A Bedside Story
The Critical Care Unit room was hushed when I arrived, the mini blinds opened to allow in the December daylight, dismal as it was. I found the light switch and turned off the overhead lights, putting my battery-operated candles on the hospital tray table where their little glow could cast a warm hue over the face of Ms. Kincaid, an actively dying sixty-two-year-old woman. If I had known Ms. Kincaid while she was still verbal, and she’d be open to talking with me about her preferences and wishes, I’d have an idea of what could bring comfort to this transition. But since I knew very little about her, I sat quietly at her bedside and closed my eyes, focused on my breath, and centered myself. I slipped my hand into hers and concentrated on the awareness of our joined palms.
That dreary day, I sat with Ms. Kincaid in her hospital room for almost six hours. As a part of the Vigil Companion Program at my local hospice, I was one of eight or so volunteers taking turns companioning Ms. Kincaid throughout her dying process as her family was out of town and with no transportation available. The first two of those hours, I read aloud from a book of poetry, played soft music on my phone, and continually returned my presence to be a channel of comfort and light. When I know little of the person’s beliefs, the idea of comfort for this particular person, their family or faith background, the toolkit to make our space more soothing and sacred is limited. But ultimately, presence is my greatest offering regardless.
Around the time the sun began to set and the room was darkening into shadow, I received a call back from the number listed on the contact sheet for Ms. Kincaid, her out-of-state family. As I hit the speakerphone button and held the screen close to her face, I saw a light flicker behind her eyes as her daughter’s warm, throaty voice filled the room. “Mama,” she said in rush, “Mama, I love you so much. You did good, Mama, you did so good.” As the daughter and I spoke of her mother and I gently gleaned information (her faith, her hometown, her children and grandchildren, her passion for music and dancing, her favorite foods to eat), I held the phone close to Ms. Kincaid’s ear and clutched her hand with my other. There was little acknowledgment or recognition in my patient’s face after the introduction, but I hoped she was hearing us, witnessing the love and tenderness flowing from her daughter’s voice, feeling held in love and appreciation in the hallowed holiness of that moment.
Just before we hung up, I asked the daughter if there were any final words she’d like to share with her mother. I think we all imagine that if we were in that position, beautiful poetry would fall from our lips as effortlessly as the breath we inhale. In truth, this can often feel clunky even if it doesn’t sound so to others listening. The daughter’s voice was thick with emotion and my eyes instantly stung with the warmth of tears prickling the backs of my eyes. “I just … I want her to know that she did good. Things weren’t always perfect, you know what I mean, it wasn’t like we didn’t have any trouble. But she’s my Mama and I love her. And I know she loves me. Always. There’s no doubt and that’s forever. I just hope she knows that she did so good.”
I gave the warm, soft hand within my own a gentle squeeze as I pressed the red button to end the call. “You hear that, my friend? You did good.” I laid my head beside our joined palms and whispered those words on repeat. “You are so loved and you did so good.” For that night, one of her last on this Earth, we had a mantra.
