Mary House Austin

DEATH AT MAURIN HOUSE

©Lynn Goodman-Strauss

Author’s Note:  This is a first draft of a book I am writing.  The names of places and people have been changed to protect the guests and workers at our Catholic Worker House.  Do NOT reproduce or change this copy without my written permission!

People living with horrendous stress and poor diets, and often using massive amounts of street drugs and alcohol as a solution for their problems on and off the streets, for the most part die younger than the rest of us.  We entered the hospice business by accident:  a woman I knew from the street came to a little party I was hosting for ladies from the street.

Jewel

Jewel was one of the meanest people on our downtown streets, a very, very agitated middle-aged woman.  The men on the street would tell me whenever she would resist arrest:  it took at least 4 police officers to overcome this 4’10” wraith of a woman!

We did not care much for Jewel either.  She was the only African American person I ever witnessed who could start a race riot with other African Americans!

I called Jewel a “shadow person” because, like so many other street addicts, she tried to stay hidden.  Unless, of course, she had to turn a few tricks for her drugs or for drugs for her common-law husband who beat her.  Or unless she got some really bad drugs that made her angry and disoriented.  Then she would be hell on wheels!

Jewel arrived at a little get-together for women that we sponsored in a downtown restaurant every Friday.  My heart went to the floor when I saw her – Jewel could not get along with anyone.  I prayed to God for inspiration.  Then I took a good look at her.

Jewel had lost almost all of her body fat, but her belly was extended as if she were pregnant.  We asked her what was wrong.  “They tole me I got end stage liver disease, whatever that means,” she gasped.  We asked where she lived; Jewel lived on a metal bus bench on Main Street, in front of the state capital!

When we discovered there would be no place for Jewel to lay her head until the last few days of her life, we took her home to sleep in my bed until we could find a place for her.  That was when we learned the horrible truth: there is absolutely nowhere free to live if you are indigent and dying in our sophisticated, liberal town.

Jewel lived 7 1/2 weeks with us before dying in safety and comfort at Maurin House.  Before she died, Jewel was reconciled with her fundamentalist family, who had banished her as being “possessed” when she began showing symptoms of schizophrenia as a teenager.  She got to be with her grown children, who had never really known her.  She got to hear our “Preacher Man”, as she called George, read a psalm to her every night, as she requested.

We Catholics believe in a “Happy Death” which means that a person can die with dignity with the ministrations of family and friends.  We discovered that, without our help, people die in parks, on the sidewalk, and in doorways.  This is not an exaggeration.

Shelters cannot accommodate dying people, so these patients have to wing it on their own.  The local county hospital, privatized to and run by a Roman Catholic religious order, says it cannot admit terminally ill patients because there is no treatment to offer.

Now our town has up to ten beds for dying and very sick homeless people to live in.  All of them are at Maurin House.

A Happy Death at our House of Hospitality means a quiet, dignified passing in a clean bed, with palliative treatment and the assistance of the local nonprofit hospice.  It means that we attempt to contact loved ones as the patient wishes, and that we stay with our guest until death comes, offering solace and comfort.

Dying is hard work.  In our culture, it often is described as an event rather than a process.  With rare exceptions (homicide, traffic accident, cardiovascular accident), the body dies gradually, with the major systems shutting down until only the autonomic functions remain.  Even then, breath comes less and less frequently, a harsh reminder that death is an interloper, something unusual and significant.

Of course, death is a normal part of life, too.  And for our hospice guests, it is a welcome relief from the pain and fear that has so permeated their lives during their final illness.

I am flabbergasted by the comments of good Christian people sometimes.  They imply that, if our guests had lived better lives, or if they had “the gift of faith”, or if they had been “born again”, they would not have died of a particular malady, or they would not have died at all.

How ironic that a faith predicated on resurrection and eternal life would not rejoice at the cessation of a grave illness and the beginning of a new and fuller life in God’s love!  These critics could learn much from our hospice patients about faith and acceptance.

When we receive a hospice patient at Maurin House, we insist that the local nonprofit hospice be involved.  The guest then has a chaplain, a social worker, a home health care aide, a doctor, and a nurse who work as a team to treat the patient at home.

We are the family that will love and care for our friend until s/he dies.  Hospice says that we are doing “something wonderful”.  Truth be told, we are so much more blessed than our guests.  At the very least, we attend to courage and grace and love in the most destitute of our brothers and sisters.

Like all terminally ill persons, these special guests often come to lack independence, or their minds have shut down, and/or even their senses have failed them as they acquiesce to passage from a life which values wealth and fame and power into one where each of us will be measured by how we loved in this world (Matthew 25).

Our dying guests are our teachers, for one day we, too, will come to the same end.

Marcos

I am reminded especially of a man from Mexico, who was paralyzed as he died. He had no “papers”, which meant that he qualified for no medical help whatsoever.  The for-profit hospital was thrilled to send him to us, for they could not discharge him nor could they easily absorb the cost of his care.

When Marcos came to us that Saturday morning, he was quite frail and asked to see a priest.  Now, on weekends, it is difficult to find any priest who is available to hear a confession, especially in another language besides English.  Finally I located a retired priest who fit the bill.  The priest, an academic, came and they secluded themselves for several hours.  The priest was talking and apparently Marcos was asleep.

I fed “Father” and after he left, Marcos awoke.   He said, “You know, that priest has read too many books.  Now, look at me, I never even learned to read, and I am doing just fine!”  Marcos died secure in the knowledge that his simple, hard-working life always had been in the loving hands of his Creator.  His entire estate fit into a sandwich bag: a holy medal and a watch.

My coworkers and I pray to God that we will die so well as our teachers.   We know that we will die in community, surrounded by friends and family, for Catholic Workers take care of each other. There are wonderful stories of people caring for our older members, such as the nurse from a California House who went to New York to take care of Dorothy Day in her last illness.  We know that our passage will begin with the love and companionship that each of us needs and deserves as we pass into new life.

Rarely does a critically ill guest refuse to go quietly to meet his maker.  Three guests stand out as refusing to cooperate with their death sentences, however.

Mr. Gomez

My favorite hospice guest ever was an old man named Mr. Gomez.  He arrived in his electric wheelchair with end-stage COPD – lung failure – and was a deep shade of blue when we met.  Nevertheless, he had been thrown out of a hospital and a nursing home because he ran away every day at dawn to seek out adventure and life.

Several times he would arrive home for dinner and we would have to send him to the hospital for an overnight stay and treatment because he was so worn out.  A few times a kind stranger or downtown cop brought him back home when the wheelchair battery gave out.

Mr. Gomez was not easy to live with.  For one thing, he would not speak English, although he was fluent.  He announced regularly that he did not like White people.  He went to an Hispanic neighbor and told her we “do not feed Mexicans.”  The neighbor knew better, although she proudly catered taquitos, arroz con pollo, and other delicacies in small quantities, just for Mr. Gomez.

Mr. Gomez had been a cowboy in years past, and his last wish was to go to Wyoming to cut horses once more.  We tried to explain that this was impossible, since he had no money, no family or friends in the area, and because he was so sick.   Mr. Gomez would have none of it.

“I know I can do it.  I am going to ride over there in my wheelchair (a journey of many hundreds of miles)!  You can’t stop me!“ he would shout hoarsely.

One August day the phone rang.  A very exasperated police officer demanded to know if we knew a “Mr. David Gomez”.  Wearily, I asked where he was and what he had done now.  “I’ll tell you what he has done, “ the policeman shouted.  “He has ridden his wheelchair to the county line!  It’s 104 degrees out here!   Can’t you keep him home?”

No, we could not imprison our guest.  I begged the officer to bring Mr. Gomez back to us.  As he limped through the door, Mr. Gomez crowed, “I almost got to the next county!  Then that cop couldn’t stop me!”  He took it pretty hard when I assured him that there are police officers in every county, and that any one of them would stop a 74-year-old man in a wheelchair on the highway (not the shoulder, the actual highway)!

One day Mr. Gomez disappeared altogether.  By then, the local police knew all about him, and they searched everywhere they could imagine, as did we.  We were fearful that he had died and fallen into a ditch somewhere.  We grieved.

Mr. Gomez had the last laugh.  He called us from Wyoming, where he had hitchhiked with his very heavy electric wheelchair.  “I am going to cut horses again!” he croaked.

We never heard from Mr. Gomez again.  I am sure he did cut horses, perhaps in this life, perhaps in the next.  Whatever happened in his living and his dying, Mr. Gomez was content to live out his life his way.  We all should be so blessed, to know our dreams and to live them out the best way we can before greeting death.

Sissy

Sissy also died on her terms.  She admitted that her extensive alcohol abuse had alienated her from everyone who ever loved her, and she refused to live at Maurin House, which at that time was a crowded three-room farmhouse on the edge of downtown.

“I don’t even like you; why should I want to live shoulder-to-shoulder with you in that cracker box?” she screamed.   Sissy had a point, and we were grateful in a sad way that she had chosen not to live with us.  Unlike Mr. Gomez, Sissy was not an endearing personality.

On the other hand, Sissy no longer could stay on the streets or in the woods.  What, we asked, would she like to do in her last days?  Oh, the answer was simple.  Sissy insisted that she had “friends” in Portland, Oregon.  She would like to visit them and die there.

Our little Catholic Worker community had no idea if she were telling the truth, although it did seem unlikely that Sissy had any friends anywhere.  But she insisted, and we put her on the bus for a 64-hour ride from the central U.S., laden with pillows, blankets, soft puddings, and bottled water.  I gave her a SASE so she could let us know if she arrived safely.

Ten weeks later a Catholic Sister in Portland wrote to tell us that Sissy had died.  Sister Rose had found the envelope.  Her order had a small hospice and Sissy had died in their loving care, having seen the trees she had wanted so badly to see, and with a nun reading her own Bible to her.

I am in awe of Sissy’s courage and her stubbornness to live out her life as fully as possible until death overcame her ferocious appetite for life.

Rosemary

One autumn day, Rosemary arrived fresh from an all-night drinking binge in the woods she called home.  I had been assured that she would die of cirrhosis in a week, which seemed too optimistic an outcome as she stumbled through the door.

We put Rosemary into her hospital bed and she slept deeply for five days, only awakening for water, food, and bathroom visits.   On the sixth day, Rosemary went for a “little walk” of about a mile each way.  She actually looked healthier when she came home.

Daily Rosemary grew stronger and healthier.  It is difficult to overstate the benefits of a safe environment with lots of rest and healthy food.  Rosemary busied herself in decorating her hospice room and in walking a few miles each day.  We rejoiced that she could spend her winter birthday in another town with her previously estranged adult children and grandchildren after a few months.

After four or five months, Rosemary appeared to be going down hill.  For several days at a time she would be unaware of where she was or what she was doing.  She lost a lot of weight.  She was in much more severe pain than ever before.  She would sleep for days at a time.  All of these can be symptoms of encroaching death.

Rosemary pulled through that crisis and several others, and each time the Hospice people and our household was amazed.  We could not imagine what was going on with her health.

Ten months after she arrived, Rosemary announced she felt entirely well.  A skeptical Hospice nurse took a blood sample to find out just how sick Rosemary was.  That night, after working hours, the nurse called me, crying.  “Tell Rosemary,” she said, “that there is no trace of illness whatsoever!”  And further tests confirmed that.

Rosemary was dismissed from Hospice care immediately.  She lived with us until a newspaper article was written about her and a trailer home was offered until she qualified for more permanent housing.

At Maurin House guests do not have to leave until they have found alternative housing.  After all, someone who is newly recovered from a serious or chronic condition requires shelter as a means of avoiding a relapse.

Rosemary was “spontaneously healed” in a way that only accounts for what she and God together accomplished when no one else could help her.  We were honored to be her innkeepers.

Kinney

Many of our dying guests arrive at Maurin House completely alone, estranged from family and friends.  Our friend Kinney was gay and had AIDS.  His very religious family had ignored the homosexuality, but when Kinney became ill they just could not accept his having such an embarrassing disease.

Kinney spent every penny he had on crack and motels before he came to Maurin House.  He arrived exhausted from a short taxi ride from the last motel to our house, and by the time he was wheeled into his room, he was in tears, shaking from exhaustion.  “I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person because I have AIDS,” he sobbed.

In my mind I prayed, “This is the real job we have to do, to help him realize the love of God.  Please help us, Lord, to be Your hands and Your heart.”  So I hugged Kinney and told him we do not see AIDS as a shameful thing at all and that we were glad he was with us.   Kinney’s last trip outside Maurin House a few days later was to see the funky Christmas lights at our neighbors’ houses from the front passenger seat of our van.  He especially loved the James Brown figure belting out Christmas carols.  After Kinney saw what he wanted to see, he went home to Maurin House and promptly went into his last coma.

Perhaps death brings out the worst in the bereaved members of the family, at least when the dying person has been estranged from them.  Several times, family members have not shown up at all, as in the case of Kinney, and then accused us of stealing the deceased person’s food stamp card or belongings or “money”.  Or they come to visit during the last hours of someone’s life, raging that we are not doing enough to “save” their loved one.  We ourselves, grieving, find it very difficult to love as Jesus loves in these circumstances, although we have come to understand that such rage and abuse of others is a safety valve for their own sense of loss and guilt.

Grief

Hospice personnel and visitors to Maurin House often ask us how we can say goodbye to our friends with such peace.  The answer is very simple: we know that each of them would have died alone, unmedicated and exposed to human predators and the elements.

Our faith, too, sustains us.  My grief always comes from the fact that I have known someone for so little time, and I would have liked to have known them longer.  Having myself converted to Catholicism after a near death experience, I have no doubt that life continues after death, and more abundantly.  Our hospice guests and our workers remain united in God’s love, on this side of death and beyond it.

An interesting phenomenon occurs at our House when someone dies.  The other guests become very quiet and introspective.  Often someone will pick flowers from the garden.  We put the flowers and a lit holy candle in the room with the corpse.  Anyone who wants can say the Lord’s Prayer with our community.   Although we never request it, all television and radios are turned off.

When the funeral home claims the body, our community blesses it with the ancient prayer for the dead,” (Name), may light perpetual shine upon you and may the angels and saints welcome you into paradise.”  Sometimes we preside at the funeral, and a few guests participate.  Often there are no family members at these services.  We remember our departed guest at the next monthly liturgy.

All of these 34 guests live in my heart and prayers, for they have been good companions and teachers.  I believe that one day we will be reunited in Love.  That is hardy spiritual food for work such as ours.