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Megory Anderson is the founder and director of Sacred Dying Foundation and writes and speaks about her extensive work in palliative care. She is the author of Sacred Dying: Creating Rituals for Embracing the End of Life and Attending the Dying.

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Attending the Dying

Morehouse Publishing

Contents

Chapter One

I was sitting with an elderly woman who was close to dying. She had been moved from the hospital the week before to a skilled nursing facility. She wasn't strong enough to go home, and they didn't really know what else to do with her. Her name was Ida.

We chatted a bit on and off, but mostly she wanted to sleep. She seemed to find comfort in my holding her very frail hand. It was covered with deep bruises and I held it gently.

Mid-afternoon, a young-looking clergyman came through the door.

"Are you Ida?" he asked. "I'm Jim Robinson, the new assistant at St. Andrew's Church. I heard you weren't feeling well."

Ida opened one eye but then closed it and went back to sleep. I smiled at the man as he pulled up a chair.

Jim began to talk. "Is she asleep? I'm new at the church so I don't know everyone yet. Perhaps I should go. At my last church I was youth director, but at St. Andrew's they have me visiting hospitals and nursing homes."

He looked around nervously. "I think I like kids better than I like hospitals. You aren't expecting them to come in the room, are you, to do shots or needles or anything like that? I'll wait outside if that happens."

I murmured something sympathetically.

He continued. "I had Clinical Pastoral Education in seminary, but mostly I worked with vets and rehab. It was different than this. Hospitals make me nervous."

Ida opened one eye and commented wryly, "It took you long enough to get here."

"Well," he replied, "we're kind of busy at the church. There's Advent coming up and everything."

Ida closed her eyes again, and began talking. "I've been at that church for over sixty years. Don't talk to me about Advent. Why weren't you here before?"

The young priest looked down at the floor. "Ma'am, I got here as soon as I could."

"I was married at that altar," Ida told him, "and I raised my children there. I taught Sunday school, baked pies for the ECW, and was head of the altar guild for over twenty years. Every time the church needed something, I was there helping out. It was my duty."

She looked at him head-on, her eyes flaming with anger.

"Now that I'm alone and ready to die, you take your sweet time. Just because I can't do all those things anymore, do you think I'm not a member of the church? Sixty years I gave to God at that church, and now you can't bother with me!

"Let me tell you something, young man. You'd better have a better excuse than Advent coming up!"

I chuckled under my breath. This woman was not ready to die yet! As she turned to me and explained, her voice grew a bit calmer.

"In my day," she told me, "the church was everything. We didn't have much religion around the house. Church took care of all that.

"My children are all grown and moved away. My husband died years ago. I'm all alone. Do you know what that's like? And now this. I know I won't go home. I know I'll die in this bed. What am I supposed to do?"

Her eyes began to fill with tears.

The young clergyman spoke up. "Ma'am, I don't know what you want me to do. I guess I can find a prayer from the Prayer Book. And I can come back on Sunday with communion. Would you like that?"

"Harummph."

"Ida," I said. "Tell us what would make you feel better."

"Communion would help," she said. "But ... it's not enough. I mean, you young people are always in such a hurry. In and out. The body of Christ and good-bye. I'm dying. Isn't that reason enough to stay a few minutes?"

She looked at me again.

"Your sitting here feels nice. Sometimes I get afraid, and I can feel your hand, and that helps. And when I wake up, maybe I want to hear you tell me things. Like God is waiting for me and it will be all right. Or that I'll see Henry when I finally die. That would give me comfort."

"I have this daughter," she continued. "She lives in Connecticut now. She calls and says hello, and she was here when I first got sick. But now ... maybe I'd like to tell her some things before I go. I don't think the nurses will help much. But maybe you might," she said to me.

I spoke up. "Of course we'll call your daughter. That's no problem. What else can we do? Maybe someone from the church can come and sit with you. Read to you."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm so old now, and I'm tired. But I'm afraid to die. What happens? What if I don't go to heaven? What then? Old Reverend Jackson, he would have been here in a flash. But he's long gone. I guess I don't matter anymore." She turned her head into the pillow and I could hear the muffled cries.

I began brushing back her fine grey hair. It was so downy, like a baby's.

"It's all right," I said quietly. "It's all right."

Poor Jim looked so uncomfortable. I noticed, though, that he was carrying a Prayer Book with him.

"Why don't you read something, Jim? Find the Psalms and read to us. It may help."

He leafed through the pages and found what he was looking for. He began reading quietly from those familiar words, "The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want...."

As her crying began to soften, I asked Ida, "Can we figure this out together, Ida? Tell us what you need most. Do you want someone with you?"

She nodded. "I feel so afraid," she whispered. "As if no one even cares anymore."

"Jim will talk to people at church," I told her, "and they'll come sit with you."

Jim suggested, "Why don't I call the altar guild? I know they'll be happy to come. You're one of their own. And I'll be by on Sunday after services to bring you communion."

"Ida," I said, "perhaps we can find something for you to hold on to, to remind you that God is with you all the time. He isn't abandoning you, especially now. This is a very special time for you. You are getting ready to meet him."

I looked around the small room. On her bed stand there was a wadded-up linen handkerchief. It had beautiful embroidery around the edges. I opened it up and found a small beaded bracelet. The stones were a lovely shade of deep purple.

"That was my mama's," Ida said.

"It feels so lovely in my hands," I told her as I fingered the beads. "Very soothing. Do you want to hold it?"

She nodded and reached out for it.

"Ida, think about your mother and how much she loved you. She wanted to be with you, so she gave you this bracelet. When you hold it, think about her. Think about how much you're loved."

Ida brought the bracelet to her face and held it against her cheek. As she was cradling it, Jim came over and boldly began to anoint her.

"Ida, this oil is another way to remember how much God loves you. I'm putting it on your head and on your hands. Be protected and guarded as you lie here. Be healed of any pain you have. And remember that you are always in his arms."

There were tears coming down his face as he gently made the sign of the cross on her forehead and hands.

We stayed with her a bit longer as she slept. Her face was peaceful, and I knew it was going to be all right.

* * *

"At my last church I was youth director, but at St. Andrew's they have me visiting hospitals and nursing homes." I hear this kind of comment a lot from young clergy. A fundamental shift is occurring in our churches today. In earlier decades, much of the population in our mainline churches were members with young families. Now, many...