Dying

K.D. and Francine in earlier times.

I have a particular view of dying. From 1990-1995 I worked in a residential AIDS hospice at the height of AIDS deaths here in Massachusetts. I encountered and/or personally tended to over 2,000 dying patients in that 5.5 yrs.. The facility was a converted townhouse with 18 beds. It was located in a depressed part of Boston, which has since become a real estate boom town.

I was living with HIV when I took the job as a registered nurse. I had worked with AIDS patients for several years before then in Manhattan. I was immersed in HIV patient care and my own HIV concerns. All of it was swathed in funereal darkness at that time. HIV was an inevitably fatal virus in those days. The lessons of working with the dying and living with a deadly disease at that time were many. Each dying person taught me something about dying and about living in death's shadow. 

Right now our adorable white cat, Francine, is dying. She is quite old. Peter adopted her from a shelter with her black sister, K.D. (named by her previous hosts for K.D. Lang), almost 8 years ago. They were older cats back then.

Francine has been diagnosed with a common feline endocrine disorder. She has been wasting away for the past year or so. She stopped responding to her name. She stopped her many goofy poses, guaranteed to reap a laugh even from cat-skeptics. Her voice changed from an almost-imperceptible whisper to a shrieking cry. Her eyes hold constant confusion and wonder at the most familiar surroundings. She began hissing at her sister whenever K.D. approached her. 

In the last several days, Francine has had two major seizures. She does not seem pained in the least. She is simply quiet and sleepy. She has stopped eating her meals. She drinks a little water. She lies on a chair and looks wistfully at us between naps. I know that look. And it is quite startling to see it on the face of another species. It is there with the same peaceful intensity as it had on the faces of my human AIDS patients who had accepted their dying process. It says, "I'm leaving, and it's OK."

Francine will still take a tiny cat treat. She prefers the junky supermarket variety. She never enjoyed being handled previously, but now she melts under a gentle hand. She relishes being brushed, an activity she once resisted with full force. She has surrendered to her needs. She has surrendered to our affection for her. This also reminds me of my dying human patients.

We have decided to bring Francine to the vet if she appears to be in pain. Neither of us, Peter nor I, is opposed to euthanasia. We are engaged in Francine's process as best as we can be. It is the same with human beings. Dying is a lonely internal experience, even for those who can communicate in the same language with their caregivers. Caring for those who are close to death allows us to learn about our own eventual process of dying, if we pay attention. This requires accepting our very basic commonality with Francine and all others who are born into this mortal life.