Ask not for whom the bell tolls

VANCOUVER — Last week my 89 year- old Mother and I climbed into my pickup and drove 500 kilometres to Salmon Arm to see her sister (and my aunt) Sue.

Sue is younger than Mom, and yet by genetic happenstance is near death with a full-on case of Parkinson’s disease. She has lived a peaceful and neighbourly life in a nearby small town, and with her husband has maintained a country home heated by wood in winter, and gloried by its garden in summer. Together they have spent 22 years upcountry, after working in Vancouver from the start of their marriage.

For the last six months Sue has been bedridden in a care home, and has gradually lost her muscle tone and mass. Cataracts have now also taken most of her sight. She has never complained throughout the ordeal, and with her husband has made modest plans for an eventual return home.

A recent seizure, however, resulted in a visit to the emergency department in Salmon Arm, and a doctor’s assessment that "no more heroic measures are advised." The medical opinion is that they "would now constitute cruelty." So from this point on, Sue is calmly bedridden as she waits for the end of life.

When we arrived last Friday afternoon, she looked so different from the last visit that my Mom struggled to recognize her sister. The two held hands, and Mom told her who was here at the bedside. Sue turned her head in my direction when I spoke, and mistook me for my father. "Don’t be angry with me, Geoff," she said, perhaps recalling some long ago transgression. "Don’t worry — I am not angry," I replied for Dad who has been dead for six years.

Further conversation was taxing for all, and we soon settled for a silent period, while young female care aides peeked in and out of the room. Some of them spoke to us about my aunt as if she was inanimate or unconscious, so I took them out into the hallway and expressed my dissatisfaction. "You mustn’t talk about people in their presence as if they were not there," I remonstrated. They looked at me silently as if I was unaware of the situation.

The care home was pleasant enough in a mundane kind of way. It is located way out in the countryside, and a photo wall of the inmates wearing party hats at various celebrations also contained a picture of a young black bear trying to climb the garden fence. Strangely the bear was seeking entry when all that my aunt wanted was an exit.

Subsequent visits over the next three days followed the same pattern. Sue had stopped eating, however, and could barely drink from a straw when assisted. Her words were coming harder and harder, and their expression softer and softer. How can a person exist without food and water for days on end? The answer of course is that they can’t. The end was simply coming in its own good time.

Sitting at a bedside with a loved one in this condition inspires deep thought. First of all I was moved by the strength of a good marriage finding wordless expression between the partners under such abject stress. The bonds of sisterly love were also daily present. My aunt’s uncomplaining presence really set the tone for the rest of us. How could we complain about our lives or situations as she went through sightless, foodless, drinkless days?

Outside the care home on the country highway the cars whizzed past full of vacationing families and business people caught up in the never- ending bustle of their summer lives. At the hotel each night, the young wait staff began to realize that we were a different kind of guest. They inquired about our reasons for staying longer than the usual overnight. I was tactfully blunt. They responded with kindness, and recommendations for different hotel restaurant specialties.

Mom and I shared a suite, and the experience of being so intertwined in our daily activities brought back memories of summer holiday trips to the Cariboo 50 years ago. We watched movies in our room at night, and told each other to "sleep well" when the lights went out.

We had to leave on Monday so I could go back to work. We said our good byes to Sue at the care home as she entered her fifth foodless day. As I went out the door I turned and faced the bed: "Toodle-oo," I said. Auntie Sue slowly looked at me and said, "Toodle- oo."

Auntie Sue died on Friday, July 20.

Troy Media syndicated columnist Mike Robinson is a Canadian NGO leader, and brings an environmental and cultural perspective to current affairs. He is a critical thinker and worried optimist.