Barbara Ross: Teacher, artist, and author shares experience with hospice

Following the death of her husband John in December 2002, teacher and artist Barbara Ross began writing about their experience with hospice, ultimately publishing a 9-part series, “A Gentle Death: Five Months with Hospice,” with the Hospice Foundation of America. In the series, she captures the essence of hospice care and the various roles the hospice team can play in the lives of the dying and their loved ones.

Now on hospice herself, Barbara shared her writing with her Mission Hospice team and graciously provided this excerpt for our community:

John, Margo, and Truffle

My charming New England husband, John, died of lung cancer at age 77 after five months of gentle care by a devoted team of hospice workers. Margo, a warm sympathetic volunteer, comes to our house weekly for thirteen months after his death to help sort through John’s belongings or just to sip ginger tea and talk. Together we go through closets and drawers, tossing shirts in grocery bags to go to The American Friends Service, placing patched clothes into boxes to put on the street, stuffing stained items into trash bags. John’s oldest shirts are nearly filigree; he liked them when they were worn sheer. When he returned from a sailing cruise you could see where the sunburn ended at the double fabric in the shoulder area.

We go through his desk and files. There is a set of keys with a note attached in John’s unique scrawl – “Grandpa’s tool chest?”. There are little metal boxes with rubber bands, screws and Yugoslavian coins, and an appalling number of hole punchers. There are rocks from the Antarctic and bones from Newfoundland. Some correspondence dates back to the 1930s. John was a recycling fanatic. When we occasionally toss a piece of paper in general trash we raise our eyes skyward – “Sorry, John.” I sort, and giggle, and mourn.

It is October, a year since John’s death. and the health of my beloved cat Pawla is rapidly failing. I am frantic trying to find food she will eat. Margo is with me and gently suggests it might be time to put Pawla to sleep. For days I am weepy, but finally make the call to Dr. Brannon. Margo drives to the vet, trying to soothe her inconsolate passengers. Pawla’s body looks so flat lying on the metal table during the injection. I sob when her body goes limp in my arms. For sixteen years I have loved this animal. Dr. Brannon has tears in her eyes when she gives me a little piece of fur to take home. The ashes will follow.

Two and a half months later after checking out various declawed domestic shorthaired cats on the Internet and just missing out on a tuxedo described as a “feline counterpart to Cary Grant,” I decide to stop the search temporarily until after the family Christmas visit. But an obsessive part of me can’t resist checking into petfinder.com. Suddenly an adorable face appears on the screen — a four year old tabby at the Brockton M.S.P.C.A. I show it to Margo – “Let’s drive down there and look at her.” So I grab the old cardboard cat carrier, put out the litter box, and we hop into Margo’s car and head south.

At the pound they put us in a cubicle and bring in a handsome shy beast who immediately hides behind the computer, looking out with frightened chartreuse eyes. As we sit there, she ventures out to sniff us. She’s a beauty with a stunning black Rorschach pattern on her back; white paws, chest and tail tip. The attendant takes her off for a distemper shot and tells us that “Jewel” purred throughout the procedure. That does it. Next thing I know we’re on our way home with a full, meowing box in the back seat. We settle this new mound of sweetness, renamed “Truffle,” into a small downstairs room. I am sitting on the floor stroking the velvet ears of my furry new companion when Margo slips out the front door.