Helena

I am, without a single doubt, complicit in the death of one

very old, illustrious, and much-loved woman. The setting:

a hospice center, perched on a hill that overlooked

the city and the ocean and the mountains. There were

hummingbirds darting around flowering bushes outside

and the rooms smelled faintly of lavender, because

it was California and aromatherapy was standard practice.

Helena and I met in early spring; I was wide-eyed

and scared and so was she. I held her hand and she

wouldn't let go until I pried her fingers loose. She was 94,

weighed less than that, and had a kung fu grip.

Her friends-that-were-her-family made me cry, their secret

smiles steady through restless nights spent by her side,

soothing, singing, remembering for her, because

they had been strangers for years now. They spoke of a

dancing Helena, trekking fearlessly through foreign countries,

teaching yoga into her 80s, throwing dinner parties that lasted

three days. I tried to see this Helena in the frail and restless woman

lying in bed, who could no longer speak words, only sounds,

who was comforted by stuffed animals, whose nightgown rode

up her pale, bony thighs as she kicked and batted at her

blankets. Her faithful friends shook their heads and whispered

that their Helena would have never wanted to live this way, that

she had died in essence years ago. I nodded, thinking that

I, too, would rather die than live trapped in my body,

forgetting what “my” and “body” meant. We tried to calm her

with medicines and more lavender and healing touch and

music therapy and a visit by a very large and tolerant therapy dog.

Helena kept kicking and yelling

and dark circles grew under her friends' eyes.

We all felt helpless, our choices narrowed down to

do something or do nothing more.

And together, we chose something

and hoped that Helena knew we meant to end her suffering

not her life.

I cannot regret that day, sitting amongst her friends,

watching the grim reaper midazolam meander into her body,

seeing her face relax, her grimace fade, her legs stop flailing.

She slept, peaceful, and I stared, ashamed at how long

we had let her suffer, and in turmoil at what we had done.

Helena died a few days later, as her friends held her hands

while she slept so deeply she no longer needed to breathe.

She was gone but never gone, because Helena, how can

I ever stay a step back anymore, when you are always there?