Alia Vibe: On Death and 'Amen'

John Paul's health declined sharply Thursday, when he developed a high fever brought on by the infection. The pope's wish to remain in his apartment at the Vatican and not be taken to the hospital was respected, Navarro-Valls said.

Were I informed there were few to other options, I too would remain at home. The Pope is in my prayers. One of the finest leaders and man.

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Let me add, at this point, a distinguishing characteristic by way of story, IMHO, of the "die at home" or "do not sustain" quandry.

My mother outlived her terminal cancer "verdict" by over 16 years. She'd been given 6 months. In the ensuing years, of course, she readily agreed to try "experimental medicines". She also succumbed to heart ailments. Three times, she was brought back to life after her heart had stopped. Yes, she went through the tunnel. Yes, I learned and studied much about it. Sharing, for another time.

Nonetheless, a critical moment ensued after the 3rd time her heart stopped: she could have heart surgery. Chances were dicey that she'd even survive the surgery itself. In the six months leading up to this, she'd been diagnosed as "diabetic". Much I could discuss about these labels of "diabetic". It angers me. Nonetheless, whether her diabetes was genetically latent and brought on by the taxation of illness upon her body; or even the acceleration of the latency via newer medicines -- I do not know. But, I can affirm she was not diabetic through her lifetime.

Back to it: Mom asked me what I thought: surgery, or let it go. I told her I'd be with her no matter her decision. I told her I would listen and simply for her to talk out her thoughts. Her thoughts? The idea of one more surgery; one certainly with less than fewer positives (as before) left her thinking perhaps it was best to put herself into God's hands. I did not fight for the surgery; nor did I fight for her decision to Amen the matter. I, firsthand knew, of what a warrior in courage and spirit she'd been for all **my** life; the decision had to be hers, and one she was solid about.

Later that day, she reaffirmed to me her wish to "let it be": No surgery. And, she was transferred to another bed farther away from the immediate care "nurse's" station.

The next day after, as I arrived after work, and walked into her room.. she had a waxy glow. As if she'd been gently hued. I noticed odors. And so I filled a basin and bed-bathed my mother. I lotioned her, I washed her hair and did her up in fresh clean bed clothes. She felt better.

She clutched me close saying "I'm afraid". I held her close and rocked her in my arms on the bed. She wondered if she'd suffered delusions all her life in fighting to be alive -- what all was it for? What good had it done for her, or for anyone?

Telling her again what a model of courage she'd been all her life to everyone she met, a model of strength and kindness under fire, of her valor in trying methods no one dared to, didn't satisfy her.

Telling her of how many people she'd helped in so many ways throughout her life, wasn't it either. That she was the most civil, intelligent dearest woman to me in the world -- and my very best and closest friend - turned her to me.

She looked me in the eye, right then, and asked me: Would you let me go? Can you do this for me? I told her yes.

She told me to stay away. To remember her just as she was, right then. Brave and bold and loving me to the very end.

The next day was a horror for me. I'd spent so much of my life being my mother's useless arm. She'd had all lymph nodes removed when I was 6; and so I learned to cook and clean and cut and sew and manage a household and my brothers from an early age. I became her real-life nursemaid from a young age. It didn't bother me. I loved her that much.

That evening she died. In her favorite time of year -- Spring. March. She heard the "owl's sing" and saw the iris bloom on her sill. (P.S. "The Day I Heard the Owl's Sing" (novel) was very big among the liberals in the SF Bay Area, at this time).

I abhor the term "death with dignity" for there is no such thing. My mother and I had what would be called in vulgar semantics "a death with dignity" experience. They would say I gave my mother permission to die. They would call me "enlightened" for having conducted such a communication while yet only 22 years old.

What blather.

For all those years, by modern terms, my mother was a "burden" on society, her family, me, and the medical community. They are wrong, and grossly mistaken. I learned more about courage, selfless love, the will to live, and faith from this mortally "broken" woman than words can convey. My character was carved through her faith and courage and love of life.


To the very end of my mother's life, she was more concerned about me than herself. She didn't die with dignity. No.


She lived her life with dignity. Death cannot steal this from her. Ever.


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