Introduction
I wrote this poem after my Hospice home visit. The visit was lead by a striking and capable nurse practitioner. I was amazed by her composure. How despite her outer appearance of business like efficiency, she was full of compassion and love for her patients. Speaking with her about the patients she has had over the years, from the young girl with Down’s syndrome whom she took care of for many years until her untimely death at the age of 9, to the 48 year old with terminal ovarian cancer who passed away with her sobbing husband and their 7 year old by the bedside. She had helped them, from placing pills in their pill boxes weekly and assessing their function to explaining to them and their loved ones the daily changes they were experiencing. Many times, she was there simply to be still with them, to comfort them and let them know it was okay to let go. From the many deaths she had witnessed, I felt it would be appropriate to write a poem from the perspective of one of her patients. Seeing her as a modern day gatekeeper, helping usher in souls to the afterlife. Helping then remember the beauty of a life well lived and possibly, finding some beauty in death.
Beauty in Death
She comes to visit, standing at death’s doorway
Helping usher in the souls, some quickly, some slowly.
I never thought the grim reaper would be
Anything but grim. With her bright smile and practical stance
One dressed so well. Smart black clothes,
Cynthia Rowley glasses and well manicured nails
Yet somehow not looking out of place in my humble abode.
Her presence forcing me to confront my fears.
I am dying, I say
We are all dying, she states simply.
Not hesitating as she continues count these pills.
Some will get there faster than others, she continues, arranging the
Yellow, red, white candies that numb my pain
But we will all get there … eventually, she finishes.
Somehow not managing to sound defeated, somehow comforting,
Yet anything but sweet.
I once asked her how she could do this,
How she could watch so many die,
The young taken before their time by parasitical tumors
And the old, somehow hanging on for dear life…
Yet slowly, visibly slipping away.
She was quiet before she answered,
My modern day boatman rowing the souls of the dead
Across the River Styx and into the underworld.
For a moment, I was unsure she had heard me,
As my once strong voice has grown weak
And my arms cachextic. Thin, faded shadows of what they were.
“No one”, she answers finally, interrupting my self-pity.
“No one teaches us how to die.”
From the day we are born, we are taught to live,
To fight, to learn, to love but no one teaches us how to let go.
How to say enough. How to die.
That’s my job, she says, walking with you, teaching you,
Comforting you, being your guide through your final walk to death.
