Christine, my daughter, my daughter Christine
(When my daughter Christine was 17
she was diagnosed with systemic lupus erythematosis. This event began 27 years of hard work to
stay alive. She had good years and bad years. After three years as a Mennonite
Central Committee volunteer, she moved to Chicago and spent time with the poor
and homeless as well as in a parish nursing ministry. She had completed a
degree in nursing at Northwestern University in addition to her B.A. degree in
English at Tabor College and had started a master’s of fine arts degree at
Wichita State University. She wanted to
become a writer and so wrote copiously about her struggle with health as well
as her work. The following are journal entries about my grief work after the
death of a daughter. She died May 24, 2000.)
May 27, 2000 I kneel to
scrub the floor. And to pray. It’s been
a long time since I’ve knelt to wash the floor—or to pray. I do each the more
modern way—standing, with a long-handled mop I swish across the floor, or sitting,
at my desk, with my journal and Bible close at hand.
But
the floor is dirty from the many feet that tramped through the kitchen to talk,
to cry, discuss, to plan, during the last few days. And the mop is broken. Prayer
doesn’t reach the ceiling even from the elevated position of a chair. So I am
on my knees.
Yesterday
we buried Christine. I am now the mother of a child who died too soon. Her
death was expected, yet unexpected. We buried her as she had wished—in a simple
pine coffin built by her friends. The staining of the exterior became a
celebratory event in the church parking lot with several dozen friends each
making a few brush strokes. One took the
dress we had chosen for her burial to a fabric store to find matching lining
material. She draped the interior
beautifully and covered several pillows from her bed to rest her head on. A quilt made by sister Susan draped her feet.
The
church cemetery is small, distanced from the hustle of the city. Our small family
group and a few friends gathered around the oblong wound in the prairie. White
clouds drifted lazily across the clear blue sky. A meadowlark trilled a clear
message of joy from a fencepost. A white egret headed for its destination. Life did not stand still for our grief.
The
young pastor read Psalm 131, which I had read to Christine the last night she
was home: “I have quieted my soul like a weaned child.” Her soul had seemed quiet as we prepared for
another long night.
Around
the grave a few people sang a hymn. A few people spoke briefly about their
loss. When it came time to lower the
casket no family member had thought to bring straps to lower it into the grave.
We had agreed on minimal mortuary services. No canopy. No artificial grass. No
hearse. No ostentatious display of anything. We were burying a loved one who
would live on in memory, not in a shiny metal casket. The funeral director had left
behind the lowering straps with this different arrangement. Someone had a new ski rope in his trunk. The
men took over, business-like, and lowered the casket in its bright yellow sling
into its final resting place. Christine would have liked that. We each threw in
a small handful of dirt and left. The backhoe waited in the distance for us to
finish.
I
have moved from the twilight zone of waiting for death to the darkness of
grief. During twilight the sun is below the horizon. Somewhere I read that the
twilight zone of the ocean is the lowest dept to which light can penetrate. For
months now I have waited in the twilight zone for Christine’s death. But now I
am in that time period when twilight loses and night wins. Morning twilight
leads to sunrise; evening twilight leads to night. The curtain of death has
been lowered. Evening twilight has ended. I am in the dark night of the soul. I
long for dawn.
On
my knees I think over the last weeks. Late
in April Chris sideswiped a car, scratching both vehicles and breaking the
other car’s side mirror. Her own car was drivable, but it only made it as far
as my alley. Battery problem. She was shook up. I was shook up. Whenever she
failed to arrive at my place at the agreed upon time, in seconds I pictured her
in the emergency room with another heart attack or a car crash. Her eyesight
was weakening because of cataracts even at age 46. Her strength was limited,
although she refused to admit it.
That
evening I drove her to her home. The car stayed with me. I insisted. She was upset because this meant she was
dependent on me once again. She knew she
shouldn’t be driving, but she feared dependence. I hated having hard feelings
between us.
Three weeks
before her death, May 4 Chris is getting weaker. She faults me for not
letting her drive her car home and causing her to lose self-confidence. She threw up yesterday—again. That is happening more often. She is losing
weight steadily.
May 5 Christine is
depressed, angry, frustrated, because she sees life disappearing. She grieves
the steady departure of the things she loves –taking walks, doing volunteer
work, eating foods she loves, writing poetry, talking to friends. Her kidney
function is worse. I am discouraged with her. Friend Donna agreed to bring her
car to her, but then didn’t because she knew Christine was too weak to drive
it. We promised to drive her wherever she needed to go. Her list of medical
appointments each week is long. The
pastor, Donna, and Kathy have agreed to help with driving.
May 15 Mother’s Day
noon meal at my place. Christine walked in looking like death warmed over.
Cyanotic, medical student Susan said. I wanted her to spend the night with me.
She wanted to go home, so I took her home against my better judgment.
Is
Chris dying?
“Why
should I stay alive?” she asks. She is now down to the basics of living –
trying to eat something that will stay down and trying to sleep—both functions
that no long work well. “Something
doesn’t feel right,” she said.
The
mourning doves coo loudly outside my bedroom window. I heard their plaintive
cry for the first time the year we moved
to Kansas in 1962, in those weeks before Walter died. Do they mean
anything? Are they mourning her approaching death?
May 16 Christine
phoned about 10:30 a.m. “Mother, please come and take care of me.” “Can you unlock the door?” I asked. She thought she could. I drove quickly. I
found her in night clothes crouched in fetal position in an armchair, barely
able to walk. We called the doctor for
an appointment. I helped her dress, made some lunch, washed the stacked-up
dishes, cleaned the bathroom which had obviously been the scene of several
accidents.
Before
we left she slowly looked around her home, tastefully decorated, which she
loved because it meant independence, if only for a few weeks. I watched her
saying silent good-byes to tea parties at the oak table, to checking her
e-mail, to cuddling the cat.
The
doctor had little help to offer though I brought with me a long list of her
medical problems. After about four hours
with several professionals I took Chris
home with me. The evening meal didn’t stay
down. I returned to her house to look
after the cat, a morning and evening procedure for the next weeks. People may
die but cats have nine lives. I seem to be always in the car.
May 19 I think
Christine is throwing up blood. She had a bad night. I did too. The doctor said
to bring her to the hospital. At once we were sucked into a medical whirlwind –
doctors, tests, decisions, waiting for medical pronouncements. Kidneys, liver,
heart are shutting down. I refuse to believe it. Son James wants to call his
sisters to tell them if they want to see Christine alive, to come at once. I am convinced if I deny what he says, she
will revive as she always had after other similar crises—severe attacks of lupus,
heart attack, stroke, cardiac arrest, several arrhythmia episodes. Roger called her “Christine ‘Lazarus’ Wiebe.”
Denial stops us from listening. I want a healthy Christine so I can get on with
my life.
May 23 Since I brought
her to the hospital she has had tests upon tests. One on-call doctor, a
stranger, says we are headed toward the end. The other says little. So I decree
no more tests. Palliative care only. Tuesday was a little better day, a little
perkier. I tell myself she will rise like Lazarus again. It has happened
before. It will happen again. Daughter
Susan has the same thoughts. She is going to beat death once again.
May 25 Christine died
yesterday, in the hospital, alone at night. We wanted to stay but she wanted
everyone to go home. So we all left. The call came at 3:30 a.m. that she had passed on. We all rushed there.
Lying on her hospital bed, she looked so peaceful, so calm. No more panting for
breath, free from the challenge to stay alive. We watched and cried. I touched
her cold hands and kissed her face. Son James prayed for us all. The nurses
thought he was a preacher. I blessed my three remaining children.
After
a momentary lull – breakfast at my place of bacon and eggs for anyone who
showed up. Life took on whirlwind speed
as we made arrangements with the mortuary, minister, funeral service,
reception. People called, bringing food.
May 29 Christine was
buried May 27. Joanna left yesterday for Ontario. She had already been gone
from home for a week on business when James located her in New York. Susan
returned to her medical studies at Kansas City to prepare for board exams
postponed to be with Christine. James has a business trip scheduled for
tomorrow. Only my grief stays with me. And you, Lord. I know you’re there
somewhere. I’m not quite sure where as yet. I am numb with pain.
Her
obituary in the paper was preceded by that of a 100-year-old man. That’s the
right time for people to die, not age 45.
[To be continued]
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