I thought this one would be easier. My mother in law, Johanna, was 96 and had been expressing the wish to die for over six years. As we watched her vitality diminish and her dementia progress, our hearts broke. But we learned to accept the reality of what was happening and with that came a deepening appreciation for each day that she lived and for all the moments we shared with her. My husband, Steve, did the lion’s share of her care, showing up for all of her medical appointments, care team meetings, and frequent hospitalizations due to falls and resulting injuries. In addition, we visited her often and worked with the staff at her residence to ensure that all of her needs were being met.

The years of Covid were especially challenging as we tried to maintain connection and provide emotional support via zoom and later, when we could meet in person again, wearing masks. During that period, we had the same conversation repeatedly about the pandemic and each time she had an “Aha! Moment”. She fully understood what a pandemic was and for a few seconds could make sense out of all the large and small ways that it was impacting her and the entire world. And then she would forget.

I will be forever grateful that she did live past those Covid restrictions and we had many more visits without masks and with lots of hugs and kisses. During one of our last visits at her residence, she draped herself across her bed, propping up her head with her hand, seeming more like 19 than 96, laughing and smiling as we looked through one of the many books that she created before the dementia took over. Each book was filled with photos, her artwork, and her writing, commemorating a certain period or part of her life: one for each of her three sons, one for the grandchildren, one for her marriage, one for her childhood, and several more. She did not remember that she had put those books together and was amazed each time we reminded her. But she was able to recall much of her childhood and some of her adulthood because of them and enjoyed looking back at her earlier life.

I had hoped she would have an easy death but it was two harrowing weeks, one in the hospital and the final week back at her residence in hospice. It was clear to us that she was confused and in pain, and some nurses and hospice workers seemed to understand but the health care system itself was slow to respond and seemed hesitant to provide comfort measures of any kind. Much of Steve’s life force was consumed with advocating for her to be free from pain and suffering and finally, in the last three days, this was achieved. And, in spite of the lack of health care, I am glad for the moments I had with her in those final days.

Feeding her applesauce and ice cream, helping her to sip water through a straw, and holding her hand, the circle of life was clear. I was now caring for a small child who was quickly regressing back to infancy, replete with temper tantrums and many tears. Johanna had practiced pure speech all her life so it was surprising and slightly amusing to hear her blurting out profanities as she tried to put the nursing staff, and sometimes me, into time out. At one point she crossed her arms and, in a haughty tone, announced, “Go away. My husband is coming to get me this afternoon.” “Yes, Johanna,” I assured her. “He is coming.” Her beloved Gerry died twenty years ago and she had missed him with every fiber of her being every day since. It comforted me to imagine that they would soon be reunited.

After one combative incident in the hospital, she slumped over and said, quietly, “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Then she began humming, something I had never seen her do before but that became her “go to" strategy when she was upset with the twists and turns her dying experiencing was taking. She also conducted an invisible orchestra, oscillated between laughing and crying, and several times grabbed my hand, drawing it to her mouth, and kissing it. Once she was in hospice, she exerted much of her last remaining prana lashing out at the nursing staff as they attempted to change her sheets. I was in awe of this ninety pound dynamo, whose arms suddenly seemed six feet long and held the strength of a healthy young man. Once she calmed down and the nursing staff had retreated, she held both my hands in hers, looked at me with a contrite smile, and said softly, “I know they are just trying to help me.”

Three days later, speaking in full sentences was gone. As I fed her small spoonfuls of ice cream, she repeated, “Cool,” with each bite. That turned out to be her last meal. The last three days, she was finally able to rest comfortably. Early in the morning of January 27th, the intelligent mind and wise heart of Johanna Robbins was released. We are all better for having known and loved her. She was ever optimistic and we will fondly remember her favorite aphorisms: "perfect timing" (no matter when), "the universe is supporting" (when things were going smoothly), "things are turning a corner" (when it seemed things were not going so well), and "I am catching on" (when she figured out something that had been puzzling her). Until the end, even when the universe was not supportive, things were not turning the corner anymore, and she was no longer catching on, she never failed to start the conversation with, "How is everyone? Catch me up!" Dear friends comforted me with these words: "May Johanna's love reign supreme in your hearts, always." “Her life story is complete.”

For more on a life lived well and to the fullest: https://memorials.vtfuneralhomes.com/.../5368681/index.php

For more on the love story between Johanna and Jerry and their careers in social work, CLICK HERE