My neighbor Ray claimed to come from Mafia royalty. Her resume included:
- Daughter of a Detroit boss.
- Goddaughter of Joe Bonanno, patriarch of Tucson’s infamous crime family.
- Former owner of a high-end escort service, which she shut down so her only son could become an FBI agent.
I can’t confirm a word of her life history.
But I can tell you this: Ray was fiercely protective of her own. And that included me.
One night, she caught a peeping Tom in a tree, peering into my apartment. She chased him away with a kitchen knife. He fled. protesting that he was simply looking for his cat.
She also looked out for the Johnsons, an older couple in the complex.
Gregarious Mr. Johnson had dementia. He meandered around the grounds, smiling and talking to everyone. Mrs. Johnson was in charge of their life together.
Until she broke her hip.
When she was laid up, Mr. Johnson took over. And he had an open-door policy.
Before long, their apartment was teaming with neighbors, day, and night.
The freeloaders raided the couple’s kitchen, took toiletries, and ran up the phone bill. In the dark age of telephone technology, long-distance calls cost upwards of 45 cents a minute.
Unless, of course, you steal your neighbor’s service.
When Ray found out, she was furious!
She marched into the courtyard, shook her fist toward the sky, and shouted:
“Now hear this!”
“Anyone who steals from the Johnsons, steals from ME. Raymonda Catapano, of the famous Catapano family. And I will make YOU PAY!”
Faith In Compassion
I take comfort in my memory of Ray, self-appointed Copa of our apartment complex.
As a childless woman, I fear aging and dying alone. It’s my biggest source of death anxiety.
It’s an anxiety voiced by many of my clients.
What if I outlive my spouse?
What if I’m the last one standing in my family?
What if my children live far away and aren’t here for me?
It’s because we’ve all bought the same myth: That family members are the only humans capable of loving us to the end.
And if we outlive all of our family, we’re doomed to die alone.
Ray’s story explodes that myth.
She’s proof that compassion is pervasive, especially when it involves vulnerable fellow humans.
The Vigil
I knew I had a slim chance of being with my father when he passed.
Death is more unpredictable than birth and he lived an 11-hour drive away.
So, when I got a call on Friday afternoon from the director of nursing at his residence, my heart sank.
“Your dad isn’t doing well,” she said. “How fast can you get here?”
“It will take me about 24 hours,” I replied. “Will I make it before he passes?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
I learned later: the nursing director was pretty sure I wouldn’t make it in time. She believed he was within hours of death. So, she and an aide stayed with him so he wouldn’t die alone.
These two women weren’t my father’s family.
They were healthcare workers in a full nursing home. It was a holiday weekend, with a sparser-than-usual staff. Their schedules did not have extra moments for one specific patient.
Yet, they stayed, sitting vigil with my father as his time approached.
The Rally
My father didn’t die that night.
Dad had a rally, a mysterious but frequent phenomenon when a dying person comes back from the brink of death.
Often, these patients seem better than they’ve been in years. Patients with dementia are suddenly lucid. Incapacitated people get out of bed and dance.
Scientifically, there’s no good explanation for rallies.
The Passing
The nursing director believed my dad was waiting for me.
By the time I got to his room the next morning, he was sitting up in bed, visiting with my brother and niece.
Dad and I had a lovely 24 hours.
He ate well. Joked around. We watched Penn State, our alma mater, in a bowl game.
When I returned the second morning of my visit, the signs of dying had returned. My dad passed about eight hours later.
He’d turned quiet, after an afternoon of terminal restlessness. I looked over and he wasn’t breathing.
I knew he was dead because I felt utterly alone.
Seconds later, as if on cue, his nurse entered his room with some medication. A second nurse followed, to oversee the administration of heavy-duty painkillers.
Minutes after that, one of his favorite aides joined us. She’d heard of his passing and mourned that he’d slipped away while she was on her dinner break.
They stood with me. Hugged me. Reassured me that he looked peaceful. Said it was because I was there.
How lucky he was that you were there.
Even in the darkest and most devastating times, love is nearby if you know what to look for. ~ Anne Lamott, Somehow
One nurse gently walked me out of the room so the aides could prepare my father’s body for the final exit.
I still marvel that I was with my dad when he passed. The events feel mysterious, orchestrated at a level well above my human abilities.
But I also am comforted knowing that, if I hadn’t made it, he wouldn’t have died alone.
He never was alone.
And neither was I.
Building Faith in Others
Maybe you don’t find these stories as reassuring as I do.
It’s all random luck you think. These people were all just in the right place at the right time.
I thought so, too. I realize I can’t be sure how my death will play out until I get there.
So, for now, all I have is my imagination. And I suffer less when I imagine more positive scenarios.
So, I continuously collect data that feeds my faith that I won’t die alone.
I pay attention to the stories my friends and I share about life’s harrowing experiences. I listen for these three bits of information in each story:
- What went right in this difficult experience?
- Who showed up for us (friend, family, or stranger)?
- What did each of us do right to get what we needed?
The more I pay attention to our stories, the more I’m convinced of three things.
We’re luckier than we realize.
The more I pay attention to our stories, the more I’m convinced of three things.
We’re luckier than we realize.
Human compassion is pervasive.
And, even when we’re vulnerably old or nearing death, we can get what we need.
Even if it’s help from a feisty protective neighbor. Or a death rally that buys us more time. Or a team of buddies to hold our loved ones as they witness our passing.
My faith in my fellow humans has gotten stronger since my father's death.
They showed up for him. They showed up for others.
Odds are excellent that they'll show up for me.
Death Anxiety Series
In case you missed the earlier posts in the series, you can read them here:
Questions about Grief Coaching?
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