Post #13
Kahlil Gibran reminds us in The Prophet that life is full of both sorrow and joy, and indeed they are intricately connected:
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart
And you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow
that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
And you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight.*
Perhaps no one knows the truth of The Prophet's words more than caregivers, especially those who have cared for a family member or close friend . . .Even when the care you give is not 24/7 or, possibly, does not even occur on a regular basis.
Situations differ, but as the years pass, I have often found that my relations with older relatives and friends change--my compassion level rises, and I know they need me to consider their needs on a caregiving level. Not to take over their main caregiver's tasks and responsibilities, but to be there in new ways of support. Simultaneously, comes the recognition that their lives are waning, and I often begin to grieve before it's time to say good-bye. All these things are poignantly real to me today as I prepare to attend a memorial service for my dear friend Helen . . .
The day I met my husband, he introduced me to Helen, and I can still remember being drawn to her because of her sweet, friendly, precious smile. After Ron and I married, we visited with Helen and John frequently--since they had "adopted" Ron into their family, they welcomed me also--with open arms. We visited them at least monthly at first, usually going out to eat together. It always amazed me that the waiters and waitresses who served at their favorite restaurant became overly excited when we entered. Helen, John, and their guests were always conducted to the table like royalty. Evidently, they had spent a lot of time there getting to know all the wait staff. Helen was like a mother hen--encouraging those who needed some sunshine, advising those who had worries, sharing in the secrets of dating and engagement, and giving a big hug to all.
Helen always made me feel very loved. Every time we visited, she would grab both of my hands, look into my eyes, and tell me how much she appreciated me. She did this even two months ago on my last visit.
Although her love still shone through, Helen suffered from memory loss. We could see the aging of both mind and body a little more each time we visited. At first we brought her devotional books to read to John (who is almost blind). Through the last couple of years, we brought progressively easier books with more pictures. Eventually I believe even those were difficult for Helen to read, so when we visited we read to them. (Not often enough, I confess.) Ron and I looked for other ways we could care for them as friends. Since Ron gets out more, he visited more frequently, and I tried to think of gifts to send with him that they would enjoy. Because Helen was always cold, we gave her a plush, floral blanket for her last birthday--a celebration together that we will always treasure.
Unfortunately, life grew more painful for Helen as she aged. For this reason, even though I will miss her beautiful spirit, I am happy that she no longer has to bear the pain in her body. I'm sure that she's smiling in that other dimension, finally free of the aches of mortality and enjoying eternal light and love.
*Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1969. (pgs. 32-33)
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