The Fisherman and His Wife

Jim's terminal lung cancer had been diagnosed about two months prior to being admitted to Hospice.  He was added to my case load upon his admission.  Unbeknownst to me, my outlook on life, love and nursing were going to change.

I first met Jim and his wife, Mary, on a hot, summer day in mid August.  Florida stays relatively warm year round, but August can be a scorcher.  The day before my appointment with Jim and Mary, I had received his file and phoned to schedule a time to meet this elderly couple.

It took me about thirty minutes to reach their home, a little "shotgun" wood-framed structure, located down a winding dirt path with the National Forest bordering one side.  The porch spanned the entire front of the house.  The whole structure was in need of a paint job.

Upon my arrival, Mary was on the worn porch swing sipping lemonade.  Her gray hair was knotted haphazardly in a makeshift bun.  Little beads of sweat dotted her upper lip and brow.  She stood as I approached the steps.

"Well, sweetie, I see you found us." she greeted me with a hug and sighed, "Despite the heat."

All I could get out was, "Yes, ma'am", before she had my hand in hers and was leading me through the front door.

"Jim is in bed.  He's awake and ready to meet you." Mary said and showed me the way to a room down the hallway.

Jim was lying in bed with pillows propping him up.  A colorful afghan was draped across him.  Jim was a tall man and, from the history, had lost a lot of weight.  Even though his face was gaunt, a smile was on his lips.

After introductions were made and I was reprimanded for calling him, Mr. Alexander ("It's Jim, just Jim." he had informed me), I proceeded with my assessment.  While performing this, I explained various Hospice services to them both.  Mary and Jim nodded or shook their heads accordingly and politely told me they did not require any extra services at the time.

As the visits progressed, I spent time listening to Jim's stories.  I learned what it meant to be a fisherman, how it felt to meet and fall for Mary, and what life was like living along the coast.  During his stories, Mary would sit, holding his hand and add her own version to the stories.  There were laughter and tears.  They both confessed their only regret was not having children.

Time wore on and the disease progressed.  Jim became weaker, just talking exhausted him.  I finally managed to get his pain under control with the use of Duragesic patches and Morphine, for the breakthrough pain.

Mary admitted, one day, she could no longer manage to provide the total care Jim now required.  A Hospice Aide was called in to help her.  Mary requested Music Therapy, as she put it, "To fill the quiet moments that Jim's voice no longer can fill". 

I inquired if she felt they needed the services of the Pastor or additional visits from the social worker.  She promptly responded, "Absolutely not.  We have our own pastor and I know how to talk with God".  I had to smile at her response.

My visits increased and after assessing Jim and spending time with him, I spent time with Mary.  I listened to her stories as we shelled peas, hung out laundry, or just sat drinking lemonade.  I learned about her childhood and being a fisherman's wife.  Mary told me of a life filled with hopes and dreams, strength and endurance, and of love and passion.

The warm days faded to cool ones and one night, my pager woke me from a sound sleep.  After calling the triage office, I found myself traveling once again down that dirt path to the fisherman's house.

Jim had passed away around midnight.  Mary had been lying beside him when he took his final breath.  She said he'd gone while sleeping.  After I did the assessment, post mortem care, and made the necessary phone calls, I held Mary's hand while we sat on the couch.

The mortuary attendants arrived and as they began to take Jim's body through the front door, Mary stopped them.  She crossed the room and bent towards Jim, laying her hand over his heart.  She kissed his cheek and then whispered in his ear.  She then straightened, signaled for the attendants to continue, and turned to me. 

Mary's pale blue eyes glistened and a sad smile formed on her lips.  I stood and went to her.  We hugged and in another whisper, she looked me in the eyes and said, "It is done."

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Among other things I learned, with Jim and Mary, to be able to just listen is sometimes enough.  I don't know what Mary whispered to Jim, her lifetime love.  I like to imagine it was endearing words and promises to see him again.  Only the two of them will know what was said.  Mary died a few months after Jim and I can just imagine those two, the Fisherman & His Wife, walking hand in hand along the shoreline.

(This story was published when I was previously on Gather.  Names have been changed.  In my process of writing my memoirs, I have rewritten and "tweeked" this.)