Can sadness and relief coexist in mourning? I asked myself this question last month after receiving the following message from my friend Marcia’s husband.
“Marcia left us this morning. She was not in pain.”
My friend Marcia and I met over 30 years ago. At the time, I was working as a geriatric social worker at a medical day care program for older adults in Riverdale, New York. It was a wonderful program that offered respite to exhausted caregivers overwhelmed with the demands of taking care of parents, siblings, spouses or other loved ones with severe physical or mental impairments.
The program, which was staffed with social workers, a nurse, a nutritionist and two program coordinators, offered interesting activities and medical oversight to attendees, most of whom arrived by bus from The Bronx and Manhattan.
Some of our clients were wheelchair bound; others were suffering from early dementia. But all of them were disabled in some way. I loved my clients and enjoyed working with them, running programs, taking care of their needs and communicating with their families about how best to care for their compromised relative. But as much as I loved my clients, I also loved their caregivers, most of whom were kind, sincere and dedicated. I often found my interactions with them inspiring.
Part of the intake process was an interview with prospective clients and their caregivers, most often a family member. During the interview process, I would learn about who my new clients were before major health issues upended their lives. At the same time, I assessed their current status to ensure programming options would maximize their enjoyment and offer needed mental stimulation. There was the industrialist, the hairdresser, the scientist, the homemaker, the teacher, the lawyer… They were from all walks of life, the poor, the immigrant, the wealthy, the middle class. Age has a way of leveling the playing field.
And that is how I met Marcia, a talented writer, teacher, artist, singer and oh so much more. Marcia was not the client; she was the caregiver. She came to the interview with her father, who had been an eminent labor leader, author, social activist and teacher at Cornell University. But that day, Sherman* was an elderly man suffering from Parkinson’s Disease and experiencing dementia and hallucinations from his illness.
It wasn’t until later, as her father’s health deteriorated and our interactions multiplied, that I got to know Marcia personally and we bonded. We had so much in common: an interest in Jewish genealogy, our writing careers, and a love of nature, art, theater, symphony. In time we became friends. Our relationship lasted more than 30 years and continued after her father died in 1996.
With friendship came disclosures about our family histories and personal challenges. I learned, for example, that Marcia had a checkered upbringing. Her father had left the family when Marcia was young and was not much of a presence during her life. Nevertheless, in his old age she stepped up to help make the decisions necessary to see him transition to a compromised life and eventually even hired the caregivers who would be with him until he died.
Every caregiver does not have a positive relationship with his charge. Many do, but some, like Marcia, could have walked away from a less-than-ideal childhood. Marcia chose not to do so. Above all, she was compassionate, kind, sincere … all qualities that her family and friends admired in her. .So in spite of the past, she took excellent care of her absentee father until his death.
Three years ago, Marcia was diagnosed with glioblastoma, the cancerous brain tumor that felled both Senators McCain and Kennedy, and for which there is no cure.
Marcia outlived the doctor’s prediction of 18 months and died recently, almost three years to the day of her diagnosis. But the last year was difficult for her and for those of us who cared about her. Marcia suffered; she declined; she eventually became comatose. There were many of us who rallied around and visited and/or called, even when she was unable to respond. In January, I traveled from Tucson to New York to see my friend for what I knew would be the last time. It was difficult to see my vibrant and talented friend deteriorating.
A month later, a mutual friend wrote to me and said, “Pray that God will take her.” But every week when I went to my synagogue here in Tucson, I recited a Mi Shebeirach for her health and well being, knowing full well that she would never recover.
I just didn’t want her to suffer and live a prolonged and compromised life. I knew she wouldn’t want to do so either. Over the last months, I called often to find out how she was and tried unsuccessfully to communicate with her.
Which brings me to the question I asked earlier. When we mourn, can our emotions reflect sorrow and relief? For me, the answer to the question is yes.
And when the message finally came: “Marcia left us and she was not in pain,” I was sorry for the loss of a special friend and thankful that her long ordeal was over.
*Names changed to protect privacy.
