The Experience Will Only Live in my memory
“So. What have you been doing with your life?”
I looked into his smiling eyes.
I felt at a loss for words. Could this man, 91 years old, in his dying moments, be curious about my life?
“Well. I moved here from Alaska.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And. I play the cello. I’m a musician.”
“Is that so?”
I felt silly. What kind of answer is that to such a profound question?
It’s a good question, I decided. A great one.
“Life is funny,” he said. “Time goes by so fast.”
I paused and we gazed at the nature images on the little TV in his room. Waterfalls.
“There’s so much water on the planet, you know? I feel like most people don’t realize how much water there is.”
“That’s true.” I said. “There is a lot of water.”
“So many places in the world. So many places I didn’t see.”
“Did you travel much?”
“Oh yes. All over the world except for Europe. I was in Korea twice.”
I paused, hoping he’d elaborate, but his gaze drifted back to a mountain and river scene.
“Did you have a career?” I heard myself ask.
The little me hovering above, observing this interaction, cursing its mundaneness, somewhat bemused, jumps up and down in disgust. “Is that really how you want to get to know this man? By asking him what he did for a living?”
I shushed her.
“I laid carpet.” he said. “For 60 years. Most people wouldn’t make it that long, you know.”
I grinned.
“Most people don’t live for 91 years, either. I’d say you’ve done remarkable job.”
He smiled wide and his eyes drifted closed.
“It’s a hard thing to die.” he said, after a moment.
“Yeah? What feels hard?”
He smiled and shrugged. “It’s just hard to be sick.”
I stood quietly, my gaze drifting between this kind, gentle human and the rushing water on the screen.
We were quiet for some time. I watched the minutes pass. And then the clock changed to 1900.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going to give report to the night shift nurse. Then I’ll be back to say goodbye.”
He smiled. “Thank you.” he said gently.
I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. It’s such a strange thing, to experience the intimacy of death with a human you know for 12 short hours; a human who has spent 91 years being.
Saying goodbye this time means goodbye.
How could I honor his 91 years? What could I say to make sure he knows how sacred this experience feels? How is it that I could feel such love and affection for someone I barely know? Should I say something profound? What would those words even be? What was the “right” thing to say?
“It was a pleasure to meet you, D. I hope it’s peaceful for you.” I said.
I hoped my voice was as kind as I felt. I hoped my sincerity was evident.
He smiled that beautiful smile and met my gaze. His eyes were bright and his smile was genuine.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, too. Thank you for everything.”
I reminded myself that in death, there is no solution.
I had a chance to be part of the process.
And as much as I was part of his, he is part of mine.
This experience will live only in my memory. No one else was there with us.
He is now a part of my time here.
I am grateful.
And that isn’t just enough. That is everything.
