I'm guessing she always was the wallflower type. I don't remember ever answering her call light but, then again, her roommate, a high-maintenance Alzheimer's wandering type, needed near-constant supervision, so we were generally in the area. Not even her roomie's eccentric ways bothered her; rather, she enjoyed listening to her prattle on. It made her think, she said, and Bonnie was pleasantly confused. Most residents find it irritating; Jane found it a facet of life and observed it accordingly. Her clothes reflected her life; no real frills, the same stuff my grandmother wore to take care of the men on the farm.

She loved animals, not something I would've known from her meager belongings. I know because she told me, but never went into too much detail.  Sometimes, it's wise not to press.  Ever have memories that are too sacred to share?  I chalked it up to that.  If she wanted to tell me more, she'd say more. Every smile I gave, she returned; every smile she gave, I returned. You do that with nice people with no pretensions. She was nice--no simpler or better word for it.

The first time I heard her moan in pain, it shocked me; it just was not a noise she made! At the rate of decline, I'd be inclined to say cancer, but, at her advanced age, no additional medical treatment other than comfort measures were taken. We did keep her comfortable; sometimes, the ones who don't ask get the most care. Pain overtook Jane, hospice came in, they started morphine, and she started drifting away toward the line we will all someday cross.

I never met the family, as I usually worked nights. They came when they could. At forty-five minutes away, it wasn't necessarily a long drive, but definitely high-traffic driving with near-constant road construction in the middle of winter. They called quite a bit, though, one family member usually at the beginning of the shift and another one almost at the end. That way, we could tell Jane that her family wasn't physically there, but they were thinking about her. She smiled gently, and we moved her as carefully as we could. Her skin broke down very, very rapidly. She withered before our eyes.

If you ever heard medical folks talk about "Cheyne-Stokin'" it means they've started a pattern of respiration that usually indicates the end is near. Her nose and ears turned waxy (another indicator), and she barely blinked. She reached into the air, picking at unseen things, and stopped whimpering when we provided care.

I passed this information on to her niece at 2:00 a.m. when she called for an update, and I explained that we could probably expect Jane leaving us by shift's end. The niece couldn't sleep, she said, but inclement weather and road conditions hampered her ability to be present. She talked about her fondly, telling me how she spent many summers with her auntie, getting to know her animals. Jane had quite a variety, she said, but we never got to what particular kinds beyond the goats, because the niece's dogs began to bark ferociously, and then howled.

They howled and bayed, a mournful, pitiful sound. Their timbre spooked me, and I sputtered, "Excuse me," and dropped the phone.

I grabbed an aide as I ran down to check on Jane, but I already knew. I touched her still-warm hands, checked for a pulse, accepted a blood pressure cuff from my aide, and checked the time. She slipped away while the dogs barked.

I came back up the hall and picked up the phone to hear the niece sniffle.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry..."

"She's gone, isn't she?" she asked, her voice breaking. "I told you--she loved animals, and the boys knew."

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked. "Did you check the house for burglars or anything? I think you'd better."

"There's nothing out there but the sleet and ice," she answered. "The boys--I have four of them, you know--weren't barking at windows or doors, noways. They were barking...at the ceiling."

I shivered.

"I'm pretty sure she just left," I said. "Just left" is my favorite euphemism for reporting death to families. "This is...something. Too much, you know?"

"You knew it too, though. I could hear it in your voice. As soon as the dogs started barking, you threw the phone down."

"I'm sorry if it hurt your ears. It just made all my nerves fire."

"Mine too." She took a long breath and let it out. "I'll call all my family for you."

I pulled Jane's chart, and flipped to her face sheet. "Everything's in order. I'll be calling to make her arrangements, then."

"Amazing," the niece said. "I've witnessed something incredible with someone I've never seen. Do you think anyone will believe us?"

"Doesn't matter. We know."

"Yeah." She chuckled. "They're all calm, all four of them, just laying in a pile in the middle of the room." She blew out air, one quick puff. "Never in my life."

I talked to it with my nurse's assistant as we performed our final cares for our patient. She believed me, and knew something was up when I grabbed her hand to tug her along with my cold fingers. She'd seen things just as strange in her long career. Couldn't surprise her, she said.