A Tribute to the Bravery in Dying

His respiratory machine and her repeated stories are the background music you hear at my work when you are put on hold.

In the biopsychosocial field of medical care, I spend hours upon hours with people who need assistance. I have done things only mothers would do and I have done things no mother should have to do.

Hygiene. Cleaning. Diagnosis. Toilet Duty. Heart and respiratory monitoring. Exercises. Story-telling. Lifting. Stages. Assisting. Moving. Medications. Changing. Praying. Watching. Listening.

I have listened to memories of strangers that consist of mumbled words with three-to-five minute pauses. In the midst of disease, watched these soldiers struggle to tell their story through memory loss. Fighting the deterioration of the sinews in their brain so one more person might hear about their causes on this earth.

In a few cases, I get to be that person.

It has been an honor. To watch people in need forced to allow me to help them. My job is to offer dignity when there is no dignity to be found. I fight to bring hope when no one else is hoping. Inviting comfort when there is only the accompaniment of pain.

And then after months, maybe a even a year of exhaling life comes the bravery of
death.

Oh death, you silent threat. As if aging were not enough to test a man. You come to demand our humility. I have watched you yet again creep into test tubes and through organs to stare down augustness and demand to be noticed.

It is a confrontation of the soul that few are allowed to witness. It is here that bravery is more present than I have ever seen.

His breath is slowing. The morphine has kicked in again.

Death is near.

Glory, even closer.