On Death and Dying

Friday, the 13^th. As the silly character in The Office, Michael Scott, once said, “I’m not superstitious, but I am a little stitious.” Jennifer’s health had been rapidly declining for several months, and we had made a few runs to the hospital. The doctors told us it was a miracle that she was still alive after all she’d been through, so we knew her time was short. I wasn’t sure she would make it through the night the previous two nights, but she was always a fighter. Cheryl was up early with her Friday morning, and she had developed what some call a “death rattle” in her breathing, very common as the end approaches. An angel named Lori Beth, posing as a hospice nurse came out and was able to give Jennifer some medicine to help with her breathing and some pain medicine. Jennifer didn’t appear to be in pain, but we wanted to be sure.

I called Daddy and told him I didn’t think Jennifer would be with us much longer. So, Daddy and Barbara came over. We spent the day listening to country music, talking to her, and just loving on Jennifer. Cheryl convinced Daddy and Barbara they should take a break, and they went out to grab some fast food. Mark went up to his room. Cheryl went outside to phone her mother. It was just Jennifer and me, as it had been so many times before during these last years. Jennifer had been breathing rapidly but at a constant rate. Then she suddenly changed to irregular, deeper breaths, and I knew her time was short. I told her we were all OK, and she could go, but I think she knew that wasn’t quite right. Cheryl walked back in the door, and I quickly told her I thought it was time. Cheryl rushed in, agreed with me, and picked up where I left off. She told her to go to Jesus, and everything was OK. I don’t trust my sense of time, but it was maybe a minute, and she was gone.

When I say gone, I don’t mean she didn’t exist anymore. There was no sense of that. She was just somewhere else, and that place is beyond human comprehension. In my mind’s eye, I could see a walk-off home run. As the ball leaves the park, the game is not over. The runner has to round the bases and touch home plate. The rest of the team is gathered around the plate, already celebrating and waiting for the runner to touch the plate. Then the celebration peaks. When Jennifer touched that plate, my mother was there. Her Pawpaw was there. My grandmothers, Uncle Monroe, and a host of others were also there.

Once Jennifer was gone, I turned off the country music, and it was so incredibly quiet and peaceful. Cheryl went and got Mark, we had a group hug, and the grief came pouring out. Most people don’t know it, but Mark was as much a caregiver as we were. James, like his father, is a bit of a lone wolf. But, Jennifer and Mark have always had a special bond. She wanted to take care of him when he was young, and he returned the favor later. There were numerous times when he was the only one who could calm her down. For Cheryl and me, there was life before Jennifer. Not so for Mark. Say a prayer for him.

So, we grieve. I know the grief will always be there, but life goes on, and so will we. One day, I will take that trip around the bases. When I touch home plate, I know she will be there, ready to show me around the place, and I look forward to it.

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, “There, she is gone”.

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all.
She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me — not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

And that is dying…

– Henry Van Dyke