I Tolled the Bell

October 17, 2012

A few years ago, I wrote a poem celebrating the feeling of togetherness that I felt in the room of my dying Aunt. She'd been surrounded by her sisters and her daughters, all gathered to be with her through her final transition.
Last night I was part of such a process. The feeling was different for me, as I have only known Mrs. B for a short while. Maybe a month. And I am not related to her by blood, although her wonderful little family considers us, her aides, family. I held Audry's hand as she made that final transition. She went from complete awareness in this physical world to just being gone. Her spirit left us. Her body drained of its color. There was no dramatic exit. She only looked Kathy in the eyes, and myself in the eyes one last time, before she looked down at her lap, and after a time, exited her body.
It has affected me so deeply, this being present at the leaving of a soul. I think that I will ask her to come to me if at all possible to let me know that she went to a good place, that she is happy there. I don't want to believe in Heaven in the sense that I was taught to believe in it, as a place reserved only for those who have "gained" entrance through either a measure of living or a special bloodstained ticket. I want to know that we only travel to another plane. Or that we just rest, like sleeping.
That's just how Mrs. B looked. Like she went to sleep with her eyes open.
I only knew Mrs. B as a wonderful woman. She always complimented me on my compassion, my understanding, my willingness to do whatever it was that she asked. I wanted her to be comfortable. I can't imagine having ALS, and feeling like I was imprisoned in my own body. First unable to move certain parts, then paralyazed up to my chest and unable to find the energy to make my vocal cords move or my lungs. Talking was more and more of a struggle, and she did her best to stay focused on doing so, although it took longer and longer. Kathy and I, and Leah and Raquel, remained so patient, allowing her to find her words in her own time. I will miss her. She was and will always remain a shining example of strength in the face of debilitation. A beacon of taking pride in yourself regardless of your circumstances. I am so blessed to have been there. To have been the only person there other than her daughter. To have been able to hold her hand and fully take part in speaking to her as she made that transition from this world. We spoke of the beauty of the fall night, the color of the sky, the crickets song. Kathy spoke of her pride of having such a wonderful life given to her by her mother and father. Of how lucky their family was to have such a proud heritage and such dedication to each other. Specifically her mom is/was her safety net. To have been there and witnessed Kathy's grace and gentleness in those moments, hours, was a testament to me of human fortitude and compassion. The strength to forgive past hurts and love the goodness in another. Her position as a daughter who had lived her life to her own drummer. So different from her mother in circumstance, yet so the same in the graciousness of living. She has her mother's grace, her calm, her gentility.
And knowing that those are only parts of their dispositions, that such gentle people are also capable of frustration to the point of anger, lashing out, makes me so glad that I have witnessed such things. I have seen the wholeness of humanity. I have seen the best and the worst, and have chosen to love it all together as a whole. You cannot value the best, unless you have witnessed the worst. You cannot see the strength, unless it is displayed in a time of weakness.
The Barton family is a story in humanity. We all have our own stories, and I am so blessed..so fortunate, so thankful to have been a part of and have borne witness to theirs.