Recently I was asked to pray with a nursing home resident who was nearing the end of her life. Other than her name, the only thing that I knew about her before I arrived was that she was in her fifties though she looked like a much older woman, and that she had had a very hard life. I didn’t know if she would be awake. I didn’t know if there would be anyone in the room with her. I didn’t know if she was a believer. I texted a few friends and asked if they would pray for me as I attempted to offer compassion and comfort to a total stranger.
When I entered her room, I was shocked by the appearance of this woman. She was frail and skeleton-like; she actually reminded me of people in the movies that portray concentration camp victims from the Holocaust. Her hair was nearly white, and though it was thin it was long and coarse. She was severely jaundiced. Her eyes were closed, though she was doing some squirming in the bed as though she was uncomfortable. Her mouth gaped open, revealing only top teeth, and her lips were dry, thin, and cracked. Her bed had been lowered to the ground, which often happens when nursing homes fear that residents are likely to fall out of bed.
I knelt beside her and introduced myself. In times like these I always assume that the person can hear me whether or not they show any kind of response. She did not open her eyes or react. I continued speaking to her, explaining why I was there and telling her I’d like to pray for her and sit with her for a while. I began to pray, wondering what exactly I should say to the Lord on her behalf. Would it be wrong to speak of heaven and the hope awaiting her since I didn’t know if she’s a believer? I reminded myself that this situation was not that different from any other; we never truly know the condition of someone’s heart. Only God knows. I prayed for her pain to be relieved, for her fears to be erased, and for her to rest comfortably. I also shared the gospel with her. I told her it wasn’t too late to take Jesus’ hand. I am fully confident that our God can save someone even in those moments, that He can mysteriously fill a person’s mind and heart to give the gift of faith and salvation even though the rest of the world cannot see.
After I felt as though I’d run out of things to say, I asked her if it would be alright for me to sing some songs. I sang things like Amazing Grace, Jesus Loves Me, and I’ll Fly Away, and I apologized to her if my singing was terrible. I had hoped that the songs might elicit some kind of response in her, but I didn’t see any change in her. I also pulled out my phone and began to read from the book of Psalms. By this point my legs were tired of kneeling, so I just sat down on the floor because there was no chair in the room.
Sometimes I just sat in silence. I kept my hand on her arm and told her I was going to stay with her. I watched her breathing; it was irregular and at times I thought perhaps she’d taken her last breath. But then she’d inhale deeply, moan, and exhale. There was a crackling in her breath that made me wonder if it was the “death rattle” I’d heard about. “God, why does she linger?” I wondered. “Why do people like this lay in the bed and suffer for days on end? Where is the dignity in this?”
Ironically, this day was also my daughter’s birthday. I began to think about the stark contrast between birth and death, between the way my daughter entered the world and the way this lady was leaving the world. Babies enter the world surrounded with people who love them and are so excited to meet them. We brought our new baby home to a nursery filled with color and light and an abundance of clothes, blankets, and toys. Our home was filled with the excited chatter of loved ones making over the new arrival. Here was this woman, mouth gaping open, wearing a hospital gown, covered by a white sheet, laying in a bed that’s practically on the floor of a gray cinder block room completely devoid of color or life. There were no photos of loved ones on the bare walls. She wasn’t wrapped in a soft, minky blanket. Though the door was closed the sounds of call buttons ringing and the staff bustling around noisily still drifted into the room. Just a few feet away, beyond the curtain that was pulled, was another total stranger who was awkwardly trying to live out her day in the midst of this; a med tech came in to give that resident her pills but there was no acknowledgement of us. It felt so bizarre. Shouldn’t we leave this world more like the way we came in–surrounded by those who love us as they celebrate our lives and our passage into eternity? It all felt so undignified. So cold. I told myself I was not going to leave until she passed.
To my surprise, a few hours later a gentleman entered the room. He was her son. He told me her daughter was on her way from out of town. I was grateful that she would not be without people who loved her as she took her last breath. Many nursing home residents are not as fortunate.
A few days later I was searching some articles online and came across the phrase “ministry of presence.” I don’t think I’ve heard of that before, at least in those exact terms. The first thing I thought of was the story of Job and his three friends. When Job’s friends learned of the tragedy that had befallen him, their first reaction was to go and sit with him. Later of course, they offered him all sorts of unsolicited though well-meaning advice. But their initial response was simply to be with him. In silence. They stayed with Job for seven days. They took time out of their own lives to be with him, to share in his grief. (Job 2:11-13)
A ministry of presence is what is so desperately needed inside our nation’s nursing homes. Nurses and CNAs are present, but they are providing care for the physical body of the residents. In the course of daily routines they do try to empathize with and get to know the ones in their care, but their time is limited. They cannot simply sit and talk with residents. There’s also often an unspoken divide between staff and residents. The caretaker role, combined with the logistics of the system itself, often creates an environment in which the staff and the residents are not equals. Though it is adults taking care of adults, it often feels more like adults caring for children. All of the rules and guidelines and lack of autonomy that is imposed upon the residents makes them feel like they are at the bottom of the social structure of the nursing home.
Donating much needed but often lacking items like shampoo or socks for a nursing home resident is a good thing. Sending birthday cards or holiday cards is nice. What people who live inside a nursing home need most is presence (not presents). Those of us on the “outside” don’t really consider the impact it makes when someone chooses to come visit a nursing home resident. People living in care homes rarely leave them, so the only connection they have to the outside world is when someone from the outside comes inside. Choosing to take time out of your schedule, to drive to a nursing home, and to sit and stay a while with a resident communicates “you matter; you’re worth coming to visit.”
Surely sitting beside the bed of a dying care home resident communicates that too– “Your life mattered. You have worth.” Leaving someone alone in a room to die feels as though that person has already been discounted and discarded. As I sat and looked at the dying woman in the bed, my heart was aching for her and for so many like her who spend their final days like that. Oh, my friends, when will we learn that our presence is worth far more than anything else we can give? When will we start thinking beyond ourselves and start pouring our time into others?
I’ll continue these thoughts in part 2.
*It should be noted that the resident in the photo above is not the person described in this post. This photo is of me with a resident who passed last year. I would never have thought to have taken a picture, but I am so grateful that another person in the room captured this moment. Though I’m not crazy about showing myself in this manner, I’m glad I have this memory of this precious time with a special friend who had no family with her other than the care staff and our volunteers during her final days. Frances, I’m thankful to have known you, even for a brief while.
