A Vignette

Death came into the memory care unit this morning….

                  It was quiet this morning in the memory care unit. The day started with a death.

                  It was not unexpected. He had been in decline for some time. 

                  It’s hard to tell what people in a memory care unit know or realize at any given time. But things did seem different. Quieter. Life went on. Breakfast was eaten, meds dispensed, activities scheduled. But, a face was missing.

                  How to react to that? I have gotten to know his wife a little and if our paths cross, I wonder at what to say to her. I think I probably will just say “Sorry” and let it go at that. How to deal with death in a memory care unit is complex.

                  I’ve said before, and it’s a reality stolen from others, that a dementia patient dies twice. The first death is when any ties with the past are severed. There is no memory of a husband or wife or children. Then, there is the physical death. In our culture that is the one that is noticed. 

                  I will speak for myself when I say I understand that tradition. But I will say that to me, when Connie no longer knows my name or who I am, the point at which she physically passes will be….well, I don’t know what it will be. I know that there will be a part of me that wants to hang onto that physical presence, that body that once encased a beautiful heart and soul. But I also know that was the moment of her passing.

                  I want to say I will not mourn the ultimate passing. I will view it as a release, for both her and for me. I think anyone who has sat with a terminally ill patient will understand that sense of release. 

                  My mother, as she slipped into a coma, wanted to go. She was very disappointed that the God she had prayed to all her life would not take her. She had slipped into the coma on my last visit. Things were shutting down. I whispered in her ear that I loved her, that she had been the best mother a boy could want and it was OK for her to go. It was time. I left and a few days later my sister called to say she was gone.

                  I know that the death that entered the unit this morning really is a lingering guest, putting its eyes on who is next. It is not going anywhere. That is the nature of the disease. I guess my confusion is over whether it is a welcome guest, or not. No matter what I say now, I probably won’t know until it walks into our room and leaves with all that we were under its dark cloak.

            Rich Heiland, has been a reporter, editor, publisher/general manager at daily papers in Texas, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio and New Hampshire. He was part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team at the Xenia Daily (OH) Daily Gazette, a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year. He has worked as a consultant doing public speaking and training specializing in customer service, general management, leadership and staff development. He and his wife, Connie, live in West Chester, PA. He can be reached at [email protected].