The last time I was in that funeral home I was there to pay respects to my grandmother. Much like the sweet girl, covered in too much make-up, my grandmother did not get the reception she deserved. Life toys with me by bringing me to the exact same room, the same vibe.
I've begun working with developmentally disabled people, and the girl in the coffin is one of my first charges. I was hired to take care of her, but life had different plans. Not a week into my employment she began to decline. It wasn't unexpected, she had been assigned a hospice nurse on and off for months.
Due to HIPPA laws there will be no photographs or direct name usage to talk about this sweet girl, who I think of as that despite her being 20 years older than me.
I think we should call her sweetheart, or perhaps spitfire. It depended on the day for her. The last time I saw her she was naked and fighting me, unwilling to take the shower that I was supposed to give her. We didn't know then that she would be dead a week later, but something in my heart felt extra heavy as I tried to coax her into the water.
Developmentally disabled people are the most beautiful pains in the ass. They are the only ones aside from children who give you a hard time, not out of malice, but because they have needs that they cannot express to you. Sweetheart was in pain that day, but she couldn't tell us.
Instead, she whined in a high pitch tone "I caaaaaan't", and I sat her down to wash her up the best I could like that. I'll never forget how strong her hands were as she griped me, a small thumb print bruise on my arm now remains as a testament to her strength.
The day before she gave me a wonderful gift. They say that people often have a last burst of energy before they die, and that was true for our little spitfire. Her family came to visit and she was happy. She clapped her hands and reached for my coworker to help her stand. "Do you want to dance?" My college asked. Excited, Sweetheart lifted her arms, and they spun in slow circles giggling.
I'm new to this profession, but I already know that moments like that will carry me through all of the difficult ones that come with caring for those with special needs.
I work in a waiver home with four beds, the women who occupy the other three understand sweetheart's death, but only in their own way. One of them wants me next to her for everything, she oscillates between crying and seeking acknowledgement. She tells me she is scared, and I tell her everything will be okay. It's weak but it works to help her through the service.
The girl who was the closest to her doesn't cry, but you can see the pain in her eyes. She spends the night recounting stories about sweetheart. She always does this, but ends them with "She will be okay". The absence of those last words guts me, this was her best friend.
Last but never least, my third girl is just as goofy and mischievous as ever. She has a pure joy in her that never seems to take a break, even now that is no different. She still grieves though, showing a beautiful empathy that I wish we all could carry.
Before we left for the service she paused in Sweetheart's room, looking over at her clothes. She's made her own version of sign language that I'm quickly learning, and communicates to me about the clothes in the closet. This one loves her clothes, It was as if she was asking me why her friend's items did not go with her to heaven.
I'm not sure I believe in heaven, but on this day I want to. I want to believe that there is a magical place where suffering ends, where our sweet girl is now dancing with no pain, her eyesight restored to see loved ones and pure wonder. My other women believe in these things, so we talk about heaven, and as I do I hope it is right for this sweet one's sake.
