FACING UGLY WORDS AND TRANSITIONS

I remember my Great-grandmother Hancock up high on her bed. She was bed bound in her final days of life, yet she was feisty, loudly hollering orders to her caregivers and waving her arms about, perhaps in frustration over her limitations. I also vividly recall her demand that my mouth be washed out with soap for saying “ugly words”. I don’t remember what the words were, after all I was only five years old in 1945, but I do recall how quickly my Grandmother Gail took me to the galvanized sink and how vigorously she followed her mother’s instructions. We all know words have meaning and power, and I learned that day there are “ugly words” that are extremely upsetting to some folk.

Our “ugly words” over the past few days have been “pain”, and “pain killers” and “confusion” and “incontinence” and “unresponsive” and “dying”. We have watched Betty go through an astonishingly rapid decline since Tuesday, and have seen her suffer terribly from the pain caused by the cancer and by a recent fall. Once on sufficient medication to relieve the restless agony and writhing she was experiencing, she has been “unresponsive” and interactive communication with her is not now possible. We have been reduced to a “hospital bed” environment in the family room and a host of accompanying changes to permit the best care possible. A new challenge in personal care involves “protective garments” and the difficulty and indignity required to change them. Bathing now involves a washcloth. Even keeping her lips protected from chapping are among our ways of offering simple comfort. So much for dealing with "ugly words".

Because she is not conscious, Betty is unable to take any pills from the arsenal which had been prescribed for either the cancer and its related effects or for her Parkinson’s Disease. Now only a couple of liquid sedatives can be given by dribbling them into her cheek with a small plastic syringe. Early in this transition even that did not have much effect on the pain and only seemed to sap her awareness. Her agitated arm waving and evident discomfort was distressing to all of us. To our relief as we wrestled with these critical end-of-life decisions, the medications finally allowed her to rest quietly. Now we are facing the reality of what is coming as her body is shutting down, and she is no longer taking nourishment or even fluids.

My mind has been trying to find words for metaphors for what Betty is going through, and I am again drawn to childhood experiences. Remember that book about learning important lessons in Kindergarten? Or First Grade, etc? My teacher then put what must have been whole milk into a big square jar which had wooden paddles in it. Next came a lot of cranking and we all put our hands to the task. What eventually resulted, after all the turmoil and turbulence was a sweet. yellow butter she served to us on saltine crackers. Because the remaining watery milk was not so pleasant, it went down the drain. That’s what our transit through life is like; initially there is a great deal of being thrashed and sloshed about in the “jar-of-life”, but finally, what is extracted is a golden product fit for God, and the remainder of our dross is discarded.

Remember the “seed-in-a-cup” experiment? My class did that too. The first time the lima-type beans did sprout, but they were so leggy and malformed that we finally tossed them out. The second chance came soon, but the seeds were dark and shriveled and frankly, ugly! We had no hope, but we planted them anyway and a few weeks later we all had plants bearing small but beautiful flowers! Amazing! So it’s not the husk you start with, but the final product that bears the beauty. And it's not how we start, it's whether we bloom. We should all aspire to finish well. I don't want to just remain a seed, do you?

In one elementary science class we raised various creatures in jars and in the bug box. One large container had window screening to view through to see the hideous little green caterpillars inside. Before long they were gone and here and there on the twigs were strange little capsules. Eventually came a day when the teacher let us watch for hours the emergence of butterflies from those broken, brown shells, and it was a thing of wonder. As the emerging insects fought for release from their limiting enclosures, there was great struggle, and we feared the fragile things would surely die. Of course, some didn’t make it and did perish, but several, gradually, left their binding chrysalis, and their wings took form and filled and strengthened, and at last were fully extended, taking on brilliant colors and patterns. By the next day, there were perhaps twenty beautiful butterflies which our teacher promised to release after school. That’s what Betty, and by extension, the rest God’s children are going through. We begin as mere creatures with little loveliness in this world. [One Christian hymn originally refered to us as worms; “and such a worm as I”.] Then for a while we are tightly enclosed in the limiting shell of this world as God prepares us for emergence and release. Eventually we pass through the struggle of transition and we escape our former husks. We put on the beautiful bodies and brilliant souls God has miraculously made for us and we become eternal beings fit for heaven. Watching Betty’s struggle now would be much more difficult if we had no concept of the spiritual outcome God will achieve in her behalf. What yet remains for her, once her “wings” are ready, is for us to release her from the here-and-now to her promised destiny in the gardens of heaven.

As I write this, early morning light is beginning to reveal that March is not coming in as a roaring lion, but with 3 or 4 inches of new snow. Outside it is pure, calm, and lovely. My heart is eased by the realization that this is the state of Betty’s spirit and soul even now, but still my tears are flowing like the cold rain that is surely coming soon.