No Storm Before Eternal Calm

It used to be different.

Years ago major life events such as birth and death occurred in the home. Women rarely went to a hospital to have their babies and those who lay dying remained in their beds.

There was a good reason for all of this since hospitals had little to offer patients before the modern age of medicine.

Today, however, things are different.

The facts speak for themselves. Seventy percent of elderly Americans do not die at home. They die in hospitals and nursing homes.

I’m not surprised that only 30 percent of our older people die in the comfort and peace of their own bed.

As a physician, I have become accustomed to witnessing death in the hospital. I know all too well the drama of the emergency announcements, the resuscitative efforts, the doctors and nurses crowding out loving family to do the work expected of them and finally, the pronouncement of death.

So it was helpful to me to witness death as it should be for our elderly loved ones, at home with peace and dignity.

The autumn sun was warm and the morning wind crisp the day my beloved mother died.

I knew the end of her life was near as I drove to her home that day. I had watched her slowly deteriorate over the past three years since my father had passed away and I knew she was no longer interested in life and had given up her will to live.

Married in Germany on Dec. 25, 1936, my parents had formed a loving bond that helped sustain them for 52 years.

Immigrating to America during the Holocaust, surviving poverty and depression during the early years and occasional bouts of serious illness during later years, my parents managed to raise their son, build a home, make good friends and create a full and rich life for themselves over the years.

They were devoted to each other, doing almost everything together. They held hands as they strolled and kissed while they danced. They were in love, and it was fun to be with them and to share in their joy.

Upon my father’s death at age 85, my mother seemed to die, as well, never to regain that spark and glow she once possessed.

During the first year, she lost most of her eyesight. Nothing seemed to bring her joy, not even visits from her grandchildren. Numerous visits to doctors failed to make any definitive diagnosis. Medicines were of no avail.

I sat on the edge of her bed, kissed her forehead while I held her hand. She looked frail and weak, yet still alert.

As if she knew this to be her last day, she wanted to know what day it was; I told her. As if to ask just one more time, she wanted to know how I was doing; I told her.

I noticed her breathing become more difficult and more rapid, her pulse weak.

“I love you,” I said, as tears filled my eyes. “I love you, too” she said and then asked me to help her turn to her side, which I did.

Opening the sliding door to let the sun and breeze fill her room, and turning on her favorite classical music, I returned to her side and continued to hold her hand. The scene was reminiscent of death scenes I had witnessed in the movies as a child.

Working in hospitals for so long, I had forgotten that death could actually happen this way in real life.

“I want to go to sleep now,” she said and slowly closed her eyes.

I sat there a while longer, looking at this remarkable woman who had brought me into the world, nurtured and loved me; who had been my friend, confidant and support for longer than I could remember.

After so many years, this was to be our last time together. I was thankful I could be with her during the last moments of her life and that I could hold her in my arms and love her to the very end.

No doctors rushed to her side as her heart stopped an hour later as she slept, no emergency calls were heard overhead, no resuscitation carts were wheeled into her room, no strangers crowded around her bed to pronounce her dead.

It was as it should be, my mother dying in her familiar bed without pain, being held by her son who worshiped and loved her. This should happen more often.

xxxx