The Final Chapter

I’ve been with people at their most vulnerable. I’ve seen strong looking men dissolve into tears, and meek women act as the rock for their families. I’ve seen some families rise to the occasion and others families crumble under the pressure. I’ve seen individuals embrace the opportunity to share their feelings and love at the end of their lives, and I’ve seen others take their secrets to the grave. I’ve seen people pass peacefully with their families surrounding them, and I’ve held the hands of those taking their last breaths all alone.

I’ve been part of so many stories, but only at the end, always wishing I’d known my patients earlier in their journeys. It’s not easy to see past the exterior of sickly, elderly individuals, locked away in their own heads, unable to share the rich life experiences they must have had. But every so often I’ll have an alert, oriented patient, who’s able to paint that bigger picture for me, and I’ll catch a glimpse of the vibrant person they once were.

It was a beautiful, sunny day in July 2017 when I met Miriam Rosenberg* for the first time. With a name like Miriam,  I knew she must be Jewish, and I felt the familiar tingle of excitement mixed with worry that I always feel when I have a Jewish patient. Will I make a kiddush Hashem? Will I help this Yiddishe neshamah on its final journey to Olam Haba?

Miriam’s daughters, Judy and Cheryl, greeted me with warm smiles. We talked about their mother’s recent hospitalization for aspiration pneumonia and their decision to put her on hospice services. We talked about the terrible disease that is Alzheimer’s, the dreaded monster that had overtaken their mother’s brain, and the fear that one day she wouldn’t recognize them anymore. We talked about the caregivers they’d hired, the guilt they bore that they couldn’t stay at her bedside more, and their relief that the caregivers were so loving towards their mother. And then we talked about religion.