Death is Not an Emergency

Dear Daughters,

It’s quiet in the house.

We buried Grandma on a snowy blustery day with 25 mph winds howling around us, trying to keep Grandpa warm with blankets and grandchildren shielding him.  When Dad, Grandpa and I pulled into the cemetery – late – the suburban carrying the casket had not yet arrived, icy roads slowing them down as well.

Grandma would have hated being out in that cold, she never walked outside if there was even the slightest breeze.  But now there was no need to have her slippers on, not even a blanket.   Her earth suit had been shed, just like a caterpillar slips out of its cocoon to become a butterfly.  Grandma was no longer laying in the coffin, not needing that worn out, nonfunctioning body, but celebrating and enjoying her new, perfect warm home.

The graveside service was short, ending with the singing of

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise Him all ye heavenly hosts

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.  Amen

Later that evening, my mind wandered back to the past few months when Grandma’s mind was fading so rapidly.  Toward the end, it was getting difficult, bizarre, unpredictable.

When the mind is being eaten away by disease, life doesn’t make sense.  Sunlight, moonlight, every light of the day is confusion.  Mealtimes make no sense because there is no hunger.  She frequently asked to go home, asked where her husband was when he was sitting right next to her.  Grandma often called for help, yet when I came there was nothing I could do to comfort her – holding her hand, talking to her, singing, praying – still she moaned.

There were many days I wanted to run away, far far away and not come back until it was all over.  I had seen the geese flying south and longed to be carried on their backs, flying to warmer, more pleasant places.  I’ve always wanted to run away when life becomes hurtful and hard, when I can’t fix or change anything, and this time it was intensified.   There was only one reason I was able to stay here taking care of Grandma, and that because of a single verse in the Bible:

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.

 I would repeat that verse in my mind over and over again, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.  I felt some small part of Mother Teresa’s pain:

There is such terrible darkness within me, as if everything was dead…I do not know how deeper will this trial go – how much pain and suffering it will bring to me.  This does not worry me anymore.   I leave this to Him as I leave everything else…Let Him do with me whatever He wants as He wants for as long as He wants if my darkness is light to some soul.

Then when I thought I could not take one step more, Hospice came.  Yes, I had Dad’s help and other friends who helped, but still the bulk of the responsibility lay on me.

When Staci, the intake nurse, walked in the door – snow swirling around her – I could sense the compassion and the ray of light she brought to our home.  She treated Grandma with such care and respect, giving her a swab of water when I was unable to get even a sip into her mouth.  Staci was calm, professional, taking notes and contacting all the necessary people.  Then she stopped to comment,

Death is not an emergency.

 With that one sentence spoken, my body relaxed, I was able to breathe, drink up all the teaching and encouragement she gave and carry on.

A little after Staci left, Jean the RN came, teaching me how to administer morphine and other meds to give Grandma comfort so she could relax and lay and sleep.  No one was dismayed with Grandma’s behavior, they simply accepted her as she was, willing to walk the last days with us.

Then another knock on the door and Chaplain John was there with his guitar.  He came into the bedroom where Grandma lay, took out song sheets and a guitar and started boisterously singing Christmas carols.  There were several people in the room with us, so we sang in the midst of weary tears, Grandpa leaning back against the wall, his eyes shut as he mouthed the words by memory.

We sang hymns of comfort –  In the Garden, Be Thou My Vision, His Eye is On the Sparrow…  John’s presence was not one of sorrow but of joy, assurance and peace.

Death is not an emergency.

 Carolyn came to give Grandma a bath, treating her with respect, tenderness and dignity.  She slept soundly that night. The next day Jean was back again, monitoring Grandma’s vital signs, answering my various questions and teaching me more about how to give comfort in the midst of dying.

That night you four daughters made a conference call, all of you living in different cities, and sang His Eye is on the Sparrow.  When one voice would falter, another would pick up the melody and continue on.  There were good-byes and I love you spoken all around.  Even though by that time Grandma was in a coma, she still responded ever so feebly to the singing.  I am sure she heard you and was blessed, as was I.

On the last day, there were people in the house coming to say good-bye, quietly, respectfully, helpfully.  We took turns singing, praying, holding her hand, whispering our farewells.

The last minutes before death are messy, holy and painful.  Yet when I was thinking later about those sacred moments I was reminded that the last few minutes before birth are the same – messy, holy, painful.  In a way, Grandma was being birthed into a new world, a better world.

Everything good in life is hard.

As Grandma took her last breath and her chest lay still for the first time in 84 years, I gave thanks amidst tears that she was now free of pain, free of a cloudy mind, and best of all – safe in the arms of Jesus – her Savior and her Lord.  Till we meet again…

Love, Mom