Why Am I Still Alive?

There is no perfect answer...

“Why am I still alive?”

Madge repeated those five words, again and again.

Back then, as a twenty-something clergy and newly appointed associate pastor, visiting Madge and nearly everything else I did was a new experience. I fumbled through communion. I over-prepared for sermons. I felt like the youth group kids knew more than I did, and definitely outnumbered me.

The senior pastor was a kind man and excellent mentor. He took me on visits, introducing me to the congregation. I entered homes, apartments, emergency rooms, hospitals, job sites, lunched at restaurants with church members, and went to convalescent facilities.

The last was the worst. Well, maybe I should say toughest. No, both. The foul smells clashing with the stark odor of disinfectants, the rattle of wheelchairs and gurneys, the bored looks of underpaid, overworked staff, and the endless hallways paved with shiny linoleum.

And there was Madge. Not her real name.

But she’s a real memory. I was merely a witness, for it was the senior pastor who took the lead. He held Madge’s hand, talked to her about her family, asked how she was doing (she never replied), read snippets of scripture, and then bowed in prayer near the visit’s conclusion.

Madge did only two things during the minutes (which seemed hours) in her room. She was silent or she muttered that question.

“Why am I still alive?”

Elderly and feeble, most of Madge’s friends had died. Her family rarely visited. She likely had dementia. Once, the senior pastor told me, Madge was a quiet, dedicated church member. In the past, she could be counted on for bringing dishes to potlucks and eagerly joining Bible studies.

Now, there only seemed that question.

“Why does she ask that?” I asked.

I don’t recall his specific answer, because maybe all answers felt inadequate. If her question was meaningless repetition, influenced by isolation or illness, it was also wrenching for any in hearing range. The senior pastor visited her several times a month. She always asked that question. I occasionally visited, and also heard the question I could not answer.

Because it represented one of my initial frustrating visits in a convalescent facility, I recall Madge. But I also remember because others have echoed her question.

It is certainly a question whispered or shouted in hospice care.

Some who’ve asked did have dementia. Indeed, Madge’s question fulfills one of the current requirements for a late stage (and hospice appropriate) Alzheimer’s diagnosis: the “ability to speak is limited to approximately 6 intelligible words or fewer in an average day…”

Madge used five words.

I have overheard some answers to why someone is “still alive:”

• It’s God’s will and/or God acts in mysterious ways.

• There’s a predetermined date for death, and it’s not her time to die yet.

• He or she has unfinished business.

• Though the mind is “weak,” the body remains strong.

What answer would you give? What answers have you heard?

I have sometimes wondered: does a person remain alive—even when they want to die or it seems there’s no apparent reason to continue living—because it’s important for the people in their life to care for them? Sometimes I feel okay about that response; sometimes not.

Why am I still alive? is thus answered by saying: Will the family or friends caring for the patient have an opportunity to serve, to grow, to sacrifice, to give back, to be reminded about their own mortality, to reaffirm what’s important in life?

It makes sense, right? I’ve seen examples of overwhelmed adult children being forced to support aging, dying parents. Eventually they realized it was transformational. Their initial thorny experiences led to them stopping and smelling the proverbial roses as they cared for a dying parent.

But I remember Madge. No one in her family stepped forward and had Ah-ha! moments by helping her. And I’ve heard, in the church members and hospice patients I’ve visited, many asking this question and there simply was no good answer.

How I wish I had the perfect answer for this question.

I did visit Madge again. The senior pastor continued—until she died—to regularly pray for her at her bedside. And since then, though with many failures, I have tried to support people when they were hurting, when they asked questions that couldn’t be answered.

Truthfully, I don’t have much of an answer for most of the best and worst questions. But I continue to believe if someone like Madge keeps repeating the questions, I can keep repeating my action of returning to her room, or making a phone call, or sending a text, or grasping a hand. I can repeat the heartfelt, heart-aching gesture of letting another know I am with them.

If I can’t do that, then: why am I still alive?

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My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey, is available at Amazon.

Photo by Emily Morter on Unsplash