Home » Personal Musings » Thursday Re-View — Echoes of Loneliness

Thursday Re-View — Echoes of Loneliness

She was 16 years old and living in a nursing home.

You know the type place – where the smell of stale bodies and crumbling memories meets you when you walk through the door, where the cries of lost hope and discarded dreams echo through the hallways.

That type nursing home. Smelling of mustiness and mothballs, of dried food and forgotten flowers.

A 16 year old innocent with the most severe form of muscular dystrophy. Lisa couldn’t talk (but she could grunt), couldn’t walk (but her limbs jerked with uncontrolled movement when she was excited or agitated), couldn’t see (blind since birth), but had about 60% hearing in one ear. Her days were spent in bed, alone, waiting…

Waiting for a family who never came, who was too poor to properly take care of her and who couldn’t deal with the heartache when visiting their daughter. So they stayed away…

Who am I to judge? I had no idea what I would be able to do for her by visiting her once a week, but I do know that after each visit, I needed to shake off the sadness that I wore like a heavy cloak when I walked outside the door. But at least I could leave…

Her caregivers in the nursing home took care of Lisa like she was their daughter. Her bed linens were fresh, her clothes clean, her hair smelling of roses…and there was always music playing, since that seemed to keep her calm. And she loved to hear prayers recited at any hour of the day or night, especially ones that spoke of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

When I first met Lisa, she was half sitting up in her bed, enjoying some crackers as a snack. Even though more crumbs were on her lap and the bed, she seemed determined to get her spasmodic hand movements under control enough to aim for her mouth. She made it more times than not; she kept trying until she succeeded.bedThe nurse’s aide explained my presence in a soothing voice, and cleaned off Lisa’s hands and face so we could visit. I sat still while her hands shook their way across my face, studying my features intently the only way she knew how. Satisfied, she sat back and I told her a bit about myself.

In later visits, through trial and error, I found that singing the “Hail Mary” prayer to Lisa in a soft voice, sitting on the side of her bed where she had her good ear, quieted her agitation. She would lay down and close her eyes, grunting occasionally while I sang off-key.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

By sheer luck, I found that Lisa also loved “Hail Holy Queen.” I had my Trappist monk friends to thank for knowing how to sing that prayer, since it was part of their Compline Office each evening when I was on retreat with them at Holy Cross Abbey (Berryville, VA).

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of mercy,
our life, our sweetness and our hope.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve:
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.
Turn then, most gracious Advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us,
and after this our exile,
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! Amen.

One spring day, I arrived at the nursing home in a thunderstorm, the torrential downpour and gray skies matching my mood. I ran inside, repeating Chaplain Susan’s reminder to me (“She Who Hears the Cries of the World“): “Theresa, you are their light; Theresa, you are their light.”

The staff told me that Lisa had a rough night, her restlessness almost unmanageable, and that she was finally asleep. I thought I would look in on her anyway, since the loud thunder might have awakened her since the last bed check. But when I stood at the side of Lisa’s bed, she was fast asleep, her thumb in her mouth, hugging her favorite blanket.

As I sang the Hail Mary prayer and carefully pushed back the hair on her damp forehead, suddenly a beam of sunlight pierced the near-by window and settled on Lisa’s face.

Sunlight – not lightning – where you could even see dust motes in its beam as it traveled across the room to illuminate her peaceful face.

She smiled, as if aware of what was taking place while she slept. Her skin literally glowed.

In the middle of a thunderstorm, the rain pounding on the windows, a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom just long enough to recognize Lisa’s soul – beautiful, healthy, vibrant, singing.

Just like that, the light disappeared.

I looked around her room for the source – nothing. No flashlight, no lamp, no one popping their head into the room wielding a camera. We were alone.

Then again, maybe we weren’t…

Circles of Grace.

A communion of light filling a lost soul who was not lost, but rather, found.

Never doubt that you are blessed, dear Lisa. You were anointed in the midst of a raging storm. Be at peace.

You are beautiful. And you are loved…

sunbeam

____________________________________

15 thoughts on “Thursday Re-View — Echoes of Loneliness

  1. This post is very deeply touching.Your first name is Theresa, right? – a meaningful name
    The lines
    “Circles of Grace.
    A communion of light filling a lost soul who was not lost, but rather, found.”
    sound like an absolutely pure and mystical poem. You’re blessed to share such crucial words with us, for us.
    Merci infiniment.
    Kind regards
    Frédéric

  2. Reading this is like salve for my soul. I remembered this time I volunteered to walk some kids around the bases – for a whiffle ball game; I rotated with the kids and the other volunteers. One of my students was wheel-chair bound and couldn’t move much in her chair – just eye movements and some fingers twitched. You are not lost, you are found. I will go ‘to bat’ for you. I also got to leave. It makes me feel…no words. Thank you, Theresa. Thank you for your tenderness, and for sharing this story.

  3. It’s stories like this Theresa that makes one thankful for the life they have. I sat with a friend’s father one night in hospital, he’d suffered a heart attack a few days earlier. I sat a bedspace away and the only light in the room came from one mounted in the skirting board. Without warning a beam of light about a foot wide came form the ceiling and spread out over his chest. It bore no resemblance to a torch light. Within the beam were tiny motes coming and going up and down it. The light had a definite boundary, and within it varied in light and intensity. This lasted for about two minutes. He passed a week later.

  4. Oh my, reduced to tears again. Tears of sadness for Lisa’s tragic circumstances, tears of joy that you and the nurses are so full of grace and compassion for her and others, and tears of thankfulness for a life, though often filled with physical pain, is so much, much less difficult than hers. Thank you for the gift of this story, Theresa, and for all that you do to bless the lives you come in contact with. Hugs and love, Natalie 🙂

    • You’re so welcome, Natalie. The privilege is mine. In a perfect world, we all benefit and learn from each other. Lisa taught me so much. Blessings…

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