The Cleaner

After a couple of days in the hospital bed, we could all see changes in my mom. The Hospice nurses normalized her lack of appetite and not taking water. They described how the body shuts down, how it knows exactly what it's doing, that despite seeming completely bizarre, everything we were seeing was natural and part of the process. I was relieved and suspected they were right, but its hellishly challenging to watch death's late stages as compared to the Eskimo man(you know the guy), "who knows it's his time to die" and sets out across frozen snow drifts to pass with his back up against a three thousand year old Redwood.

My step-father was/is a lifelong Presbyterian. My father identified as agnostic, though baptized and raised Roman Catholic and my mom was atheist, though baptized and raised Episcopalian. When she and my step-father married, a Minister friend officiated and she became close with some of the congregation over the two or so years they actively had together. At night, when we would talk on the phone, she'd try to find something positive to say about the church, but overall, she was not an organized religion type of woman. She didn't get it and much of it, she didn't like.

My step-father asked me after breakfast how I felt about a Minister from his church coming to say a few words for my mom. "What did Rick say?" I asked drolly referring to my brother. "He said to talk to you." He went on to tell me that my mom had enjoyed some aspects of the church and did, in fact, think highly of this particular Minister. I thought about what my step-father had been through; losing his first wife to cancer many years prior, then marrying my mom, knowing full well she, herself, came with a foreboding metastasized colo-rectal cancer diagnosis. He had prolonged her life---truly brought her happiness and love. I reckoned that it was something he needed and rationalized it would be alright, and would pass, most likely, unnoticed by mom.

My step-father made a call and his cell rang with a return call within minutes. He said the Minister would be at the house within an hour. It was closer to 15 minutes and not anything what I expected: He was harried, arriving in street clothes, made the cursory half-bows, and moved on down the hall. Red flags were going up everywhere. As he passed into my moms room, he started to yell, "Oh, hello dear, how ARE you, Dear! Can you hear me...oh she's not well." My window to kick him out of the house was closing fast. And... I didn't make it. "Oh,Father Lord Jesus, let us pray!" He started reciting some verse that seemed appropriate on a bumper sticker. He reached for her hand with an "Oh Jesus!", and she pulled away, producing a sound that was half low scream half groan, it was louder than anything she had uttered in weeks and she sustained it for 5 seconds. The Minister seemed pleased with himself--as though he reached her, but I knew I had just betrayed my mother, underestimated her awareness and presence in the face of her physical state.

Leaving down the hall, the Minister announced that he had been called away and would need to hastily depart. Previously, my step father had sold the visit on the premise that the guy would stick around awhile and help my brothers and I process the situation. I was glad to see him go. He had brought nothing but a stale script of Hallelujahs, a form letter.

At my mom's side, I swept up her hands in mine, she was rigid, her upper back bridged up in an arc over the bed. I apologized for not asking her. She flattened a little and appeared to be breathing more deeply, her chin dropped and the words that she was to trying to speak emerged as garbled sighs in varying pitch. She was tired, I was disgusted.