The only way that I can get rid of my writer's block is to move forward and try to search for Grace. I need to figure out how it is that a person in America can live the last years of a life alone, "warehoused" in a nursing home, with no apparent history or connections, with no possessions and no family or lifelong friends. Here's the background on the little bit that I do know about Grace Lee.
Born November 14, 1947 - Died August 9, 2009
I first met Grace in July of 2007. I can't remember exactly what it was that drew me to her. Maybe it was simply because she was the first face I saw when I got off the elevator each time I visited a friend's parents at the Lakeshore Nursing home. Grace always positioned herself right outside the door of her room, directly across from the elevator. I always greeted her with a polite "hello" as I hurried by. She always responded with a slightly crooked smile and lonesome eyes.
The first time that I stopped and knelt down next to her wheelchair to talk face-to-face, tears streamed down her face, as she made sounds that only resembled words. When I said "goodbye" she hugged me like a long lost friend. After that I felt compelled to include her in my visits. Over time my friend's parents died but I had become so attached to Grace that I felt the need to continue my regular trips to the Lakeshore.
Grace could answer yes or no. Sentences that sometimes started out with real words ended up as gobbledegook by the end of the sentence. But somehow we got to know each other and Grace even learned to pronounce my name. I also learned that Grace loved to eat. Fresh blueberries and strawberries made her really happy.
Grace must have been a religious person because listening to Psalms that I read from the bible I found next to her bed always brought her to tears. And she always wanted more. When my daughter played Christmas music on the violin Grace tried to sing along. Grace did succeed in singing "Happy Birthday" with us when we lit the candles on her birthday cake. That was unusual, because we were told that it was a stroke that had totally stolen her ability to speak. I guess singing is different.
By bringing Grace to our house for Christmas day we were able to learn much more about her life. She was able to point to her favorite foods and answer questions so much that we determined that perhaps she had two sons and eight sisters. There was no way we could know for sure because the social worker had told us that Grace had no known next of kin and her roommate said that in the two years before we started visiting, no one had ever visited Grace.
Eventually Grace became too sick and too weak to take out of the nursing home. She stopped getting dressed or leaving her bed, she even turned down strawberries. Grace was 61 years old and was dying of cancer.
By July of 2009, I felt like Grace needed visitors more than ever, so I recruited a handful of people to stop in and see her when I couldn't make it.
On August 9, 2009 I got "the call." The social worker told me to come right away, he wasn't sure how long Grace would last.
When my daughter and I arrived, Grace reached out for us with a half-hearted smile. For the next 12 hours we would sing Taize chants to comfort her. We would moisten her mouth, and unsuccessfully try to get her to allow the nurses to give her drops of pain medication. We felt like we needed to be strong for Grace, but watching her disappear before our eyes was almost unbearable. Yet at the same time, the hours felt somehow sacred. And at one point it felt almost like a birth.
The hospice nurse would check vital signs and time the "apnias," the breathless times between breaths. As the breathless times grew longer and longer, the look on Grace's face became more blank, and her eyes began to dry up because she was no longer blinking. The nurse showed us how to blink her eyes for her to keep them moist. The breathless times continued to lengthen. And as he checked his stopwatch the nurse would give us updates.
"That one was three minutes," he whispered. "These things take time. Everyone does it differently."
As it got later and later, Grace's roommate became agitated and we felt that it would be best if we headed home for a few hours of sleep. Just as I was dozing off, the phone rang. It was the hospice nurse calling to let us know that Grace had passed. I wondered why there wasn't someone, anyone, a son or a daughter, a sister or a brother who could take this heavy desolation away from me. I felt sad for Grace and perplexed by the fear that perhaps nursing homes are filled with "throw away" or "forgotten" people.
It was nearly impossible to find a way to give Grace an appropriate send off. The public gaurdian would not answer my calls and at first no one seemed to know where her body was taken. After locating the funeral home where Grace had been taken, the funeral director informed me that a memorial service would cost more than 1 thousand dollars. I explained to him that I couldn't afford that much money but was concerned that the residents and nurse assistants who had become attached to Grace wouldn't have a way to say goodbye. He agreed to give us a two hour window in which to hold a memorial service, for free, if I would go buy her a dress.
Next thing I knew, I found myself wandering around Target looking for a pretty dress for Grace to wear for the rest of eternity. I couldn't see because tears were clouding up my contact lenses. I couldn't think because I somehow felt guilty.
I wondered, "Who am I to grieve for Grace when there must have been so much more that I could have done for her."
I felt confused. "Do I buy pantyhose?" "Does she need shoes?" "What size bra and panties does she wear?"
This seemed surreal and somehow so wrong.
Somehow I managed to purchase a beautiful white sheath dress that looked like something Audrey Hepburn used to wear, simple yet elegant. Yes, I bought shoes and underwear too. When I dropped them off at the funeral home, the director warned me not to expect anyone to come to pay last respects.
My friend Paul and I put together the readings, had the time and date posted at the Lakeshore nursing home, and when the day of the funeral came, we were pleasantly surprised to find a dozen people attending.
Grace looked terrific! They had fixed her hair and make-up and, except for the fact that she was emaciated, she looked perfect and peaceful. Gone was the vacuous stare that had erased any hope of Grace dying romantically with a smile on her face gazing on a chorus of angels. In it's place was a stately, delicate, STRANGER.
We left Grace in that funeral home. The director told us that he had to wait for a place to open up for her in a cemetery. We would have to call back later to find out the plot number and location of her unmarked grave.
Recently as I rode my bike along the lake, I had a strange vision or feeling of Grace riding on the back like kids used to do before helmets and safety were such an issue. And she was riding no hands! Maybe a free spirit at last! Maybe my imagination. Who knows?
My daughter wants you to know that we miss you Grace, and we love you. Because we love you, we are determined to find out who you were and how you were connected.
I plan to visit Grace's last known address, the hospital, the police station, the nursing home, I'll search records and maybe, just maybe, there will be someone who will help me find Grace.
