My roommate left the nursing home in the only way he could tonight.
He was 74 years old and he’d come into my room about a month ago, the victim of a stroke that had left him unable to verbally communicate with those around him. At about 11:15 PM Monday he succumbed to congestive heart failure. 45 minutes later, his inert form was whisked out the front door of the nursing home. He was covered by a burgundy sheet.
“He really didn’t want to live this way,” one of his sons told me Monday night. The dutiful son told me that his father had remained active up until the age of 74. The son told me his father had received treatment for macular degeneration of the eyes and was looking forward to surgery to remove cataracts when he was felled by the stroke.
“He was mowing his yard and playing with his dog and everything was fine,” his son told me. “He went inside to watch TV, and he started feeling badly, he refused to go to the hospital.
“He said if anything was going to happen it was going to happen there,” the son concluded. By the time my roommate went to the hospital, the damage was done. I saw the results of the damage on my trips in and out of my room. Looking into his eyes, one could see that there was a keen intellect hopelessly shackled to a human body that no longer functioned the way the Creator intended.
My roommate received numerous visitors during his stay with me. His sons came at least twice a week, frequently bringing along their children so that they could visit their grandfather. His sons were always very encouraging, and they reminded my roommate that his beloved chocolate lab was also awaiting his return.
In the end though, it simply wasn’t enough. The entreats to cooperate with caregivers and frequent words of encouragement weren’t enough to overcome my roommate frequent despair. Maybe that’s why he would knock away the hands of nurses and aids who would attempt to adjust breathing tubes so that he could receive life-giving oxygen.
The oxygen machines made the same sound as the paint mixers you’d hear in any hardware store. I did not begrudge my roommate’s noise created by his treatment. If it could have restored him to the man he once was, I’d of gladly endured the UCLA marching Bruins playing Seventy Six Trombones at 3:00 in the morning.
But in the end the love and prayers of those around him simply were not enough. I watched him daily as his despair grew and his health declined. By 1:00 PM Monday, caregivers were estimating that he might have only a matter of minutes.
There was little for me to do but pray. I prayed that the caregivers would be correct in their decisions and sure in their actions. I prayed that my roommate would experience a demise that was free of pain, and I prayed that the Holy Spirit would then descend and lend comfort to the family members that were manning a death watch.
My roommates demise serves as a sharp rebuke to all those that would rest their faith exclusively upon science and technology. Science and technology could extend the quantity of my roommate’s life, but could do nothing to improve its quality.
And finally, I think I came to understand how lucky I have been to enjoy the level of support that I have grown accustom to. Had things gone a little differently I could have surrendered to the Grim Reaper as roommate finally did. Thank you, Heavenly Father, for all those people you have sent to encourage me during this low point in my life. Let me be the instrument that prevents someone else from “going gently into that good night,” but instead find the strength to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”