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Goodnight, Lucy Wordsworth It Wasn't CORINNE MURRAY |
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 When my Great-Aunt Lucille died on February 23, 1993,
at the age of
87, it was a profound experience for me on a couple of different levels.
For one thing, she'd been an important part of my life for nearly 40 years;
for another, I'd never actually seen a human being die before. Animals,
yes (anybody who raises upwards of 40 cats in a lifetime can hardly escape
it); people, no.
When her doctor called to tell me she had developed peritonitis and was sinking fast, I replied that I'd be at the hospital immediately. He said I needn't bother, as she was already incoherent and might not even recognize me. Nevertheless, I'd always promised her she wouldn't have to die alone, so off I went. When I entered the hospital room, it instantly became obvious that the good doctor had been talking, as it were, through his surgical-scrub hat. She was no more incoherent than he was: someone had simply forgotten or neglected to put in her dentures. I don't talk too well under those circumstances myself, but had no trouble understanding the few things she wanted to say. I'd been overseeing Lucille's care for the past 18 months, since a severe fire-related accident had shattered her life and magnified all the more difficult aspects of her personality — obstinacy, indecisiveness, and self-absorption. As I held her hand over the last couple of hours, I remembered how continually she'd moaned, during all that time, that she wanted to die. Since this was a Catholic hospital, we were constantly interrupted by Sisters who wanted to pray at her and reassure us as to the state of her soul. Lucy wasn't interested. Her soul was just fine, thank you, and all she really seemed to want was to get it over with. Seemed. I learned a valuable lesson that morning: death doesn't change who you are, just how you are. She remained indecisive and contradictory to the end, her very last words on earth being "I don't want to go." Perhaps fortunately, it was too late. |
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