I Hate Dialysis Message Board
Dialysis Discussion => Dialysis: News Articles => Topic started by: okarol on August 01, 2009, 08:49:16 PM
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Lessons learned from a love of life
I met a man
who had to walk with his hands
born into a world
he couldn't stand
blessed with life
but cursed as a man
still he walks taller
than most of us can
- Ben Harper “The Will to Live”
By Marty Finley
My sister wasn’t a tall woman, but you won’t be able to convince me of that.
Though diminutive in stature, she possessed a fortitude that made her a giant among men, and her death does nothing to diminish that. In fact, the lessons learned through death just validate my claim.
Her journey was one peppered with obstacles, most notably her 22-year battle with kidney dialysis, a treatment that usually has a life expectancy of 15 years or so at best.
She defied this typical prognosis by years and took a battery of tests and surgeries almost in stride, emboldened with the assurance she would soon return home to share gossip with her neighbors.
On numerous occasions, my family feared the end was near, but in spite of the odds, and sometimes in spite of herself, she recovered.
She was too stubborn to give in, I concluded, spurred by an unorthodox will to live.
That stubbornness sometimes led to bad decisions and moody temperaments, but all of that was eclipsed by my sister’s love for, and overall curiosity of, life.
Confined to a hospital bed for the past two months, she struggled with an array of ailments interconnected to her kidney failure.
As the doctors pointed out, whatever they did to combat one problem caused another one.
But my sister never lost her optimism or her desire to soldier on, even when it seemed like the mere notion of soldiering on was naivete on her part.
Eventually, even the nurses and the doctors lost hope, and the discussion of hospice care was placed on the table.
The weeks dragged on, her condition worsened and the inevitability of her death was a concept I begrudgingly had to start reconciling myself to.
During the last two weeks of her life, I spent more time at the hospital than the newsroom, and her countenance lightened when I was in the room. Even as her strength ebbed and her pain worsened, she was eager to hear about what projects I had on my plate at the paper, and she never hesitated to share with her nurses that her baby brother was a writer.
None were prouder of me than her, and in the end, few could be as proud of her as I was.
I returned sporadically to work, but my heart was always in Lexington with her, and I hoped that I would not be too late when the call came for me to return one more time.
That call came during the evening of July 7 — two days shy of the eleventh anniversary of my brother’s tragic death in a work-related accident.
I immediately dropped the tasks I was doing and packed as quickly as possible, hoping I would make it in time.
I arrived less than one hour short of midnight and found my sister on the edge of unconsciousness.
Fortunately, she still recognized my voice, and though she never opened her eyes, she told me I looked nice.
I held her hand, and she squeezed mine back, letting me know she was still with me.
Later, when I tried to pull away, she raised her hand and swiped the air, looking for my hand again.
During our conversation, I could understand little of what she said, but when I asked her how she was doing, she said she was great.
While the comment was made under the influence of sedatives, it really summed her up.
She could have lived a life sullen and angry, lashing out at her family and distancing others from her.
However, everyone she met was instantly her friend, and she usually took more of an interest in their lives than an illness that easily could have consumed her thoughts.
She wasn’t a saint, but she never claimed to be. She was just a flawed person who dealt with an overwhelming burden under her own terms. I doubt I could have performed as well.
If anything, she made the best of a bad situation by befriending the nurses, bus drivers and fellow patients she encountered three days a week as part of her treatment. Her knowledge of these friends was intimate, evidence of her willingness to listen and learn.
I hope to be so willing.
The bedside conversation would be our last. Within hours of my arrival, she was nonresponsive, and she passed away in the early hours of Friday morning.
Yet I will always believe she held on for one last conversation.
The pain of losing her is still fresh, a wound that can only be healed with the passing of time and the sharing of memories.
And though I hurt inside, I’m also relieved that she doesn’t have to suffer anymore. Sometimes it can be a blessing to die.
Death is a natural inevitability, but it doesn’t have to be a prison sentence. Neither does illness. My sister was a walking testament to that.
My only real regret is that I didn’t celebrate her will to live sooner.
- Marty Finley is a reporter with The News-Enteprise. His family home is in Manchester, Kentucky, and he is a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University.
http://www.thenewsenterprise.com/cgi-bin/c2.cgi?053+article+Opinion.Columns+20090720180229053053014