Ten-Finger Exercises

Heroines

Today, on our way out to see a patient who lives 18 miles from town, the social worker and I were discussing the difficult tasks one family member has taken on in order to insure a good end of life for her mother.

The daughter in question, whom I’ll call Abby, is here from Connecticut to visit her dying mother. She has made the trip several times a year, and has been paying on a funeral plan for a long, long time. Her mother, I should mention, is not a wealthy woman who will be leaving an estate, not even a small one.

The dedicated care, in itself, is not rare, but it is also not commonplace. The thing that makes this particular mission unusual is the relationship between these two women. Abby was sexually abused by her father from the time she was an infant. When she caught him doing the same thing to a much younger sister, she turned him in to the police, and he was sent to prison. She had to be removed from the home because her mother was so angry with her and treated her so badly for reporting him.

Abby’s mother has never said she was sorry that it happened, or even indicated that she might be. Forty years after the fact, Abby is here to tell her mother she forgives her for not trying to stop the abuse. She wants her mother to be able to die in peace. She knows her mother will probably not reciprocate, but she wants to give her the opportunity. Even if mom doesn’t say a word, Abby will know she did what she could.

As we talked about Abby, the social worker told me of another case she’d had that was similar. Belva, I’ll call the woman, took care of her father until he died, even though he had seriously physically abused her in her youth.

Another patient, a man this time, at the insistence of his wife, took his ill mother into their home and, with the wife’s help, nursed her until her death. The mother had abandoned him when he was six, and had not seen him again in all that time.

My last example is not as heroic perhaps, but it’s still impressive. It, too, is costly love.

Carolyn called me today, very distressed. Her ex-husband’s mother is a hospice patient, and, although the divorce has been bitter, she still loves her former in-laws, and is determined to see they have the best of care. The ex has not followed through on his commitment to help them, and she is doing all she can, what with the ex and his girlfriend in and out of the picture. Carolyn called to say that her stubborn father-in-law, Willard, is trying to write his wife’s obituary and has decided not to have a memorial service. He has flip-flopped around about it, and is in a bit of a dither. Maybe I could help.

I met Willard for the first time yesterday. Previously he had told the social worker that he did not want a chaplain coming, that he was sure I’d try to convince them that there is a God. Then I got another message from a CNA to call him, that he’d decide from talking to me if I could visit after all. Evidently I passed the test, because he told me to come right over.

That was last night. Tonight his wife is much closer to death, and he’s uncertain about his decision. He tells me on the phone that maybe I can convince him to have a service, but that he’s “a tough nut to crack.” I tell him that I’m not going to try to make his mind up, that I’ll support his decision, but that I do have an opinion. He wants to hear it.

When I arrived, his son was there. It quickly became clear to Willard that, even though the son told his dad he’d go along with whatever the dad wanted, he himself thinks there should be some sort of service for his mother too. Willard is still not sure. He's angry at friends and family who have not come to visit during her illness, or even before it. He doesn't "owe them anything." He knows that it will matter to Carolyn, and maybe to his son. He's thinking about it.

Willard also heard me affirm that it is possible to have a service that isn’t full of religious language and phony sentimentality. He was glad I came. I was very glad Carolyn called.