I wish I had recognized the message when I received it. I would have asked more questions or sat in silence instead of just knee jerk talking, like I do when I don’t know what else to do. It was a simple, powerful message but when it hit me later, I had to pull over on the side of the bumpy dirt road amongst the lupines, and breathe for awhile.

 

I rarely wear yellow gold, but the earrings were special. They are large, gold hoops inside hoops with a fresh water pearl in the middle. They were given to me by a retired physician who lived to be 97 because she never took anyone else’s advice, but relied on her intuition. I put them on that morning and looked in the mirror. They looked good, actually. She had said that there were no obligations except to wear them in good health. I thought about how special she had been and that if I wore them, something special could happen. Then, I put it out of my head to make room for the hundreds of details that had to be sorted out before the weekend. Did all of my patients really have enough medication to make it through? Did I need prescriptions for any controlled drugs before the doctor’s offices closed? Would FedEx get supplies delivered on Saturday even though it wasn’t guaranteed? There were emails from family members to answer, paperwork to finish up and the list felt like it went on for miles.

My first patient was Fredda. She is actively dying and I had been visiting every day since she became minimally responsive and bedbound. She’s too weak to move herself in bed now, so her caregivers turn her every two or three hours if she can tolerate it. I hadn’t talked with her at all over the last few visits because she was either unresponsive or asleep and I wasn’t going to wake her for my convenience. Checking her vital signs or looking at her swollen legs were irrelevant now. I saw that she looked comfortable and talked with her family and caregivers for the majority of the last few visits . She was so close to the end. Her sister said yesterday that she has had periods of time when she is awake and tells everyone that she is having fun. She is happy and emotionally in a great place. As recently as two days ago, she asked people to stand her up in kind of a dance where she gets a hug and a change of perspective. After a few minutes, she tells her sister that she should be in bed for Heaven’t sake and Jillian helps her back to bed.

My car wound around past the apple orchard on the bumpy dirt road that led to Fredda’s. I was admiring the expansive mountain view looking East into Massachusetts when a tractor pulling another piece of farm equipment chugged onto the road in front of me. I hardly minded doing 4.5 miles per hour because it gave me more time to look over the tops of the tiny new apple trees and out into the valley. Near the turn, a field of lupines shimmered purple in the soft, warm sunshine. The tractor turned off.  Left up another hill and right onto Twist Hill where Fredda lived in her art studio apartment. She had a lovely little farmhouse too but the more modern structure in the backyard with its big glass view of the woods was where she intended to die and where she had spent most of her time over the last 3 months as her conditioned changed.

“Knock, knock. It’s Brenda. ” I said as I always did when I slid open the screen door and kicked off my shoes. We aren’t supposed to take off our shoes in patient’s homes but it means so much to Fredda that I always have. I  keep new socks in my car in case I find myself wearing bare feet under my shoes on a hot day. It’s quiet and Jillian is there, along with two of Fredda’s friends. One of them, Carly, is a nurse and has been so helpful to Fredda. Carly tells me that Fredda has been saying things that don’t make sense about children needing to see her and how cute someone was when she was little. Another friend, Kathleen, is sitting in the chair at the side of the bed and gets up when I come in. I smile at her and sit down so that I am facing my patient. “Hi Fred.” I say, leaning close to her. “It’s Brenda.”

Fredda doesn’t always know us all anymore. “Brenda.” Her tiny voice says. “She moves her head to look my way but she doesn’t see me. It’s as if she is looking at something beyond me. People often do this in their last days. They also talk to and about people who have passed before them. I’ve seen it so often that I know it’s universal. Fredda’s daughter Marlene has told me that Fredda recently described Carly’s husband perfectly, though she never met him when he was alive. “A lot of people love you.” She told me.

“I can see that a lot of people love you too.” I said back although I should have either kept quiet or thanked her. I touched her thin warm arm with my hand, getting as much of my palm on her skin as I could, intending to give her some Reiki. After about 30 seconds she inhaled deeply and sighed.

“Thank you for that.” She said.  “Every time you come in here, there are..” she paused and tried to wrestle her hands out from under the blankets. “There are….” she finally got them free and held them up so her palms faced me. “There are two big orbs next to your head. They’re beautiful.” This time, I did thank her. It was wonderful to hear that. There are people who can see  energy and at the end of life, the veil between worlds is so thin. She had been back and forth across it for days. I kissed her on the forehead.

“Safe travels, my dear.” I said. I say this to many of my patients at this part of their journey. When they are mostly not here and very near the finale. I’ve never had anyone be awake enough to respond before.

“Thank you, my dear.” She said.

I doubt I will see Fredda on Earth again. She is ready to go. It feels good to know that Hospice has helped her reach her goals of being alert as long as possible and comfortable. I hope that if we meet again, I  get to know her better. When she is gone, she will understand why I wasn’t able to hear my message when she gave it to me. I am so grateful that, in the field of lupines, it suddenly came in loud and clear. ‘A lot of people love you.’  I will be listening more carefully from here on.