the leper and the alcoholic in our midst.to be able to see and love Jesus in the poor, we must be one with Christ through a life of deep prayer"
- Mother Teresa of Calcutta
When I became a Stephen Minister, I wanted to accompany the dying, so I felt blessed when my Stephen Leader called me to ask if I would be the Care Giver for a woman with only two months to live. I had sat with the dying before, and on the whole it was a prayerful and wonderful experience. I thought I would sit and pray while my care receiver quietly slipped away, surrounded by loving friends and family - a testament to a life well lived.
Instead, I found that my care receiver had very few friends. And as for family: one son was serving time in prison: the other did not live close by, and anyway was not in a position to offer much help: her husband was long gone. She had taken care of her father, an abusive man, until he died. Her mother had committed suicide many years ago.
She was only 54, and had been struggling with a lung disease since she was a child. She had never smoked. For the last 18 years or so she had struggled from infection after infection as her lungs deteriorated. She needed oxygen to breathe - at times as much as 10 liters a minute - and even with higher and higher doses of morphine, she was in a great deal of pain and anxiety.
She had no money. Her only health insurance was Medical, which meant that she had to stay in a rundown skilled nursing facility, instead of the much nicer facility at the local hospital. Staying at home was out of the question. There was no money for home help and anyway her home was considered unsuitable.
She was smart. She knew her disease, and she kept track of her many medications - she also kept track of the nurses who gave her those medication. Under different circumstances, I could imagine her as an investigative reporter, or a charge nurse on a busy ward.
Instead, she was in a small, dark room, with two room mates, both very old and dying. Six people shared one bathroom. She had a small window, where she could see who was coming and going in the parking lot, and she had her TV. Her beloved cat was not allowed to accompany her, and, much to her distress, the cat ended up being taken out of state by a former neighbor.
She was a Christian, but she did not like me to read Scripture to her. She didn't mind if I prayed out loud before I left, but she did not pray with me, nor did she turn off the TV. She was adamant that she did not want to see a pastor or priest.
She did not die in two months. I was with her for 6 months, and slowly she began to want death more and more. It is hard, always, to die, and I think especially when you are only 54. But death did not come. In fact, in the midst of her relentless decline, she had good periods, when she would sit outside and flirt with a paraplegic at the facility.
Still, her physical decline was obvious: her abdomen and face became more and more swollen, and her legs became like matchsticks. Her teeth fell out at an alarming rate - in the end I think she had only two left and she often felt crummy about how she looked. She always felt sick.
I felt useless. There was nothing I could do. I could not be there for her the way she wanted me to be. She wanted to see me every day for hours at a time. I had a full time job. I didnšt have the money for her to stay at a beautiful care facility. And even with all the money in the world, I would not be able to give her control over her life and death. She had a terrible terminal illness: She could struggle, and she did, but in the end, all she could do was endure.
One thing I could do - aside from supplying her with doughnuts and Coca Cola - was to pray. And pray I did. I prayed for her at home, I prayed at the little monastery nearby, I prayed while I was with her. I lit candles for her. I asked friends and other Stephen Ministers to pray for her. I put her name in the prayer book of the hospital Chapel. And I prayed some more.
When she was near the end, before she was admitted to the hospital for the last time, she said: "Thank you". She knew that I must wonder what good I was doing visiting her. She said she knew I prayed, and that the room was more peaceful, and she was quieter within, after I left.
The last time I saw her she looked better than I'd seen her for at least a month. She was happy, and hungry, and asked me to buy her a fully loaded burrito, with extra, extra cheese. Her hands were no longer blue. She said she didn't need the morphine pump any more, though she still needed her 10 liters of Oxygen.
We talked about her recent stay at the hospital, and how she was now back in the dreaded care facility. She seemed to accept that this was all part of the way her disease was progressing. After about an hour and a half, I needed to leave, and, as usual, I asked if I could pray. This time, however, for the first time, she said yes, she would like that, she wanted prayer, and asked if she could just settle herself for a moment. She turned off the television. I told God all the dilemmas and problems she had shared with me and about how desperate we all are for God's love. I prayed for her death, that it would be gentle, peaceful, holy...and soon.
Four days later she died.
So what did I learn from this experience?
Well, about two weeks before she died, I did a visual meditation on Jesus inviting His followers to join Him in a boat. In my meditation, I was with my care receiver. She was leaning against me: I was more or less propping her upright with my body. She had her morphine pump, her IV , and her respirator with her. It took awhile for Jesus to get to us - a lot of people needed Him, it seemed. But when He turned around and saw us, He asked me to bring her to Him. I said, I couldn't: she was too heavy, and He said: "OK" , and picked her up in His arms, removing her tubes as He walked, holding her as a baby, cradling her. He had been preparing the boat for her, and it was beautiful, with embroidered pillows. Before Jesus got into the boat, He touched my shoulder for an instant, and it was as if he said: "You have done your part of my work. Be at peace."
And my part was to hold and to wait. My job was at times to feel "useless", because that gave Christ more freedom to work, without my ego rushing about, full of ways to fix it, and make something terrible go away. To be part of His work is the greatest thing in the world. He is the Cure Giver, as we say in Stephen Ministry, and in the end, it is His Grace that endures, and gives strength to the weak, the marginal, and the sick. It is His love that brings us all through.
Amen