Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (19 page)

My client continued to tell anyone who’d listen about the bus she needed, but she also started mentioning other buses that had stopped to pick her up but weren’t the right ones. She brought this up when I was with her one day, so I asked her which was the right bus. She responded, “It needs to be accessible . . . it needs a ramp.”

When I mentioned that she didn’t need a ramp because she didn’t use a wheelchair, Sharon said, “The right one will have a ramp. All the good buses have ramps.” And then she told me, “I’ll get on the right bus—it will be
my
bus.” Shortly before she died, at the age of 52, I saw her light up and look very happy. “It’s here!” she said with delight. “It’s the right bus, and it has a ramp.”

I’ve worked with enough people who have terminal conditions and illnesses to know that sometimes they talk about going on a trip when they’re about to die. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with how they moved around in life. In Sharon’s case, she insisted that the “right bus” would have a ramp, but I don’t think it had anything to do with her disability—it was all about her transition. I think the ramp symbolized accessibility to her.

To this day, I believe that Sharon got on the
right
bus. Because her life was about helping others, making sure they were granted equal rights despite their perceived limitations, in her final days, she became an advocate for herself. Obviously, she’d found the right bus with the right people on it for her.

I
’M
G
OING ON A
R
IDE

by Margaret

Today, I work in a crisis-intervention center, but I’ll never forget my days as a social worker at a children’s hospital. I fondly remember a little girl named Teresa who was about six years old and had a very aggressive form of cystic fibrosis.

Teresa was kind and gentle; she also had a fragility that made other kids want to take care of her and was well loved. Unfortunately, as she checked into the hospital this time, there was a sense that she might not make it out. It was a hard thing to predict, but her lungs were pretty shot.

At one point, she asked for her dolls from home. She’d brought two dolls with her, but made it clear to her mother that
all
of them needed to be there with her. She’d never asked for this before. A bit concerned, her mom agreed and went home to gather them up. And she had quite a haul to make, since Teresa had every doll and stuffed animal imaginable. Each was loved by this little girl and given a name and a story.

As Teresa’s condition worsened, she started to give her dolls away to other sick kids. Her mom was concerned and asked her what she’d do when she got home and had none of her old companions.

“Mommy,” Teresa replied, “I’m not going to that home again. I’m going on a ride, and my dolls can’t come with me.”

Her mother was startled and didn’t know what to say. She just watched her daughter give away her dolls and stuffed animals, one by one. The other kids, who seemed to understand that she was dying, would try to comfort Teresa’s mom, saying things like, “We sure hope she gets better soon so we can give the dolls back.”

When Teresa’s breathing became more labored, she told her mom that she’d see her “at home.”

“I’ll make your favorite meal!” her mother exclaimed. “Burgers and banana cream pie! And everyone will bring your dolls over for you so you can take care of them again.”

Teresa hugged her and softly replied, “I’m not going to need my dolls anymore, Mommy. I want everyone else to keep them because I have to go to another home now. You’ll be there, too, but I have to go soon.”

T
IME TO
G
ET OFF THE
F
IELD

by Emily

In a hospice where I’d volunteered for many years, I had a patient named Murphy, a brilliant man who had Alzheimer’s. He’d been a high-school football coach and loved talking about the game. In fact, he’d become very animated whenever he and I chatted about our favorite teams.

He loved watching NFL games on Sundays, and I enjoyed seeing how happy he was sitting by the TV in the common room of the hospice. He may not have known who I was sometimes (as a result of the disease), but he knew when a game was on.

As his health declined, Murphy got out to the common room less and less. And when he could no longer leave his room at all, I brought him a small portable TV so he could still watch the games. While most of the people around Murphy didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to him, he and I spent time together and chatted right up to the day he passed away.

On his last day of life, I was with Murphy in his room. The TV was off, and he was quiet (and didn’t seem to be in any pain). Then he suddenly said, “It’s time to get off the field.”

“What do you mean?”

“Game over.”

“Are you upset that you’ve missed a game?” I asked.

“I’m not talking about football,” he replied.

I knew this was significant. I called Murphy’s family to tell them what happened and asked them to come.

They arrived, and sure enough, Murphy was moments from dying. He repeated, “Game over,” one more time. He died peacefully that day, and I knew exactly what he’d meant.

A T
OUGH
O
LD
B
IRD

by Gail

I’ve worked in office management for years at a hospice center and have seen firsthand how illnesses and diseases can wreak havoc on families. Having grown up in New Orleans, what stands out most in my mind is seeing footage of hospital patients being rushed to safety during Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

I’ve seen many families weather storms, but no one was prepared for Katrina. More important to me, my 94-year-old father, Douglas, was still living in the area at the time. Although he made it through okay, I decided to move back to the city to be closer to him and my other family members. I still recall the events that led up to my move.

My dad was interviewed by a CNN reporter who was talking to locals about the disaster. He explained that when he returned home from the shelter, he’d spent several days alone with no electricity and little food and water. Fortunately, he was able to maintain telephone contact with the outside world.

The interviewer expressed her concern about his wellbeing, but my father responded, “I’ve lived through a heck of a lot already. I’m all right, but a lot of folks here need help.”

I caught the interview on TV and laughed when the reporter referred to my dad as “a 94-year-old who’s a tough old bird.” He certainly was! But it was still a very difficult situation for him.

For my father’s next birthday, he asked to go to the Fair Grounds Race Course but couldn’t believe it when I told him that the racetrack hadn’t reopened yet. He made me take him there so he could see for himself.

As we were driving around the empty parking lot, I was about to make a U-turn when Dad spotted a security guard and started waving at him. He turned to me, saying, “I haven’t lived this long to not get the whole truth on a situation.” He got out and asked the guard about what damage had happened to the track during the hurricane and when it was expected to reopen. He was disappointed that the guard couldn’t give him a definite date and seemed dejected on the drive home. Spending time with his buddies at the Fair Grounds had been one of my father’s favorite pastimes, and now a huge void had been created in his life.

Dad did his best to come to terms with the devastation of his beloved city, and the racetrack was one more piece of evidence that things were forever changed. The next year was hard for him, and little did we know that the one after that would be his last.

Although my dad was a fiercely independent man, he was getting weaker and his health was rapidly declining.

He recognized his situation, pointing out, “I’m going on 96.

That’s the way it is—nothing’s wrong.”

Unfortunately, my family and I soon learned that Dad’s prostate cancer, which he fought 13 years earlier, had returned.

He also had an embolism in his left leg. He chose not to have surgery and also objected to any more invasive tests.

The physician didn’t argue with my father, saying, “I could run more tests and start a few treatments, but your life is winding down. What do you want to do?”

“I’ve seen a lot! I’ve had so many loved ones die, and I know that we can’t stay here forever,” Dad replied. “My time is almost up, and there’s no medicine that can change that.”

My father began spending all his time with family, and we’d drive him all around New Orleans. It felt like he was reviewing the city to firmly cement it in his memory.

Eventually, the doctor told us it was time for Dad to seek hospice care. Of course, I was familiar with this arena, and I thought it made sense for him to be where he could be well taken care of.

Once we got him settled, my dad would rest a lot. He was also the perfect patient: cooperative, happy, and accepting. He continued telling us “Daddy stories,” sharing anecdotes and life lessons with his children throughout his final days. It’s as if he wanted to impart all his wisdom to us before passing on.

When the end was near, a family member was with him at all times. One night when I slept over, he suddenly woke up with a sense of urgency and exclaimed, “Gail, it’s time to go!”

“Go where?”

“Out! Let’s make a run for it—I have to be free.”

Dad was insistent, but I wasn’t sure how to answer. I decided to go along with it, telling him, “Okay, Dad. The car is outside. What do we do next?”

“Help me sit up.”

I raised him up in bed and got him to the edge with his feet dangling. That’s when he said, “Honey, I love you, but I can’t stay here any longer. It’s time for me to get going. Is the car ready?”

“It’s right outside the door, Dad.”

“Good. I’m ready. Are you?”

“Um, where are we going?”

“I’m not positive. I only know that I’ve got this trip in front of me, and the time has come.”

I couldn’t help but read between the lines. “I don’t want you to go, Dad,” I replied, looking into his beautiful brown eyes and blinking back tears.

He put his arms around me and sighed. “I know, honey, but I have to leave.”

I clung to this tender moment, although I was afraid.

When my father leaned back onto his bed, I wasn’t sure what to expect. He said, “Very soon—I just need to rest for a bit.”