By Johanna Kopp
Everyone knows that death is an inevitable part of life that we will all one day have to face. In our society, it is a topic that is so taboo that we have made a silent and almost unconscious pact with each other to never speak about it. Then, when we are faced with death, we are unprepared and don’t know how to cope. If we spoke about death and embraced it as an integral part of life instead of as the ultimate antagonist, we wouldn’t be so traumatized by its inexorable arrival. When I spend time in the hospice house, I realize I have arrived at the one place where a community of people speak freely, openly, and honestly about death without the stigma and drama that is rampant everywhere else.
I hear moans echoing through the hallway when I walk into the hospice house – someone is in pain. As I pass an open door to my left, I see a patient in hospital robes with pale skin and white hair resting peacefully. The hospice house is located in the wing of a nursing home, which partially explains the putrid smell and thick, stale air that enveloped me when I first entered the building. In the office, there are nurses sitting around a big table discussing how they will get their patients’ pain managed. The office is an old shower room; behind the computers and filing cabinets, there are shower heads, some beige tiling, and temperature control handles. Another deep moan reverberates off the tiles from the hallway.
Cell phones are ringing along with the office phone. The doorbell chimes a loud bell sound periodically which echoes in the small room. It is busy and noisy, but not fast-paced like an emergency room. It feels peaceful, not intense. When I think of death, I think about what I have seen on TV. It is usually a gruesome scene accompanied by sad, dramatic music, and people running around frantically. Or it is a funeral scene in which everyone is dressed in black and looking very somber. I am surprised by the smiles and laughter that greet me warmly in the office. There is a slender nurse in her 50s with bright, blonde hair pulled loosely away from her face. She is wearing purple scrubs and has been there all night.
A woman with teary, red eyes walks in to ask about her husband’s breathing. She says he sounds like he is choking, and she is confused because just the day before he had said he loved her. Now he seems lifeless except for his stomach that moves in a jerking motion. She spent the last two nights by his side sleeping on a pull-out bed and she looks exhausted. The blonde nurse leaves the office to check on him, patting the woman on the shoulder and giving her a warm smile on the way out. One of the other nurses gently reminds the wife of the natural progression of her husband’s disease; she nods with understanding and smiles with gratitude because she knows she is not alone.
When the blonde nurse returns, she explains to the wife that her husband is actively dying and what she hears is called gurgling; it is a natural part of the dying process. He sounds like he is struggling to breathe, but she promises her that he is not. He is very comfortable but he does not have much longer to live. The wife’s eyes tear up more, not because of fear or from being overwhelmed, but rather from the untainted experience of loss – she is losing someone who has meant so much to her. The nurse embraces her and tells her that even though he seems unconscious he can still hear her, “so tell him you love him so that he may go peacefully.”
While observing the nurse’s conversation with the wife, I see how important it is to talk about the dying process. When I was a child, my mother encouraged us to embrace death. She pointed out the trees after the fall when they lost all their leaves, the animals on the side of the road who had been struck by a vehicle, and the insects that we would step on even though we tried hard not to. She also told us that one day we would die, too. But when I talked about it outside of my home, such as in school, I was always reprimanded and told that it was an inappropriate or depressing topic. By the end of their conversation, the wife’s shoulders and facial expression noticeably begin to relax as understanding sets in, while still leaving room for the tears that remain in her eyes.
Only a short time passes before the wife returns to the office and says “I think he’s gone.” She is sad but at peace. An hour later, the doorbell rings and two men dressed in black suits appear on the small monitor in the office. One is young, maybe in his late 20s, with dark hair and pale skin. The other man is older, with salt and pepper hair and a short, scruffy beard that appears to have been neglected for a couple of days. They walk into the building pulling behind them a narrow bed on wheels, draped with a quilt made up of different solid colored squares, interspersed with some floral-patterned ones. The nurses direct them to the room where the husband spent his final days. After a while, they appear on the monitor again as they wheel his body out of the building.
No one wants to lose a loved one but dying is a part of life. We all hope that when it is our time we will have lived a long, fulfilling life, we will be very old, and we will close our eyes one night never to wake up. However, it is not that way for everyone. Listening to the nurses educate the families on what is happening to their loved ones brings about a peace of mind they would not otherwise have. Family members thank the nurses often, not only for the excellent care they provide, but also for their support. I am thankful to them too. They are the rare people who are willing to be immersed in a topic that is scary for most. They keep the rest of us strong when we are suddenly submerged into the unknown world of the dying process.