Desiring Dignity

I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet I know how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.

 I never spoke with God,
Or visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot,
As if the chart were given.
 - from a poem by Emily Dickenson


It was clear that she was going to pass away soon, and that everyone was waiting for it to happen.

I stay some weekends at Casa Adalia, a home for girls who have been rescued from human trafficking, or are at risk of being trafficked. The woman who is there during the week, Rebeca, has Sunday morning through Tuesday morning off. This past weekend I arrived at the house a little before 9 am and asked Rebeca about her Aunt, whom I knew was very ill. Rebeca shook her head; she's not doing well.

I said goodbye to Rebeca and walked to church to meet one of the girls, M., who was already there helping with the youth. We were walking home when M. suddenly stopped to talk to an older man. M. explained that the man was an uncle of Rebeca's, and proceeded to walk down a small set of cement steps, through a doorway and into a home whose lower level was lower than the street. I hung back for a moment, unsure, but M. smiled and beckoned so I followed her inside.

We entered a small room and were greeted by Rebeca and two other relatives. They invited us to sit down and so we did, all gathered near the bed of Rebeca's Aunt. She was sleeping, the covers drawn up to her neck. I was in a bit of shock about everything at that moment: I had thought that her Aunt would be at a hospital, from what I had heard, so to suddenly be in the room with her was startling. Also, for me, it would be inappropriate to simply enter someone's home unannounced. It would be an intrusion. In South America, it's okay. It's okay to invite yourself in, though doing and receiving that is something I'm still getting used to.

The Aunt was small and withered, with puckered cheeks and half of her face covered in white bandages. I had heard a little bit of what was wrong: don't read if you can't handle disturbing details. Some of her flesh was rotting away, and was being eaten by maggots. She was literally rotting and being eaten even while still alive, and it seemed there was nothing the doctors could do.

We talked, and M. offered chocolates she had made and been selling. When the Aunt moaned and opened her eyes, bright and smiling young M. perched on her bed and said, "Buenas tardes! Como estas abuela? Estas bien?" The Aunt tried to speak, her voice a thin and husky rasp. Her lower lip caved in on the place teeth should have been. She closed her eyes, her breathing rising as a ghostly gasp in the room.

I sat there and thought about death, and how so many people long to die with dignity, yet honestly, is that possible? A brave soldier dies by bullets and explosions. People who pass away in their sleep must be found by someone, whether hours, days or weeks later. There are accidents and murders and illnesses, and are any of them proud and dignified? How many people die in a way portrayed by movies and plays, where everyone is gathered around and exchanges last words of love before the faintly smiling person on the bed gently closes their eyes a final time?

I saw an old black-and-white movie once about a teenage boy who wants to be a writer. A coming-of-age piece. I don't remember much except for one part: he sees someone pass away, and is later told that all writers should experience seeing someone die. Something about understanding the scope of life, I believe. The sentiment stayed with me. I wondered if it was true for writers, and for everyone, actually. If to better understand life we should be a little more acquainted with death. Then, maybe instead of hoping for a dignified death, we would strive harder to live a dignified life. I would imagine that few people will recall with a warm smile someone's last moments or days. Those can be some of the most painful. Instead it's afterward, at the funeral or memorial, that all the rest is remembered and spoken of, that a person's life is summed up and layed out.

We stayed for about a half an hour. As we left, I saw just how tiny and poor the house was. The low cement ceilings pressed in on me. The room we were in was in need of paint though tried to be cheerful with old inspirational posters and fake flowers. The rest of the home was in sad disarray, looking like a garage where things had long been stored and collected dust and spiders. We stepped blinking into the sunlight, up the steep cement stairs and back onto the busy street. Casa Adalia, so close by, was a beautiful chalet compared to that nearly-underground dwelling. Yet ... there was no denying that even though there was dust and sickness, there was also love in that house. The three women sitting around the bed were there with comfort and strength. They may not have had much in the way of possessions, yet they had dignity none the less. They welcomed me, a complete stranger to two of them, with kisses on the cheek. They thanked me. Maybe it is that they will make sure that the women in the bed dies with love and even dignity, because of those around her. When she is gone, they will gather up her memories for anyone to see, and they will make sure that they are beautiful. A favorite quote of mine by John Adams says: "There are only two creatures of value on the face of the earth: those with the commitment, and those who require the commitment of others." At the last, maybe it's not how we die that matters, but who is there beside us when we go.