This is my favorite thing I’ve written to date. I am a hospice chaplain. To me, this story, this woman, our relationship, and traveling the past year with her on her journey has become the picture of everything I could hope for as a hospice chaplain.
Yes, we can accompany people for a little or a long while, do death and moments of crisis, Scripture, music, and prayer. But, entering into the life of another for weeks turned into months, finding yourself there, adding unexpected joy, and giving and receiving an opportunity to reflect on a very hidden and private 90-year-old life has changed me. Darce has given me permission to share it with you. I hope you like it, too.
(A video of me reading Darce’s story to her, here…https://youtu.be/jx5tukDPZuE)
“Darce Day”
Once upon a time, there was a woman who had 90-year-old eyes and 90-year-old teeth.
On days when she is feeling blue, her daughter cheers her up by saying, “At least you have your own teeth!”
She passes the days reflecting on all that has been – Amazed that one who so loved golf and gardening, sailing and cooking and tennis, could be so content – looking at the sky and an occasional bird, but not really being able to see either one.
“Have you ever thought about what it’s like to talk to someone without being able to see them?” she asks.
No, I guess I haven’t. And I’m afraid to experiment in my next conversation, imagining the other person will be unable to listen at all because they can’t stop wondering why my eyes are closed. So, I imagine it for the rest of the day, and conclude that it would be very different, indeed.
This is the story of Doris Marie Johnson. Only she didn’t like the name Doris. So, she changed it. When she was seven years old. And no one noticed. It might have been around the same time she realized she was not “a goddamn little bastard, but a Daughter of the King!”
Whenever it was, after that, she knew she had the power to change things. Like an “i” to an “e” in Maree. And that Johnson could be left off altogether.
Darce was sitting in her favorite spot, communing with God, when she had a new visitor one day. Well, she had a lot of new visitors, but the visitor I’m talking about is me.
In that first visit, we looked at little paper bags with her artwork on them – made each day for her precious daughter to tote her lunch to school. Even the doctor’s daughter recognized their preciousness and wanted to buy them. But, they weren’t for sale.
Not exactly sure what, but something magical happened between lunch sacks, and whatever was said before or after looking at them.
It was decided that only weekly visits would do, even though monthly visits from this hospice chaplain was the normal order of things.
And Friday would be the best, because Darce’s daughter had to do this thing called work.
So, Fridays at lunchtime became the high point of Darce’s week. And Heidi’s, too.
———
Oh, my name is Heidi. I never changed my name, but I did add an “e” to the end of my middle name for a while. I thought Ann looked better and more sophisticated that way. I was probably trying to be like Darce even though I hadn’t met her, yet.
Subway turned into Taco Bell, and how can tacos taste so good EVERY.SINGLE.WEEK?!
But, they do.
I think it has something to do with the way I put the sauce on while she holds the taco open. And the way all of the stuff falls out and we pick up the pieces with our fingers, and shove them into our mouths afterwards.
The large drinks were always too big and heavy, so I poured them in a smaller glass for her. But, the smaller glass is getting too heavy, too.
The days are getting longer for Darce. Getting into bed at night requires heroic effort and has become a task to dread. Fortunately, her daughter doesn’t mind lifting her tired legs up and in, and her big panda is waiting there for her when the work is done. Like receiving prize money at the end of a marathon.
The panda helps her tell time, too. When you’re tired and taking a lot of naps, it is easy to forget if it is daytime or nighttime.
Well, the panda knows. If it is daytime, he sits up on a pretty bed, with the covers all nice and neat.
When it’s night, he lays down and waits for you. Mr. Knightly, the cat waits on your pillow, too.
——
When every part of your body is 90-years-old, it is easy to feel like your parts are falling apart, if they haven’t fallen off completely.
But, you know something?
You can always feel good on Fridays.
When your daughter wakes you up and says, “It’s Heidi Day!”, you feel better.
When you wake yourself up, and you remember it is “Darce Day!”, you feel better, too.
When you’re 90-years-old, you can forget it is 100 degrees outside and summertime, because you never leave the house, but you know more important stuff, like what it means to be really alive.
It turns out, it is the simplest recipe around. Only takes three ingredients.
1. Discovering new things.
2. Contributing.
3. Connecting.
Learning this from Darce over a year after meeting her for that very first time, I’m beginning to understand the magic that is us. Not that I really need to, but we find ourselves trying to explain it and come up short. (I guess we always will.)
We enjoy this sweetest-of-dishes every Friday along with the pecan toffee bits we savor for dessert, if we haven’t already eaten them all. We like how they get stuck in our teeth, so we can enjoy them longer.
When Darce looks at me, she says, “You are who I used to be – DOING. BEING. ALIVE.” She seems to admire me in a way she was unable to admire herself. I doubt she ever asked herself, “Do you know how special you are?”
When I look at Darce, I see who I hope to be, 50 years from now.
Darce greets me with an eagerness only akin to those who love me for my own sake. She even remains interested in me, long after I take my seat. She asks great questions and laughs in all of the right places. She’s a great listener and thinks I’m a great listener, too. And we laugh at how much people talk and talk and talk, and at what they can’t hear us saying.
Maybe we got the same superpower when we were 16 – when her Mom died and mine stopped walking. Maybe something is born in you when you become a teenage mother for your own Mom. Maybe that is why she “walks around more in the world of other people than in her own world,” and why I do, too.
We wonder aloud what dying will be like. She is even fascinated by it, when she is not too tired to hold it away from herself to give it a good look. She thinks she is closer to knowing for sure, and I think she is right. But, she remains unafraid and in moments, would “welcome it, even.”
I imagine my Fridays without her. It makes my eyes sting and my throat lumpy. I imagine eating tacos by myself and wondering why TGIF doesn’t resonate the way it used to.
I imagine writing a story to tell the tale of Darce and Heidi Day, and a desperation to share it with her.
So, I stop imagining and I start writing. Because there’s still time.
I wrote the first page in the Taco Bell parking lot and read it to her yesterday. I asked for her input, but she wanted it to be all mine, so I’m finishing it this morning in my favorite spot. As we tried to remember the name of Paul Harvey at our last vist, I told her I would read her the “rest of the story” next Friday.
I hope she likes it.
