A Confession

Last week I hosted an evening activity.  As I was about to take a lady in, the woman next to her said, "Can I come too?"  I said, "Of course! I'll come right back and get you."

I forgot to go back.  I don't remember why exactly - all sorts of things tend to happen there that demand immediate attention and force you to constantly re-assess your priorities.  But the reason is not important.  I simply forgot.

After the activity was done and we came back out, I saw her sitting there.  I felt awful, but I didn't think it was that big of a deal.  As the night went on, though, I really started to feel bad.  I began thinking about how these people deserve better than that from me.  That those little things are the ones for which I want to go the extra mile.

During the activity one of the nurses had apologized to me for something.  It wasn't a big deal, but she felt the need to apologize.  I was pretty surprised, and I respect her a lot for bothering to do it.

It got me thinking, and I decided I needed to apologize to the resident I had forgotten.

Before I tell you what happened, you should know this is the same resident from two earlier posts ("What's Your Smile-Trigger?" and "Now That I'm a Lady" from October).  I think I called her Jane then.  From those two posts, you can hopefully see what kind of relationship I already had with Jane.  She was a very special lady - encouraged me constantly, had a monstrously joyous spirit, and repeatedly touched me in ways I cannot explain.

This is how the apology went:

Me: "I need to apologize to you....next time I'll make sure you're the first person I take in."
Jane: "There won't be a next time."
Me: "Why not?"
Jane: "I might be dead."

And the worst part is, she was right.  Jane passed away last night.

She spent the week sick in bed, so there really were no more activities for her to attend.  That night was literally the last one she could have gone to, and I forgot her.

But the story doesn't stop there.  I went in to see Jane a couple times this week while she was in bed.  She was clearly not doing well.  Hooked-up to machine and whatnot, keeping her eyes closed.  No one even bothered to open her Christmas presents on Christmas morning because she seemed too out of it to appreciate them.

The first time I went in, though, I realized she was singing.  I couldn't make out any of the words, but it was some sort of patriotic song with a very catchy, uplifting rhythm.  I wanted to hold her hand, but she had a tight grip on her blanket and would not keep it still long enough because it was constantly bouncing in beat with the song.

The next time I went in, the night before she died, she was much more still.  I thought she was sleeping, so I quietly sat by her side and held her hand.  She gave it a little squeeze.  I sat for a while in silence, gently rubbing her hand.  After a while I knew I needed to leave, but I didn't want to just walk out without saying anything in case she was awake.  I leaned down close to her ear and simply said, "I love you, Jane."  She squeezed my hand again, and she started breathing heavier.  I could tell she was trying to say something, and she finally managed to say "I love you MORE!" in her usual, enthusiastic tone.  I smiled and stayed a few more minutes.

She started to breathe heavy again and let go of my hand.  I got nervous at first, but I realized she was just trying to say something else.  She started slowly raising her hand up toward the ceiling (an act of great will-power considering the condition she was in) and she started saying, "I love you....."  I realized what she was doing and asked, "Jane, is that how much you love me?" referring to her rising hand.  She smiled a huge smile, looked me square in the eye, and said "Yes."

I wouldn't trade that moment for anything.  I didn't deserve it, especially considering how I forgot her the week before.  But that's Jane.  I learned quite a lesson this week, and got a big helping of grace in the process.  This will be a tough one to recover from.

May you find rest and joy in the hands of the Everlasting, Jane.  I hope you are sitting with your son now, preparing for the rest of your children to join you someday.  Have fun at the Big Guy's activities - He'll never forget you, and I'm pretty sure His are better than mine anyway.  I love you.