Ree sat waiting in her wheelchair in the hallway of the senior living facility that had been her home for the past few years. A slight, quiet woman with perfectly coiffed white hair, she sat with hands folded in her lap, her head bowed low until her chin touched her chest. I thought she was sleeping, but when I called her name she replied “Yes” without looking up.
“There’s a music program coming up soon. Would you like to go?”
“Yes” again without looking up at me.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s head over there.” As I pushed Ree through the hallways to the assembly room, I made small talk. “Know any good songs?” I asked.
A high, thin, sing-song voice replied “La, la, lah, la, la!”
“Lah, la, la, la, lah” I echoed to the back of her snow white head as we maneuvered through the hallways.
“I love you,” Ree replied.
“I love you truly…” I sang. Back came the echo from Ree “… truly dear!”
From then on, we were firm friends. Because of her Alzheimer’s disease, I never knew if Ree actually remembered me from visit to visit. But wherever I met her – in the dining room, at a music program, in a community gathering, at the beauty parlor – she would take my hand, kiss it and repeat, “I love you, I love, I love you.” And I would reply, “I love you too.”
Small things could bring Ree close to tears. Once I bent my head to hers until our foreheads touched. “Do you know who else loves you?” I asked.
“No. Who?”
“God loves you,” I told her.
Ree looked up with tears forming in her pale blue eyes. “He does?” she asked incredulously.
“Oh, yes. He told me to tell you.”
“I want you,” Ree replied as he head sank down to her chest. “Good bye!” That was always her signal that the conversation was over.
For months on end, I got so used to seeing Ree without any visible changes that I was shocked when our hospice nurse told me she had suddenly started to decline. She had suffered a major setback over the weekend requiring the hospice nurse to visit late one night and family members to be summoned to her bedside.
Ree was alone in her room when I looked in on her later that day. Covered with a sheet and a light blanket, she was running a fever. Her face was flushed and her skin overly warm to the touch when I reached down to hold her hand.
“Hello Ree. It’s David your chaplain,” I said softly, stroking a few wisps of hair away from her temples. Her breathing, fast and shallow, did not change, but her eyes began to move rapidly back and forth under the closed lids. I crouched by her bed, kneeling on the foam pad that had been placed on the floor in case she should fall.
“I’m sorry to see you like this,” I said. “Just try to relax and stay calm. I’ll stay with you for a while.” I continued to hold her hand and talk softly to her. Then on an impulse I sang, soft and low:
Just a song at twilight
When the lights are low
And the flickering shadows
Softly come and go…
Her breathing slowed slightly, eyes moving less frantically under her lids.
Though the heart be weary
Sad the day and long
Still to us at twilight
Comes love’s old song
Comes love’s old sweet song
After I finished singing, I got ready to leave. “I love you, Ree,” I whispered, my face close to hers as I got up from the floor. For a moment, her rhythmic breathing stopped and the rapid eye movements ceased. Just a fraction, her eyes opened and looked at me, milky white and blue like the distant summer’s sky on a warm, hazy day. I could barely hear her voice as her lips formed the words: “I love you too.”
Ree died a day or two later, passing peacefully alone in her room. As far as I know, her words of love may have been the last words she spoke to anyone. I was honored to be there to receive them. – David
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