Musings: This Woman's Work

The room is dark, save for the glimmer of light creeping in from an adjoining closet or bathroom with the door ajar. The air is still and heavy with anticipation, and even moreso, expectation.

In the middle of the space there is a bed and perched atop is the woman of the hour...of the moment, truly. Curious, hesitant, but loving eyes fall upon her, begging forgiveness for being so helpless in her time of need. All present know, though, that this is her work, she must be the one to do the job.

This room is not new to me. I have been there before, on more than one occasion, and will be there again. I have been the woman on the bed. But I have also possessed the heart and eyes, the soul of the onlooker, the person who felt like there was something more to be done, but in that moment knew that it was not my work to do.

It was my sister who first brought to my attention how life and death are strangely similar experiences. When my first child was born, Amy was at my side, along with Chris, my mother and my mother in law. She witnessed firsthand the energy that is exuded as a child is welcomed into this world. Amy was also the first person very close to me who was present when a loved one passed away. When our dear friend, Miss Nelle, was in her last hours of life, Amy joined Miss Nelle's family and held vigil as the night wore on. She died beautifully and peacefully surrounded by loved ones.

The next morning, as Amy recounted the experience, she likened it to the feeling she experienced when my son was born. In those dark rooms, where each woman rested upon her bed, there were moments of sheer joy, fear of the unknown, tears spilling forth...and a sense of energy that reminds one that there is something bigger and greater in this world and beyond.

I was in the room when Amy's first child was born and I know those feelings of fear, joy, and wonder at how great and large life can be. I also knew that I had to stand on the sidelines and let her do her job. With much hard work and determination, she gave birth to my beautiful nephew.

Likewise, I was in the room when my mom passed away, nearly five years ago. Her room was dark and quiet, save for her labored breathing. Loved ones tiptoed in and out, whispering encouraging words and gently stroking her hands. As sad as I was, I did feel fear, joy and wonder at how great and large life can be. And, in that moment, I felt the surge of something bigger. I also knew she had work to do. Letting go of life is a heady job, not for the fearful or timid. In that moment, my mother was the most courageous person I have ever known. With an unbelievable grace, as she took her labored, last breaths on this earth, she did her work and pushed forth a new life, if you will.

Both experiences were beautiful, moving and so much larger than anything I could try to articulate here on a gray, melancholy Sunday afternoon.

And in those dark rooms, those moments of life and death, I learned that my best course of action is to stand by their side, stroke their hands or their heads and let the women I love do their work.