The End in Mind

It was Christmas Eve and we headed out to our yearly tradition.  The one everyone dreaded, the one that made everyone cringe, the one that I hated.  The one that made Mom all contemplative and weepy.  Her favorite Christmas moment, my worst moment, and my dad…he was quiet about the whole experience, but went along begrudgingly.  We were dressed in our green and red sweaters, wearing our jingling Santa hats.  I held a tray of Christmas cookies that Mom had baked, and even they seemed to glow with her Christmas cheer. In the car, everyone was quiet, mentally preparing for the worst moments of the season.  If we made it through this, we could make it through anything.  I fingered the gold chain necklace around my neck with nervous apprehension.

The nursing home.  I had been through an array of emotions there, depending on my age.  As a little kid, I loved the friendly old faces smiling at me and looked forward to the cookies and singing.  It felt magical to carol with my friends and family.  It was also all I knew, due to Mom’s enduring tradition.  I didn’t know people existed in the world who did not carol their way through nursing homes on Christmas Eve.   The older I got, however, the more the old faces frightened me.  I began to dislike the tradition.  The old people made me squirm and, quite honestly, I’d rather be out with friends or at home watching a Christmas movie.  But now, home from college, I knew I’d be holding back sobs, wandering the halls, singing songs of Christmas cheer, and seeing the many souls bound to their beds or wheelchairs, while I had just come from a party and could still feel the effects of the spiked eggnog.  It didn’t seem fair.  To be in the prime of life, with so much life happening, while these people were moments, days away from the end of theirs.

We were the last ones to arrive, of course (it’s virtually impossible to move people who don’t want to move), and my extroverted aunt overwhelmed me with a hug and threw a bunch of  packets of paper into my hands before heading off to lead the group in joyful song.  She set this up every year, a doctor herself and a true humanitarian.  The words to every Christmas carol you can imagine were in that packet, in the order we’d be singing them as we walked the halls of the nursing home.  Deck the Halls, O Little Town of Bethlehem…the whole shabang.  I can’t think of a single song she had left out.  No instruments, just our voices to cheer the hearts of the sick and elderly.  Mom was glowing.  This was, after all, what life was about (or so she told us every year since we could remember).

“We’ll be here for a while, Mom,” my youngest brother complained as he flipped through the packet, “there are so many songs.”

“Yes, can you think of anything you’d rather be doing?” She said with all of the enthusiasm she could muster.  Forget Santa and the virgin birth of Christ.  She waited all year for this, and boy, did we know it.

He rolled his eyes.

“Mom,” my younger sister had big tears in her eyes, “it’s the smell.  It reminds me of when Grandma died.”

I sympathized with her.  In our most recent years, being here reminded us of the saddest moments of our lives, watching our beloved grandmother take her final breaths.  It wasn’t just the stale and medicinal smells that brought back the memories.  It was the sounds, the beeping of oxygen machines, rolling of wheelchairs, and so many tvs with random old movies or outdated game shows.  The sight of bony hands, open mouths with missing teeth and yellowed, dying skin took us all back to Grandma’s dying breaths.

Mom grabbed both of my sister’s shoulders, looking into her eyes.  “Sweetheart, any of these people could and probably will be me some day, or even you.  Would you want to be alone on Christmas?  The least we can do is walk by their rooms and sing some sweet songs for them, bring them some Christmas joy.”  Were moms born as motivational speakers, or did they acquire the skill when they had children?  I’d always wonder.

The tears overflowed, streaming down her cheeks.

“Is she ok?” a kind voice asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere.  “Can I help?”

A kindly man in green scrubs approached us with empathy in his shining eyes.

My sister dried her eyes quickly, embarrassed to cry in front of a stranger.

“We’re ok, it’s just that their grandmother died in a similar nursing home a few years ago, and this brings back all of the hard memories.”

“I understand,” he looked at me with a hospitable wink, “it’s a hard place to be, and can be a tough time of year for many.”  He had a mysterious, other-worldly quality to him and seemed a little too magical and extraordinary to be in a nursing home.  I felt uncomfortable, to say the least, and definitely out of sorts.

“We’re happy to be here.  It’s an honor for us to be able to sing to the patients.  It’s the least we can do this season.” Again, Mom, ever the optimist.  No matter how hard this was for us, it was important to her.  Important to stay in touch with our own mortality and do something, one thing, outside of ourselves during the holiday season (or so she made sure to remind us every year).

“All right everyone, let’s get started,” chimed my aunt, clapping twice, in her sing-song voice, oblivious to the resistance of my immediate family, “Joy to the world….” she belted at the top of her lungs, as the multitude joined in unison.  Our group had grown over the years, and there had to be at least forty of us, all different ages and stages, some here out of coercion, some apparently singing out of the goodness of their hearts.

My mom linked arms with my sister as we started the long walk through every hallway, their heads leaned in close, still coaching my sister to work through her memories of Grandma, to treasure those last breaths instead of being traumatized by them.

The mysterious man in scrubs fell into step beside me.  Honestly, I couldn’t even sing this year.  I had been through a horrible break up with my fiance, spent most of my days at college homesick, changed majors again, and honestly, felt aimless in life, hurting, broken and didn’t know what I wanted.  Mostly, I felt fearful of the future.

“There’s someone here I’d love for you to meet,” he said with a twinkle, and guided me down a hallway to the left, as everyone else continued straight.  I didn’t remember this particular hallway.  We walked past a few open doors, and I saw the usual, wrinkled bodies sleeping in beds, or finishing their dinner, until we arrived at the last room on the left.  The only room with  a closed door.

The man in scrubs knocked and I heard a strangely familiar voice say, “Come in.”  The voice stirred something within me, a feeling that brought about nostalgia.

He opened the door slowly, and I saw that the room had a different sort of lighting than the rest, more of a golden glow.

Looking at me, the man whispered, “I’d like you to meet Elise.”

I saw the old woman lying in the bed, surrounded by childrens’ drawings, a telltale gold chain necklace around her neck, and knew, instantly, who she was.  I couldn’t move.

“How is this even possible?  Am I dreaming?”

“Anything is possible this time of year, and no, you’re not dreaming.  You’ve been given a gift,” the man in scrubs said to me with a smile.

I wanted to run away, I wanted to hug her, I wanted to laugh, and mostly, I wanted to cry.

“Is this how it all ends?” I asked through the tears that had started.

She smiled at me.  I took in her demeanor.  She wasn’t bitter, and she seemed to have a graciousness to her that I knew I still lacked.  She was content, peaceful, a woman completely at ease in her paper-thin skin.   

She had a full head of grey hair that was strangely beautiful, and her eyes…I knew those eyes.  Had stared at them in the mirror every single day of my life.  At times, to put on mascara, at times, to wipe away tears.  Lately, to give myself little pep talks before work or class.  She was…me.  I didn’t even know what to say to myself.  I was overwhelmed with thoughts, questions.  Mostly, I just wanted to know how it had all turned out, wanted her to prepare me for what was coming.

Our eyes met.  My eyes, but sunken into the sockets, without the long, dark lashes that I was so proud of inheriting from my grandma. I guess I had lost them at some point.  I saw so much wisdom there, and years of understanding that I’d yet to have to pass through.  I saw forgiveness mostly.  I saw that she’d forgiven me for my many mistakes and shortcomings, ways that I had failed to live a life worthy of the one I’d been given, how my young choices must have affected her, for better or worse.  She’d forgiven many others.  I could see it etched into every line of her face.

Thankfully, she spoke first.  “Come, sit with me.”  She patted the bed, in no hurry to talk.  I felt known.  She would know that I wouldn’t really be able to talk yet.  I just needed to sit in her presence, feel her assurance that I’d make it through.

I don’t know how long I sat next to her in her bed, taking in the sight of her thin, yellowing, age-spotted skin next to my supple, tan skin.  I had never noticed how youthful my skin actually was.  Such different bodies, with the same soul inside.  Or had my soul completely changed with age?  What did her emotions feel like?  Were they the same things I felt now?  Betrayal, sorrow, joy, excitement?  I sat in her presence, so familiar, yet so strange.  What events had she been through, what sorrows had shaped her?  I wanted to know.  I wanted to know who to marry, what my kids' names would be, or would I even have kids?  Would I ever write the books I wanted to write?  Was I rich or poor?  Famous or obsolete?  Where did I live?  Did I find true love?  Did my best friends and I weather the storms of life, or did I end with different ones that I started with?  Did I even have any friends?  Was I a loner?

I wondered how she experienced me.  Did she remember what it felt like to live in this body, with this mind, at this point in time?  Or had she forgotten?  She reached over and touched my hand.  I leaned my head against hers, surrendered to the moment, this strange moment.   What wisdom would she impart to me, now that she had the chance?

“Dear one,” she said slowly, “I know you want to know so many things.  I know you’re hurting and afraid.”

“You remember,” I whispered.

“Of course I remember.  I remember the fight against becoming bitter, closing off because of hurt.  I remember the hopes and dreams.  Mostly, I remember the fear.  If I could do it all over again, I would focus on not being so afraid.  It will all be ok.  You will be ok.”

The tears rolled down my face.  It’s all I really wanted to know, that I’d be ok.

“You’ll have sorrows, many of them.”

I sat up, wanting to interrupt, to beg her to warn me.  But she was firm and uninterruptible.  I liked her, respected her.  I relaxed into her again, listening.  This was a time to be silent and listen to her.  After all, there was nothing I could tell her that she didn’t already know.  She was the wise one with the words to give to me.

“But the joy.  The joy and beauty you’ll experience will far outweigh the sorrows.  In fact, the joy will be more complete because you fight so hard for it.  You will help many people throughout your life.  You will love deeply and be loved well.  Not perfectly, but well.”

“Do you have regrets?” I asked.

“Wise question.  You always were a good question asker.  I think we drove Mom crazy that way, with so many questions.”

I smiled. It was true.  Mom always told me if she had a dollar for every question I asked, she’d be a millionaire.

“My only regret is being so afraid.  Afraid of not making the right decisions, afraid of being hurt.  I wish I had lived with more abandon.”

I nodded, taking it in.

I heard carolers in the distance.  The man in scrubs met my eyes again. 

“Elise,” he said, “It’s almost time to join the other carolers.  They’ve made the full loop and will pass through the main hall in a moment.  Say your goodbyes.”

How could I say goodbye?  How could I thank her?  I wanted to linger longer, ask her more.  But that wasn’t the point, wasn’t her plan, and it was clear that she was in charge.

“Goodbye,” I said with a smile, “and thank you.  Thank you for being ok.”

“You will do well,” she said, “Go and enjoy your life.  Take it one day at a time.  These things will work themselves out.”

The man in scrubs guided me back out into the main hallway, and we joined right back into the carolers, on their last sheet of music.  My sister looked at peace. Actually, she looked a little happier than when we had first come in.  Mom was right, yet again.  We had all needed this.  Except my little brother, who, on the other hand, had had enough.  He wasn’t singing anymore, just sucking mindlessly on a candy cane.  And Mom, she was still glowing, her eyes full of tears, contemplating life, I’m sure.

I never told anyone who I met that fateful Christmas Eve, never told them that I met myself.  My much older, so much more wonderful self.  My fulfilled, completed self.  They wouldn’t believe me anyways.  Sometimes, I don't believe me.  But I have evidence.  The evidence is how I live my life–with the end in mind.