baptismal waters
by Elouise
baptismal waters
rise gently enfolding her
world-weary body
* * * * *
I’m standing in a windowless, high-ceiling concrete room
with a concrete floor, drainage holes and air vents.
A deep whirlpool tub stands in the middle
filled with warm steamy water.
The room faintly resembles a large sauna minus the wood.
Functional, not beautiful.
Mother is in hospice care after suffering a stroke weeks ago
and then developing pneumonia in the hospital.
Her ability to communicate with words is almost nonexistent.
Today she’s going to be given a bath.
I’m told she loves this, and that
Sister #4 and I are welcome to witness the event.
For the past hour caregivers have been preparing her–
removing her bedclothes, easing her onto huge soft towels,
rolling and shifting her inch by inch onto a padded bath trolley,
doing all they can to minimize pain and honor her body.
Finally, they slowly roll the trolley down the hall.
The hospice sauna room echoes with the sound of
feet, soft voices, and running water.
It takes a team to carry out this comforting
though strange and even unnerving ritual.
Mother is safely secured to the padded bath table and
then lowered slowly into the water.
Her eyes are wide open.
For a few moments she fixes her eyes on mine.
The table descends bit by bit.
How does she feel?
What is she thinking?
At first her eyes seem anxious.
Is she afraid?
The warm waters rise around her and the table stops descending.
Her face relaxes and she closes her eyes.
The team works gently, thoroughly, not in haste.
They focus on her, talk to her and handle her body with reverence.
My eyes brim with tears.
This woman who bathed me, my three sisters
and most of her grandbabies is being given a bath
by what appears to be a team of angels in celestial garments.
They finish their work and roll Mother back to her room.
Her bed has clean sheets.
Fresh bedclothes have been laid out.
Caregivers anoint her body with oil and lotion, turn her gently,
and comment on how clear and beautiful her skin is.
They finish clothing her, adjust the pillows to cradle her body,
pull up light covers and leave her to fall asleep.
* * *
Last Sunday I witnessed the immersion baptism of seven young people at my home church. I couldn’t help recalling this tender, even sacramental immersion just days before Mother’s death, and decided to share it with you.
Haiku written 3 June 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 3 June 2014
I thought this was beautiful
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Sue, Thanks so much for taking time to read it, and for your comment.
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It is beautiful. Beautiful that you could share this experience with your mom, beautiful in the way you described it where many would have just seen it as mundane, and beautiful in the relation to our spiritual baptism. What a wonderful memory. Thanks for sharing it.
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You’re so welcome. Life has so many interrelated layers–that in some way mirror or are connected to everything else. Thanks for leaving a comment.
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Elouise, thank you so much for sharing. My eyes are full of tears about to roll down my cheeks. Be glad for this moment that you shared with your dear Mother, for there are those of us who have never had this privilege because of the distance involved. Blessings on you.
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Thank you, Jane. It was indeed a wonderful moment–not to be taken for granted. Blessings to you, as well.
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Reblogged this on Telling the Truth and commented:
I’m just back from our church, where we witnessed the immersion baptism of eleven young people. I thought back to this post about my Mother, looked it up, and decided to reblog it today–three years after I first published it. It still makes me tear up when I read it. I hope you enjoy it as well. Elouise
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Makes me glad that the stroke I had was only minor, My instructions are quite clear in the event of another, more serious.
The surgeon who saved/extended my life said that I probably wont have another and will probably live to 150; seems like he cursed me 😀 …..
….and he, poor soul, died a few months back aged just 64. Such a loss
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I’m sitting here, gnashing my teeth! WordPress has been crashing several times a day this past week (at least). I was about to hit reply on a splendid response to your comment, and it just disappeared from my screen. So here I am. I will not resurrect my old thoughts. I will, however, say that I think 150 years is entirely too few for you! 🙂 I think you’re one of a small percentage of exceptional patients who face challenges with every intention of meeting them face-on, and living to be 100 years old! Seriously, I’m reading a book about this right now, and will likely do a little post on it–with reference to my own situation, especially my attitude toward it.
My Mom’s small brain hemorrhage came on top of extensive polio damage she lived with most of her life. Sadly, a number of her doctors didn’t take her or her reports of symptoms or even her health history (including polio) seriously. Even so, given her ‘small’ everyday challenges with eating and swallowing, her death was a small mercy. The hospice care she received was the balm she needed all her life–which makes me incredibly grateful I could be there to see her being treated with kindness, care and respect.
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That has happened to me too, What you need do is, in the message area,where you typed your comment, right click your mouse and and at the top you’ll see Undo & Redo, click the undo and the message that’s gone will reappear. Sometimes but rarely Redo fixes the problem.
I actually did have every intention of reaching the ton (100) and am still considering the possibility, at least the last few will be peaceful.
My earliest memory ever is when I developed polio, I was very young and I recall and see it quite clearly my mother walloping me on the legs when I kept falling over. She thought I was playing games with her, each time she stood me up I fell and she’d wallop me and I’d laugh. I can see it as clear as daylight even 80+ years on. I can still see the view from the isolation room at the Upney Hospital where I was all alone and I’d watch the trains pull in and out of the railway station.
I’d dread having a brain hæmorrhage. I’ve always been amazingly lucky making excellent recovery from what ever has inflicted me, damned if I know why, must be old ‘Nick looking after his own.
Your mother was indeed lucky to be in an hospice where great care was extended, one reads too often of these places ill treating their patients.
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Thanks for the tip about Undo & Redo!
I still think you might make 💯 (that’s a cute little emojified number)! I didn’t remember you had polio. Have you written about it?
I also still think you’re one of those exceptional persons who often beat the odds with ‘killer’ diseases. The kind of person I aspire to becoming, whether I make the big 💯 or not! 😊
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did yo get the pic in the post, or are you still in a state of shock 😕
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No, I didn’t. 😟 I’m assuming this the pic of you from way back when….😊 I’ll check my junk mail tomorrow, just in case.
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good place to look for me; an I imagine that the cyber censors would have taken one look and bunged it in the garbage 😥
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🙀
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I remember thinking how “unusually” beautiful this reflection was when I first read it 3 years ago, and how appropriate it was for yesterday! The children knew they could trust Steve and Terry to hold them well, and so, they relaxed as they went under, and then emerged from, the water. Reminds me of the call to rest in the Lord, whose grip is sure, and whose love is deep…thank you once again!
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You’re welcome again, Debbie. Trust is a precious gift that makes many things possible, even for big children such as you and I. Thanks for this comment. 😊
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This is such a beautiful piece Elouise. August is Grief Awareness Month in Australia, and people are invited to write their experiences of loss or grief by entering a competition, and those winning pieces are combined into an anthology. I entered a prose piece and a poem just this week, so it was timely to across your story. I wrote about my father dying at home. With so many people spending their final hours in the clinical environment of a medical hospital, it is refreshing to be able to reflect that we can say goodbye to our loved ones in a caring and ‘home-like’ manner, and draw comfort from that.
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Thanks for this wonderful comment about Grief Awareness Month and your father’s death at home. I find hospitals strangely like another planet. Not where I would like to die or even depend upon any more than absolutely necessary–even though I admire the dedication of most personnel. I hope your piece about your father gets published! And that I can read it someday!
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