Narrow door

I recently took care of a patient who had passed away.

She was a mother, a grandmother, and a friend. As I heard the many stories from her loved ones, I learned that she was a strong, loving, and kind woman, and dearly missed.

As she was nearing her last hours and minutes of life,  I cared for her and her family the best I could. I turned her, washed her and made her look comfortable. Her family sat at the bedside holding her hands, and playing music that she loved. They were sweet moments of joy for her family in the midst of sorrow and sadness.

Mid-afternoon, the family called me to come see her. I held my stethoscope against her chest and I could no longer hear her heart beating, or air passing through her lungs. As I came to that realization, I took off my stethoscope, and slowely looked up to her family. Without saying much, they knew she had given her last breath. I gave them my sincerely condolescences, and allowed them time to cry, and hold each other as they experienced the profound loss of this person they loved so much.

I checked on them periodically ensuring that there were enough tissues, but also in answering any questions the family had. Most family members said their goodbyes, and on their way out gave their thanks to the staff. One particular family member wanted to stay for a few minutes longer. I let her, and I lingered close by in case she needed something.

She stayed for a little while until her family came to see her. They expressed to me that they were worried that she might have difficulty letting go (understandably). I approached her, and sat beside her to see if there was anything I could help with her. Among the tears, she said that she wanted to accompany the body down to the morgue. I acknowledged her request, and told her that I am certain we can arrange that.

Moments after, I carefully prepared the body for the morgue. As the porters came, and we lifted the body from the bed onto the stretcher. When everything was ready, I accompanied the family members and the porters to bring the body to the morgue. We travelled through the dimly lit tunnels in the basement of the hospital. After walking a considerable distance, we arrived to an elevator door. A locked elevator door.

The porters began loudly knocking on the elevator door, and shouting to security officiers, "Come on, let us in. Let us in".

A few minutes passed, and finally, the elevator door opened. We entered a small and old elevator with a dark interior. The porter closed the elevator panel doors, and we ascended up to the morgue. As we arrived into the morgue, there was a staff and a security officier awaiting for us. At this point, I looked over to the family member, and asked what she wanted to do. She nodded at me, and said she was satisfied with how far we accompanied the body. We then were guided out the exit door, and onto the main street of the hospital.

As we began parting ways, I called this family member by name, and expressed to her again how sorry I was about her loss. We hugged briefly, and said our goodbyes.

                                                                            ****

This story is not remarkably different from others. As a nurse, I have cared for many patients in their last moments of life. I have cried with families. I have held their hands as they grieved sorrowfully for their loss. I have experienced sadness as cared for these patients and families. It's an incredibly difficult part of my job, but at the same time, it is rewarding to be with patients and families through such a profound life event.

Yet, this story I have told you is unlike others in the way it changed me personally. For some reason that day, I was open to accept the family member's request to accompany the body. It was my first time to accompany a family member and porters to the morgue. I was acutely aware I was doing this for the family member, but the experience was surreal.

When we arrived to the elevator doors and the porters began yelling, I pictured heaven's gates. Like the porters banging on the door and yelling, so there will also be people begging to be let in to heaven. The elevators doors opened and closed to ultimately someone who had power, heaven's gates will be sovereignly governed by the Most Holy Son, Jesus Christ.

This simple insight struck me. I began to realize our human fratility - even if there was no pain, and no suffering with death, the ultimate state our souls are held accountable. It reminded me of a passage in Luke 13: 22-30. Jesus said to them (vs. 24-25), "Make every effort to enter through the narrow door, because many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able to. Once the owner of the house gets up and closes the door, you will stand outside knocking and pleading, 'Sir, open the door for us'. But he will answer, 'I don't know you or where you come from'. Not all will be able to enter heaven. Only those who accept the grace of redemption from Jesus will have eternal life in heaven.

As I looked over to the body covered by bed sheets in the basement, I started to reflect. Did I really know the gravity of death as I cared for all these people? Did I truly also care for their souls while they were still living?

I still ponder these questions. I am continually challenged to let God use me to share the gospel to others in these situations.