The Spoons      

by Nadine Condon

Annie Bramlett was the first person I ever saw as a hospice volunteer. Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck. Would I know what to do? Would I be enough? Would I run away in horror?

Driving to the high rise retirement community gave me second thoughts. But after parking and going inside the lobby, my anxiety turned to anticipation. What would this experience be like?

I walked into the small studio apartment to find Annie resting in the recliner. Since being diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, her shortness of breath had gotten progressively more severe and she could barely walk. She was also afflicted by matricular degeneration, a particularly cruel blindness that robs you of all but your most peripheral vision.

Expecting to find an invalid, I was surprised when a gusty little old bird of a woman greeted me warmly. Despite being unable to breath comfortably, and almost sightless, she retained a healthy measure of self reliance. She welcomed me heartily, perhaps too heartily. I sensed an air of loneliness in that little room.

On the wall were pictures of her family - her daughter, her son and her grandchildren. She adored her grandchildren and lamented the fact they lived out of state with her son. Her daughter lived near by, but they were not close.

The only other item on display in the apartment was a wall rack of specially designed, enameled spoons that depicted tourist destinations...the Alps, China, Grand Canyon, Florida, Paris, Roma

As her kids grew up, and her situation as a divorced single Mom became more settled, she started taking trips around the world with another friend. Cruises and travel. Australia, Europe, the Caribbean. She regaled me with wonderful stories of her adventures. Each spoon held a fond memory.

Despite her illness and disabilities, Annie liked to get outside and do things. I quickly became accustomed to loading her up in the wheelchair and wheeling her downstairs and out the building for adventures.

We went out every time I came to visit, which was weekly. Our downtown was just a short distance from her door and was a lovely little community of shops and restaurants. We would go to lunch in fancy restaurants and plain. She was never really hungry, but simply enjoyed hearing conversations, traffic, and the bustle of everyday life.

My favorite times were when we wheeled through the downtown Park, which had beautiful winding paths. The children's playground was a particular favorite of hers. She could not see the children but she could hear their squeals of delight. It made her very happy. Those were favorite moments, sitting quietly together, in the park's safe embrace.

As life moved inexorably on, Annie inevitably deteriorated. Her interest lessened in current events, outside activities and food. When she would go to get her hair styled, clumps would fall out during washing.

More importantly though, she had gotten so weak that she began to worry about falling. This fear was especially acute during the night, when Annie was alone and had to go to the bathroom. She started to wake with severe panic attacks and sometimes stayed awake all night, afraid and fretful.

She began discussing alternatives for more comprehensive care. Her two alternatives were either hiring a full time attendant and remaining in her apartment, (with our care), or moving into a skilled nursing facility, (outside of our care, at that time). For reasons unknown to me, she chose to go into a skilled nursing facility, aka a nursing home.

I went to see her, for what I clearly thought would be the last time in the apartment- her home for seven years. We talked about her going into the nursing home only elliptically. She said, "I wonder what will happen to my spoons?" I wondered too, but was too naive and lacked the confidence to know how to speak to that subject directly.

We gathered up our things and went out to the Park. It was a picture postcard summer day. We sat in the sun and absorbed it's healing warmth. I'll never forget the sweet simplicity of sitting with her silently. For a moment, there was no future and no past, just a perfect present. We sat suspended in time, savoring the moment. I was sure this would be the last time she would be in the Park. I wanted to infuse her with all the memory, warmth, smells and sounds that it held. The children's distant voices were a soft constant in the background. The sun baked our faces. Flowers scented the air. The birds sang.

Neither of us wanted to leave the bench where I had parked the wheelchair. Although it remained unspoken, we both knew things would never be the same again. She was making a significant transition in her life. It was only with great mutual reluctance, that we finally headed back.

The next day, she did move into a nursing home. One that had a very good reputation. Good reputation or not, I was not prepared for what I encountered when I went to see her. Although she had left our service, I wanted to stay in touch with her. Many, many elderly people tied in wheelchairs were just sitting in the hall, staring vacantly. It was disconcerting and uncomfortable

I found Annie's room. She had a huge bruise on her forehead. She had tried to get out of bed during the night to use the bathroom. They had put the rails up on her bed. She was not used to rails and tried to climb over them and fell. She was now confined to bed and in diapers. She had never worn diapers before. She was embarrassed.

Although she expressed a desire to go home, I knew that was impossible. So I just sat with her awhile, absorbing the sights, sounds, smells of the nursing home and trying to put a positive spin on the situation. I joked and held her hand. I told her things would get better. I told her things would be okay. I didn't feel so positive inside, but what was I to say?

I once found Annie out in the hall, tied to a wheelchair, all but unrecognizable. She had been given her morning shower and parked out in the hall, while they continued on with the other patients. Her hair, still damp, hung lankly along her down turned face. She looked utterly defeated to me in that moment.

Finally one day, I stopped in and found her very tired and distracted. She was wrapped up tight in her sheets, mummy-like. She didn't want anything. She really didn't want to visit. I stroked her brow and told her I loved her and was thinking of her. She was surprisingly forceful when she said to me, "Don't worry about a thing, Dear. Don't worry. Just don't worry." I had the strangest feeling that she was blessing me.

Several days later, I stopped in again. The bed was empty and made up. I saw the daughter of the women in the next bed.

"Didn't they tell you? She died two days ago. She had a terrible time at the end, but went quickly. I told them to call her family, but nobody came."

When you think about people dying and their lives being extinguished, many assume that you don't want to be there to see it or witness it. But personally I would have liked to have been there with her. I was sorry she died alone. She meant a lot to me. It was my first hospice loss.

There was no funeral or service and I never saw the spoons again. I had very little closure except the fact that we had shared life. And in the end, that has proved to be enough for me.

I've discovered now, that no matter how brief, it is these glimpses into someone's life that honors the living. This is the living testament. When we are called to be witness, I think this is the witness the Bible is talking about. Witnessing a life.

It's been more reassuring more than depressing. Choice is freedom. We can all make a choice to be kinder. Annie Bramlett is someone I'll never forget. She was my first real kindness. She was very kind to me.

Nadine Condon is a music business mentor and counselor, author and speaker, and a regular contributor to Grace Online. She has been a volunteer with Mission Hospice of San Mateo County since 1999.

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