People are dying alone. With COVID-19, there is no hand-holding. No family to offer comfort and confidence.
Hayes C. Larkins was a veteran of WW2, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. He was wounded twice and received two Purple Hearts. He spent most of March and April quarantined in an assisted living community; no family visits allowed. After
his move to Hospice of the Chesapeake in Anne Arundel County, his family was finally allowed by his side. He died two days later.
The widely accepted rights of the dying, as documented by Dr. David Kessler, include the right not to die alone and the right of children to participate in the death. The bold fact is that death is not a moment. It can take weeks, certainly more than two days.
My mother’s death in 2019 took three months. The caregivers at her assisted living community couldn’t sit with her for hours; they had responsibilities. My sister and I were lucky to be present, catering to her needs, managing her healthcare, and ultimately interpreting her delirium when the veil between worlds thinned.
We ate whatever she wanted. Medium-rare steak cut into tiny pieces. Extra salty french fries. So much chocolate.
We held hands. I smoothed lotion into her fingers, twirling her opal ring and shaping her nails into ovals of fine English china.
We named her favorite things. Wind chimes. Azaleas into the spring. That low-slung Hawaiian patterned bikini from 1965 that she wore well into her forties.
We sang our family songbook. Mostly Motown. When her health wasn’t enough to attend the Naval Academy Gospel Choir concert, we cranked Etta James’ “I’ll Fly Away.”
We welcomed her friends – other teachers – whose belly laughs spilled into the hallway. “Jena, you were trouble. You’d ride your horse up to the school, and he’d stick his head through the window,” said Patti Nalley, her best friend of 40 years.
The delirium presented abruptly.
“The baby is coming,” she said, sinking into the couch. “Tell everyone they have a sister. Her name is Allison.”
I took in the warmth of her quarter moon smile. “It’s the cancer in her hip. She thinks she’s in labor.”
The nurse nodded, “It’s time to start the morphine.”
Two weeks later, the head nurse sighed. “Her organs are shutting down. It could be anytime in the next three days or three weeks.”
On Friday, she closed her eyes. No tubes. Just a rhythm of deep breaths and pauses. On Saturday, the color drained from her cheeks and the tips of her fingers turned blue. They said only hours were left. We cranked the Temptations anyway; her color came back. For days, we talked and sang to her. Just after sunrise on Tuesday morning, her breath paused and she sailed away.
My sister and I had not missed a moment to offer her comfort. We yielded every request for chocolate and translated every tiny sigh. Our presence gave her the joy and comfort. Experiencing her joy is a balm for our grief.
With a little creativity, you can navigate today’s restrictions and still offer comfort.
1. Record video greetings. Recount a treasured family story or capture a singalong. Phone chats can be taxing or ill-timed. Your messages can be played later and again and again.
2. Share favorite things. A caregiver can play the Patsy Cline station or ensure that favorite foods like cantaloupe or milkshakes are offered.
3. Ask for help. Caregivers are happy to help find solutions to your loved one’s restrictions. For support, reach out to Hospice of the Chesapeake and the Chesapeake Life Center.
Allison Lane writes about life’s joys and the headaches of aging. As a volunteer with Hospice of the Chesapeake, she helps people document their legacies and life lessons. Submit your life lessons at wordnanny@allisonlanebooks.com
