A new beginning. (Voices from the Field).

Editor's Note: Attached to this story was an explanatory note from Kenn Brown, president and CEO, Margaret Tietz Center for Nursing Care. Excerpts follow: "The mission of our 200-bed, not-for-profit facility is to serve a Holocaust population. I write to share with you the sentiments of a young lady, Shannon Dey Brown, who happens to be my daughter and is involved in our Traditional Chinese Medicine program. [She writes of] her sentiments with regard to the death and dying process as it relates to her, a 23-year-old individual who has been thrust into the world of long-term care...."

Death surrounded me as I stood in the doorway of Room 514. When I entered Celia Keller's room I was not prepared for what my eyes were about to see. It had only been three days since we had last spoken, and on this dreary morning, Celia lay completely still, dying.

I felt the tears well up in my eyes and a lump in my throat so large it came close to choking me. My body shivered and I lost it in the arms of her daughter, Amy. Guilt slowly set in; I felt as though I had not done my job and should have spent more time with Celia. I was engulfed with grief and sorrow as I looked into the eyes of Amy, who looked so helpless and distraught.

As the day progressed, Celia's condition deteriorated. I knew in my heart that the end would come soon and take the last breath from Celia. "Time is so precious," I can remember thinking.

Sitting beside Celia's bed, I felt like a child. The chair seemed so big. I felt small in comparison to that chair and to everything that adorned the walls.... I will never forget that chair. But finally something came over me, and as I sat while Celia peacefully died, a new door opened for me. My senses began to heighten, and I could smell things differently and see things differently. It was as if a spirit had entered my soul and given me a new outlook on life. Although the room was filled with sorrow, a breeze that had blown through the slightly open window carried a warming and comforting smell. The room somehow woke up.

I held Celia's hand until the end was almost near. Her skin was as soft as a child's, except for some clamminess and coolness. I whispered words of serenity and love in a soothing tone to ease her mind for the long journey she would soon endure. And I watched her face. Her face mesmerized me. I wanted to imprint the image of her face in my mind. From hour to hour the color changed and became paler. The area around her eyes became a dark pink color. I felt like maybe I had been violating Celia by staring directly at her for so long, but I had never watched a person die before.

Celia had not passed on when I had to leave for home. Taking one last look and giving her a kiss on the forehead, I left with a sense of peace. Celia was going to start a new life, and that filled me with excitement.

I was a new woman after this emotional and spiritual experience. For the past 9-1/2 months, I had been struggling with death. My heart and soul would so quickly become attached to that of another human. I was unable to separate the relationship between a resident and myself. I found comfort in becoming emotionally involved with residents. But when a resident would pass on all I could feel was hurt and guilt.

Celia allowed me to break free of those emotional bonds. She let me hold her hand and stroke her hair. Celia allowed me to soak up her face and remember some of her last breaths.

I now know that it is okay to be close to a resident, but I can now separate my emotions and not become so attached. I view death in a new light. Everyone will eventually die, and I can accept that now. Peace and joy have finally cleared a path that had been filled with stress and sorrow for those residents who would die (on me). I owe all this to an exceptionally special woman, Celia Keller.