He was admitted to the hospice on a spring day.
He came in on a stretcher grumbling and cursing at every jiggle the stretcher made on its journey to his final home.
Once the transfer team had him in the bed, I went into meet him with his chart and the reams of paperwork necessary in order to admit him.
After confirming his name and his birth date and asking about allergies, the question about his next-of-kin came up.
In a wheezy voice he muttered that there was no one. He had three daughters he hadn’t spoken to in years so I could leave those “ungrateful bitches” out of his affairs.
He hadn’t seen them in years since their mother’s death. He informed me that he was a ward of the province and the Public Trustee would be in charge of his estate.
I thanked him for the information and welcomed him, showing him his call bell and giving him the names of the care staff on duty.
He had end stage lung cancer that had metastasized to his brain. He wasn’t expected to last more than a week with us.
When I arrived at work for my next shift, the pastoral care worker was in his room, sitting by his bed, holding his hand.
She motioned me in with her hand and whispered to me that he had become bewildered and combative, striking out at the care aids. He had sworn at them, swinging his fists and bony arms, catching one by the hair, and screaming that she would do as she was told or pay dearly.
After he settled, pastoral care came and sat with him, holding his hand with the lights low for hours.
Listening to him tell her his story, his successes, his failures and his pain.
Doing the job she was born to do, holding hands and praying for the souls of the almost-dead.
As his breathing grew more laboured, and the end grew near for him, she alone sat with him and prayed over him.
Asked God forgive him his mortal sins and accept him into his loving arms when his time came to cross over.
After he passed, she came to my desk with two cups of tea and told me to call the funeral home to pick him up.
She took a chair and told me of the things they discussed.
How he married his wife when she was fourteen.
How he went away to war when she was seventeen with two children and one more on the way.
How he came back angry and how that anger manifested into rage at the smallest slight or perceived insult.
How his wife was stupid and asked for it.
How his daughters were stupid like their mother and asked for it too.
How his wife refused to submit to him after being beaten, so he turned that lust upon his eldest daughter at ten years of age.
How he threatened everyone with death or starvation if they didn’t do as he said.
How his younger daughters hid from him in the barn and how he would beat their mother so they would return to the house and take “their damn turn”.
How he was the hardest working man in the whole county and how he was an elder in the little county church he attended his whole life.
How his daughters escaped one by one except for the youngest who never left. The one he assumed couldn’t survive without him, but likely stayed to take her mother’s “turns” once her mother was diagnosed with dementia.
How he was godly man who served his country and didn’t deserve such ungrateful daughters as he had.
And the chaplain held his hand, and prayed for his soul and told him Jesus died for our sins and his sins would surely be forgiven as all our sins are forgiven.
How he cried like a child when told he would be forgiven.
She left my desk and I turned on the little stained glass lamp we used to alert the staff and families that someone had recently passed.
I wrote his name on the little card and placed it in the lovely pewter holder in the base of the lamp so that the glow of the lamp shone on his name.
Then I called the funeral home to see how much longer it would be until they got that rotten son of a bitch’s carcass out of my beautiful hospice.