eternity

So I realized I haven't been writing in my blog everyday what I am thankful for-but I have been keeping track of my intent to become a more grateful person and everyday I allow my mind to ponder many things for which I give thanks. My heart has been somewhat heavy this week as two of my residents at the nursing home passed away. Death was one of my greatest (if not the greatest) fears I had in life. That fear was quickly erased after spending barely a month working in a place where death occured on an almost weekly basis. Although the physical process of death itself is difficult to watch, there is a part of me that grew accustomed to working in this environment. Once the dying process moves towards the final stages, I was continually amazed at many nurses ability to predict almost to the hour when the resident would take their last breath. Death is a part of life. Because I work so closely with death I ponder this topic regularly. You would think, because of the nature of Alzheimer's disease, that death would be somewhat of a relief. I have listened to many families say that the actual death was even harder than the struggle while the person was living. We don't like to say good-bye. While Alzheimer's has often been referred to as "the long good-bye," we are still able to talk to, hug, and care for this person. Death means we will not see them until we reach eternity. We cannot look at them and remember, we cannot touch their hand, or sit with them while they eat. Because we cannot fathom eternity, it is only natural that in our human minds death seems so final. People get excited about the fact that when we get to heaven we will all receive new bodies. We will no longer have the physical ailments, limitations, or imperfections, we struggle with on this earth. However I come at this from a different perspective, I am ecstatic to be greeted by a host of people who will be completely different from how I knew them on this earth. This is because they not only will have new bodies but new minds as well. Although I love my residents just for who they are, I look forward to the day when Alzheimer's disease no longer robs these people, and their families, of everything they hold dear. I look forward to knowing these people and not having to wonder what they were really like, or having to ask family members what they like and dislike, for they can no longer tell me themselves. Some people who have dementia, in fact I would say at least half of those I've met, are not miserable. Most have days where the confusion is greater than other days, but for the most part they seem content to be oblivious. They do things that don't make sense and make statements that make even less sense, but they laugh-and we laugh with them- and overall they seem to squeeze a decent amount of enjoyment out of life. Unfortunately, there are also those whom the disease has taken their minds and held them captive. The man who passed away this week struggled with the greatest mental mayhem I have ever observed in an Alzheimer's patient. I'll call him John. He was constantly confused and miserable. The only thing that relaxed him was sitting in the sun and a cup of hot coffee. Nothing else soothed his misery. I passed John in the hall a few days ago and he had a terrified/exasperated look on his face. I stopped to ask what was wrong, and he simply responded in a voice that was shaky- "I want to go home, please just let me go home." Three days later, John went home. I can't wait to join him and all the others who are now Home, free from the confusion and frustration I know the disease often caused them, but are now rejoicing because life on earth was temporary--and they are now living forever with new bodies and new minds.