When passing is actually failing.

Watching a person age a deteriorate is heart-rending for me. I don't think any human should suffer the indignity of losing themselves to age, of breaking, hurting, forgetting....becoming separated from the parts of their minds and memories that are their reasons for living in the first place. I am reaching an age where the people I grew up with are entering the end stages of their lives, and I find I have no stomach for it. I feel that they are suffering, losing their pride, being forced to survive merely because the healthier people around them are unable to face letting them go. So it was with relief today that I learned of the death of Clifford, a nearly 90 year old man that has been a part of my family's heart for almost 70 years. He and his wonderful wife, Irene, were my grandparents' dearest friends--they even shared a house while the men attended college, my grandmother worked, and Irene cared for each couples' first babies. They moved from the Midwest to California together, and remained close for the rest of their lives. I don't remember meeting them--they were just always there. That sounds a little odd, as we didn't actually see them very often (they spent many years traveling the world as missionaries, and later moved to Oregon), but true nonetheless--like any family member, they were always there, even when they weren't. My mother grew up playing with their daughters, and when I turned 8 yrs old they would give me a miniature tea set, which became the first in a large collection sitting in my dining room.
A few years ago Cliff and Irene were convinced to move out of their beloved home of forty years (and the strong ties with their church family) in Eugene, OR, to a retirement community in Portland. The convincing was done by two of their daughters who themselves lived in Portland. Shortly after moving (and the mysterious disappearance of many of their valuable items, including Irene's jewelry--their daughters where in charge of the move), their daughters took them out for a "picnic." Instead of taking them to a park, they arrived at a nursing home--one without the Independence, freedom and spacious accommodations they were adjusting to in the retirement community--where they were told "this is where you will live now" and abandoned. They did not have the resources or capability to leave, and were very unhappy in their tiny, stuffy room right next to the Portland Airport. Their health quickly began to deteriorate as a result.
My mother and I have visited them there. Not as often as we wished we could, mainly out of a selfish sense of self preservation--we just couldn't stand seeing them there. But still, when we drove through Portland, we would go. They were always so overjoyed to see us (especially when I brought my babies), and would always tell the staff, "these girls aren't just visitors, they're family." And we would sit with them, patiently listening to the same stories of our youths and of the origin of their relationship with my grandparents. It was almost humorous hearing the little changes their memories made over time. In one anecdote, my mother asked her father for candy in a sweet shop, and when he said, "No, see, the case is locked" she boldly attempted to remove the keys from Cliff's belt loop, certain that was all she needed to free the sweets. The last few times he told that story, I was the little girl snatching his keys.
The last times we left them in that place, we cried in the parking lot. Cried for their circumstances, their growing inabilities, the disrespect and lack of care show these amazing people by those who should love them most. Every time we said we just couldn't do it again, and yet we didn't have the heart not to.
Cliff's heart finally failed. After two days of not speaking, he looked at his beloved wife (even in their convalescence she always insisted on sitting in his lap for pictures) and said, "hey there. I love you." Knowing it was almost over, she climbed into bed with him, holding him until he was gone.
And while our family was so important to him, we were not contacted by his daughters until today. He died three weeks ago. So while I am relieved to see the end of his sadness, I am angry and mournful at being robbed of the opportunity to commemorate his passing for my family. Irene is now alone, and quickly losing her grasp on reality. So while I am glad his torment is ended, I am so sad knowing she is now alone, and knowing he did not want it that way. I am sad because she couldn't remember whether my grandma was still alive, and sad because tomorrow my grandma will have to be reminded that Cliff has died.
This isn't how our elders should be ending their lives. Who are we to rob them of their power, to tell them they must go on....who among us would want to travel a road that has gone far past its destinations, scenic byways, and pit stops? Can we honestly say we would want to keep going, and going, and going, without strength or thought or memory to keep us feeling alive? To exist as a shell of ourselves, but with a tickle of memory reminding us that this is not who we really are?
As a teacher, I think of passing as doing something well. By stretching out the lives o our loved ones to protect ourselves from sadness, we are turning their passing into failing. We are making their end into a twisted unhappiness. I am hoping Irene will soon find peace, that she will not be long left behind without even the comfort of her husband's warmth beside her. I am afraid to visit her, afraid to see the profound sadness in her eyes. She has been tucked into a box, an unwanted nuisance to those who are at the same time fighting to keep her alive. I hope she beats them. I hope she wins, and that her passing is just that--that she is no longer forced to fail.
We love you Cliff.