(no subject)
I've spent the past few weeks by the side of a woman named Audra. She's dying of colon cancer, and I'm doing my best to provide respite. But there's really not much I can do. Audra was, and is, a beautiful woman; kind and caring to those around her. She raised two delightful daughters. She had a smile that could make the world stop and take notice.
Of course, we don't see that smile much anymore. Audra has passed beyond the nebulous line separating 'survivor' from 'victim.' She's not going to get better, and there's nothing I'm allowed to do about it. So I sit by the bed and hold her hand and watch.
The nurses and aides are carefully cheerful, quietly going about the business of making Audra comfortable, no one mentioning the inevitable end. Pillows are fluffed, sheets are straightened, but the incontrovertible facts are these. Audra can barely move herself. She is fed, bathed, and dressed by others. She has a catheter and wears a diaper. Everyday, there is less of her--the nurse has to use a pediatric cuff to check her blood pressure. She no longer speaks.
The human body is a beautiful thing until it turns against you.
Audra's husband, Thomas, refuses to acknowledge what is happening to his wife. Or maybe he refuses to allow it to change things. He speaks flawless Spanish, something you wouldn't necessarily expect from a withered, old black man who lives in the middle of nowhere. He bustles about on unsteady feet--his own poor health forgotten--fluffing more pillows and straightening her collar and speaking to Audra as though nothing is wrong.
Of course, we don't see that smile much anymore. Audra has passed beyond the nebulous line separating 'survivor' from 'victim.' She's not going to get better, and there's nothing I'm allowed to do about it. So I sit by the bed and hold her hand and watch.
The nurses and aides are carefully cheerful, quietly going about the business of making Audra comfortable, no one mentioning the inevitable end. Pillows are fluffed, sheets are straightened, but the incontrovertible facts are these. Audra can barely move herself. She is fed, bathed, and dressed by others. She has a catheter and wears a diaper. Everyday, there is less of her--the nurse has to use a pediatric cuff to check her blood pressure. She no longer speaks.
The human body is a beautiful thing until it turns against you.
Audra's husband, Thomas, refuses to acknowledge what is happening to his wife. Or maybe he refuses to allow it to change things. He speaks flawless Spanish, something you wouldn't necessarily expect from a withered, old black man who lives in the middle of nowhere. He bustles about on unsteady feet--his own poor health forgotten--fluffing more pillows and straightening her collar and speaking to Audra as though nothing is wrong.