I walked into my mother’s room to find a bearded man in a down vest and hiking boots standing at the foot of her death bed.  He introduced himself and I recognized his name immediately. He was the nursing home doctor.

AKA my mother’s nemesis.

Their relationships spanned several years, because she’d been in and out of the nursing home several times as a rehab patient. Rehab patients are distinct from nursing home residents because they are there temporarily to recover from a hospital stay or illness. Everyone, including the patient, knows they’re short-timers.

My mother had to use him as her doctor as a rehab patient. But she never accepted him as her doctor pro tem.  She was offended when he changed her treatments prescribed by her doctors, whom she chose and trusted. At one point, he altered heart medications that she believed led to a fainting spell that landed her in the emergency room and prolonged her rehab stay. 

She felt vindicated when she saw her cardiologist, who promptly submitted orders to have the regimen switched back. Score one for Mom!

After that she refused to let him treat her until the nursing home insisted he had to be her primary care physician of record, per state regulations.

Score one for the doctor, although my mother questioned the rule to anyone who would listen. He looked more like a hipster about to hike the Appalachian Trail than a doctor. Not that I particularly cared what he wore.  It’s just that, I expected him to look more, I don’t know, patriarchal. I was never sure if his decisions really caused her accident or if she just wanted proof that her irritation with him was justified. Because this was our first meeting, I suspended judgement. 

My mother, now semi-conscious, did not seem to know he was there. Still, somewhere in her dying brain, I imagined she knew and she wasn’t extending the same courtesy. 

“Do you want me to leave so you can examine her?” I asked. 

“No,” he said, then continued staring at her. It became obvious he had no intention of touching her.

They should make earplugs for people who are grieving, so we don’t have to hear the stupid things people say, but I’d look like a dork in them.” –Corinna, in If Only (Carole Geithner)

I realized then, she was no longer his patient, because she was under the care of hospice, which called the shots.  On hind sight, I’m not sure why he was there.

Had he come to pay his final respects to a worthy adversary?

He continued to stare at my unconscious mother. I grew uncomfortable with the silence. So I spoke.

“It’s hard to watch her like this,” I said.  “But I’m an academic, so I cope by studying. I’ve read about end-of-life experiences so I know what to expect.”

“As an academic,” he replied, “You’re probably repressing your feelings.” 

Wait. What? 

I was stunned by his comment. He continued.

“But, if you’re a Christian, you believe she is going to heaven. There’s comfort in that.”

Not blessed with my mother’s quick Irish tongue, I didn’t know what to say.

As this was our first conversation ever, he had no idea what my beliefs were. I’m sure my mother never shared her faith with him, either.

Unless you know a family very well, it’s best to keep your religion out of your condolences.

My mother did consider herself a Christian. She had stopped practicing decades ago when her evangelical Presbyterian minister said her beliefs were misguided. See, she believed Christ died for everyone’s sins whether they “accepted him” or not. Surely Jesus had enough pull for the whole of humanity, right?  Like writer Anne Lamott, sheplanned to rendezvous with her loved ones by the dessert table. She’d trust God to keep the other riffraff out of her corner of the afterlife.

I don’t consider myself a Christian. Jesus is my touchstone for compassion. but my spiritual beliefs lean toward Buddhism, what little I understand of it.  As for the afterlife, I’m comforted by hearing how others’ faith beliefs, whatever they are, help them face the inevitable mystery. They are my teachers. But I’m also intrigued by the sophisticated medical research* that is changing what we understand about human consciousness, including its persistence beyond death.

Needless to say, the physician’s comments were deeply insensitive.  Unless you know a family extremely well, it’s best to keep your religion out of your condolences. 

If I had been less exhausted, I may have schooled him on what not to say.  Or delivered a snappy comeback, worthy of Miss Manners, to put him in the place. 

Or complained to management. 

In the end, I did what made me feel best. Which is every grieving person’s right.

I waited for Dr. Appalachian Trail to leave. Then I walked to the head of Mom’s bed and grabbed her hand.

“You’re right, Mom.” I whispered,  “He is an ass.”

I felt much better. And I like to believe she did, too.