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Last Chapters

Last Chapters


Several months ago I volunteered to spend the night in the hospital with a woman on a respirator, in a palliative care unit awkwardly named “Step Down”—for patients who, at least medically, it seemed to me, have nowhere to go but “down.” It was a call I received from one of the area’s bikkur cholim (patient aid) groups. The woman’s husband refused to leave his wife alone, they explained, and he has collapsed several times from sheer exhaustion. She’s been comatose for four months now, and they were looking for people to relieve him.

I said yes immediately, afraid that if I thought about it first, I would lose the courage. The idea of sharing a whole night with someone straddling two worlds seemed awesome to me, so much so that I barely slept the night before, as I lay awake considering this woman and her soul.

Feeling tremendous compassion for the patient, I came to the hospital naively determined to reach her, and coax her to consciousness, if only for a moment. At her bedside, I read the day’s Tanya and recited some verses from Psalms, imagining that the holy letters and words would mysteriously nudge her out of her coma. I brought a charity box and placed it near her bed, and in the early hours of the morning I put in some tzedakah—a mitzvah said to have lifesaving potential.

But my direct encounter with this situation forced certain realizations upon me, and I began to wonder about the absolute views of halachah (Torah law) on life-extending measures. Is the view that promotes the extension of even one additional moment of life, in its broadest definition, perhaps simplistic, and oblivious to the nuances in cases where all essential life has ebbed?

I was startled to find the patient with her eyes wide open and moving. “Just reflexes,” the nurse said to me casually. I peered closely into her vacant eyes, wishing to elicit a fleeting sign of the vitality that once animated them. Alas, her spirit or soul, which I had imagined would be more perceptible in the face of a waning physical existence, eluded me entirely.

I wondered at the sustained effort devoted to groom so lifeless a body over so long a stretch of time. Every two hours she is turned, to prevent bedsores. She is fed through intravenous tubes, and must be suctioned regularly. Her bodily functions are now managed by paid nurses. Once the master of her dignity, she would have recoiled in horror, I thought, to know that when she is no longer here—when all that defined her as a distinct human being is no more—her body would not only be allowed to languish, but would be cajoled into languishing in an unnatural condition. And I felt deep sadness, convinced that she would not have wanted her body so exhaustively manipulated to keep her tethered to the netherworld of limbo.

So, for the first time I considered with more regard the argument against excessive measures to prolong life where essentially it is over. It was no longer inconceivable to me that someone anticipating such an end would stipulate against life-extending intervention. And, for the first time, I realized that family members rejecting this kind of intervention are not necessarily selfish or callous, but may be sincerely motivated by concern for the patient and the desire to dignify their loved one.

Last week, I received another call from the soft-spoken woman at the bikkur cholim. I wasn’t sure what I’d say if asked to give another night, or even just a few hours. The experience was exhausting, and seemed almost pointless.

But I am given to understand that we do not, after all, know with any certainty what transpires in the mind or soul of the human being in the absence of normal consciousness. What appears a pointless last chapter of life may—if not rushed to premature conclusion—be its most redeeming episode. While in a coma, the soul may yet do teshuvah and reach fulfillment—a possibility that is decidedly lost once the soul finally departs the body.

But the lady from the bikkur cholim wasn’t calling to ask me for anything. At the request of the patient’s husband, she was contacting the people who had given time, to thank them again and to let them know that the patient had emerged from her coma.

Baila Olidort is editor of Wellsprings Magazine and
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Anonymous March 1, 2013

I have read this a number of times and every time I get the chills reading this...when there is life there is hope... Reply

Michelle uk February 14, 2013

thankyou Thank you for sharing this moving and very deeply personal experience which brought tears and many memories, of times i too have felt removed from something that often went unnoticed, unspoken and perhaps rarely shared. This particular sharing was indeed a deep blessing and one I humbly do, thank G-d for.
G-d bless all Reply

Larry Wisconsin February 14, 2013

question can there be "Teshuvah" when a person is not in a halachic or leagl state of free choice?! Reply

Elisheba Maine February 13, 2013

WOW I didn't expect that wonderful story to end up happily. All I can say is "WOW"!!!
Thank you for sharing. :) Reply

Yehudit Olam Hazeh January 29, 2013

Body and Soul As a nurse I am convinced that while people are in a coma they are alive and well, witnessing their loved ones, their body and experiencing divine light and love on the other side. We are not the body. What awaits us after the confinement of bodily existence is indescribably exquisite. Reply

Anonymous USA January 29, 2013

Last Chapters This is a moving story. I worked for two hospitals as a Nurse Aide. I loved my job. I have had spent nights on one-on-one care of patients with the same situation or similar. I know the feeling of watching someone in this circumstances. It is very sad. We never know if we ever are going to have to go through an experience like that, or anyone in our family, G-d forbid! But compassion is a very strong, and powerful feeling which could bring a healing when felt in our heart of prayer. Our G-d is a Merciful G-d. His compassion surpasses all, and when we unite with him in this moments of need for another, miracles could happen. Reply

Marlene Lewis Montreal, Quebec. January 29, 2013

I thank you for a beautiful story, with the most wonderful ending. Reply

Gwendolyn Walker January 29, 2013

Thank you soooo much for sharing. I cannot express how this touched me. Reply

Dvorah New York, NY USA via March 2, 2005

Last Chapters My mother was in coma for several weeks before she passed away.
Her family spent hours with her davening and singing and playing music and talking into her ear even though there was no visible response from her.
Moments before she actually passed away, as her grandchild was reciting Shema Yisroel for her, she opened her eyes for the first time in weeks. There was a clarifty and life in her eyes that had been vacant for all the previous weeks. Her granddaughter felt that here eyes gave the message that she was okay.
We do not know the powers of the soul and certainly all the time spent with my mother while she was in a coma was most certainly worth it, in ways that we cannot begin to understand.

Anonymous March 2, 2005

That was so sweet. I didn't expect it to end happily. That really made my day! : ) Reply

Helga August 18, 2004

Sally I would like to thank you for writing "Last Chapters." People who seem to /or actually do live in such chapters, in the way you described, can break one's heart into a million pieces.

But, you know, these very people can also fill one with tremendous pride. My much loved friend, Sally, in her final few years, did both. She broke my heart, and at the same time I've never been quite as proud of her as during the time she became physically and mentally damaged.

May I say a few things to her and have it posted?

"Sally, I'm so proud of you. As your illness progressed, it felt as if your soul was shining through you, more and more so - in spite of what G-d had allowed. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a person who is going through something similar to what you went through and think that he or she has no choices left.

"G-d would never do that.

"Thank you for being such a big part of my life."


Introduction: Dealing with Death; The Jewish Approach
Life to Life Library


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