Dying Well

As you may know my 97-year-old father died back in September. He was preceded in death by his soulmate of 74 years 14 months earlier   Both of them were lovingly cared for by my wonderful sister and brother-in-law their last 15 years of life in their home in Huntsville, AL.

In my devotional reading this morning I came across this statement by Henri Nouwen and it made me blink back the tears.

One of the greatest gifts we can offer our family and friends is helping them to die well. Sometimes they are ready to go to God but we have a hard time letting them go. But there is a moment in which we need to give those we love the permission to return to God, from whom they came. We have to sit quietly with them and say, “Do not be afraid… I love you, God loves you… it’s time for you to go in peace.… I won’t cling to you any longer… I set you free to go home.… Go gently, go with my love.” Saying this from the heart is a true gift. It is the greatest gift love can give.

 I feel our family provided this last gift to mom and dad.

In the case of my mother, my wonderful wife, Karen, aided Joy in being attentive to Mom’s final hours on earth.  Karen lovingly stroked Mom’s hand and spoke of the many ways she had blessed her and our family. She told mom that she was a little jealous that she would be able to see Jacob before Karen got to.  Karen, through her tears, told mom to be sure to give Jacob a hug and kiss from her.  And mom smiled a smile indicating that she would.

When Karen’s mother was in her final hours, the hospice nurse gave her and her siblings some invaluable advice.  She told them to each tell their mom that their lives were in a good place; that their mom had prepared them well for life; and that they will be sad, but they’ll be OK and that it was OK for her to leave them.  Karen said that her passing was a sweet moment in time because of that advice.

The final night of dad’s life on earth, my brother, David, and I had a sweet time getting dad ready for bed.  We joked about getting him dressed and how we had put his pajama bottoms on backwards.  It was a typical Edfeldt boys’ moment. Little did we know that when we kissed him and told him good night that that would be our farewell (yet each of us had a sense that it could be).  I hold precious that my final words to him was, “Good night, dad. I love you.”

But I know that those opportunities are rare.  Often times death comes suddenly and unexpectedly.  Many don’t have the opportunities to be able to share intimate moments that I shared above.

When Jacob was in his final days (though we did not know it at the time), he began apologizing to me. I told him there was no need to apologize. I began to list things that he had done in our family’s life that are priceless memories.

(Here’s a blog entry on that experience: https://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2015/02/daddy-im-sorry-dated-61412.html)

Looking back, I feel Jacob recognized it was a beginning step of closure.  I hesitantly tried to give a blessing of release.

But many more are the times that the news of a loved one’s death comes to us via a phone call or a knock on the door.  The time of loving release is ripped from us.  We feel cheated.

That is when times of discussion about words of memories and release with an understanding listener are so valuable.

That is when a quiet hour at the graveside, sharing those feelings of loss, those feelings of being cheated of future memories, but, ultimately, those feelings of release can be shared.

It is so important to say to your loved one, “I will be OK. I will miss you terribly, but I will be OK.”.  If you’re lucky, you can say it in their presence, but say those words to their memory. 

Say those words!

A Second Transplant Remembrance

In the fall of 2007, Jacob was away at college, thoroughly enjoying his time at Shorter College, when he called me one day and said he wasn’t feeling well.  In the company of some of his friends, they brought him to Egleston Hospital to get checked out.  It was discovered then that his body was trying to reject the transplanted heart he received three years earlier.

We were told that the average ‘life’ expectancy of a transplanted heart was 10 years, so this caught us quite by surprise. Jacob had escaped death’s clutches several times already and we were hoping, for him and for us, for a few years of ‘normalcy’.

The doctors put Jacob into the cardiac wing and began the anti-rejection treatments.  I’ve been told this treatment is akin to chemotherapy treatments in that the medicines they inject seeks and destroys whatever it is (don’t you like my medical vocabulary?) that is causing the cancer.  In Jacob’s case, it is the anti-bodies that were attacking a foreign body, unfortunately it being his transplanted heart. In both cases, the treatment lowers your body’s resistance to death’s edge.

During one of the initial anti-rejection treatments he experienced a seizure.  Throughout the remainder of the day, a stream of doctors with varying specialties came in to check him out.  They discovered that he had endured a small stroke and that there was a possibility that he would not be eligible for a transplant if it was determined that there was some brain damage. Our jaws dropped as far as our hearts.

For several days he was tested and observed …. And we worried and fretted.

One evening (I usually served the evening shift in being with him) Jacob became uncharacteristically agitated.  Nothing could be said to calm him.  He would allow no one to touch him and he was saying nonsensical things. The doctor on call grew very concerned that it was a precursor to another, more damaging stroke.

Over the next half hour, I threw myself over him like a weighted security blanket. I hugged him and comforted him.  I talked to him soothingly and talked to God requesting intervention and comfort. I continually sang songs of God’s peace and comfort over him.  Words like:

I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you,

O my soul, rejoice.

Take joy, my King, in what you hear,

may it be a sweet, sweet sound in Your ear.

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My peace, I give unto you; it’s a peace that the world cannot give,

It’s a peace that the world does not understand

Peace to know, peace to live,

My peace I give unto you.

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Great is thy faithfulness, O God, my Father

There is no shadow of turning with thee,

Thou changest not, thy compassions they fail not

As thou hast been, Thou forever will be.

Great is thy faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness,

Morning by morning, new mercies I see,

All I have needed thy hand hath provided

Great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.

I sang these over and over as a prayer for Jacob and for me.  In those scary, uncertain moments those years of church attendance; those years of singing in choirs; those years of listening to these great hymns and choruses of faith - they flowed through me, first to comfort Jacob but, ultimately, to comfort me. In those moments, that ICU hospital bay became a cathedral that sheltered two scared children. One child was incoherent; the other, inconsolable.

Eventually, Jacob settled down and slept through the night.  I was left alone to ponder….

…why was this happening?

…what if Jacob can’t have a new heart?

…is God really listening?

…why can’t I fix this?

…what’s around the next bend?

I didn’t find any answers, but I did feel a presence, and that had to suffice.

Thankfully, Jacob was soon well enough to be put back on the transplant list and on this day twelve years ago, his life was extended once again to live, to love, and to laugh.

That day began our season of Thanksgiving.  Now our Thanksgiving is somewhat tinged with grief.

The Cup with a Hidden Leak

Yesterday, I celebrated my 65th birthday.

No big parties or trips were involved.  In fact, I spent the day working on the road, away from Karen and home.  I have officially reached the age when you begin saying, “I celebrate every day that I can open my eyes in the morning!”   It is increasingly sobering to see and hear of friends and celebrities that are near my age or younger that have finished their course of life. So, I cherish each day.

On my special day yesterday, I was ‘blessed’ by the many businesses that wanted to participate in my birthday with offers of discounted buys or a free dessert or appetizer. Isn’t that so thoughtful?

And I appreciated the ‘concern’ that many insurance agencies had in seeing that my aging body would be well cared for in the twilight of my years.

Throughout the day, I enjoyed seeing the “Happy Birthday” greetings on the various forms of social media that came from new friends and old friends and those Facebook friends I have never met. 

I have enjoyed receiving the cards that were mailed (yes, some people still do that!) expressing their good wishes on my special day, though some ‘good wishes’ were rather snarky.  But that’s alright, I’m a rather snarky kind of guy.

Karen snuck a birthday card in my suitcase, expressing a happy birthday and how we will continue to grow old together.  Ben and Katie calling at different times during the day, saying “Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.” It filled my soul with love and joy and pride.

Those of you who are grandparents will understand this the best, but the highlight of my day was when my grandkids appeared on my phone via a recorded message or Facetime!  Nothing can match the fullness of love I felt in hearing Abby say “Happy birthday, Pops. I love you” and to see Caleb flash a big smile and blow me sloppy kisses from his highchair decorated with his supper. That was quickly followed up by Tucker, Libby, and Zane singing “happy birthday” to me and for them to tell me of their day.

My cup of love was truly overflowing (as well as my eyes).

But, even in these special times of expressed love, I sensed a diminishing in my spirit. There was in the rich mixture of love a darker tinge of grief that appeared.

I live for the love of my wife, kids, grandkids, family, and friends.  Love is the very essence of life.  Yet in that essence I am often reminded of a vacuum.  Special days like birthdays and holidays seem to make that vacuum more noticeable.  My cup of love is filled to overflowing by those present in my life. Yet there always begins an abatement of love that seeks to fill the vacuum caused by the loss of Jacob.  It doesn't matter that his death was 10 years ago, the tears of love become mixed with a few tears of grief.

It’s inevitable. It’s unavoidable. It’s life. It’s death. It’s love.