"Your Coat is the Color of Being Alive"

Death has been a pretty constant companion around Russell House these days. Something about the change from summer into fall, the weather getting greyer, the air crisper, has turned my mind toward the deaths of some of my favorite residents.
I never thought I'd have a job where I had to deal with death on a regular basis. But this place is often the last place many of my residents live. Death is inevitable.
People die in different ways at Russell House.
Babs clung to life with everything in her neurotic heart, finally tiring, slipping away when nobody was looking.
Sandy had a great day before she died. For weeks, Sandy ate no more than a bite of food at meals. That night, she ate a full dinner and laughed at the antics of the staff. As a woman who often refused care, never letting people touch her, we all found it strange when she let us brush her hair, wash her face and brush her teeth. She went to bed warm, in a beautiful set of blue pajamas that she picked out herself. And then she slipped away in her sleep, alone, but unafraid. A good death.
Nora declined suddenly, yelling for her daughter from her favorite chair in the living room for days. She hated going to bed, never wanted to be alone. We knew she was dying when she asked to lie down in her room. She died with her family around her, her breathing growing shallow, her daughter shedding quiet tears and drinking cup after cup of coffee.
As I write this tonight, one of my favorite residents is surrounded by his family as well. Harry was (is? I'm having a hard time not speaking about him in the past tense) charming. He didn't talk much, but loved to whistle while I sang songs from the Wizard of Oz. He also spilled things. Almost everything, really, at every meal. The center table of the dining room, where he sat, was indicative of this penchant, all the water glasses, cutlery and bowls of soup pushed as far away from Harry as possible. But the Harry that I remember isn't really there tonight. I think he is slipping away. He is curled in the fetal position, breathing, but barely, his eyes half closed. I stayed after work for awhile to hold his hand, only leaving when his son (who looks so much like him, it almost made me cry) came into the room with his wife. The caregivers bowed out, leaving the family alone with Harry.
It's hard to find hope sometimes in all these deaths. It's hard not to focus on mortality and sadness, to embrace the joy. But even in their deaths, my residents are teaching me to embrace every moment I have.
Until next time, friends. Live well.