Is dying tragedy or triumph? It all depends on if you are on the side of the Goodbye or the side of the Hello.
She surprises me, this strong Swede who leads with softness and welcome.
After her stroke 10 days ago, I expected Mom to sleep until heaven called her name. Instead I glance over and find her eyes seeking mine. The instinctive biting of the mouth swab suddenly turns to her following my request to open or close her mouth on command. Her silence becomes a faint “Hi,” and when my husband asks her to say his name, she somehow commands her lips and tongue to form a soft, slow, “Jimbo.”
Little mini-miracles. Nothing that will change her broken body, or delay the transformation and healing that will happen when her body lets go of her spirit. But sweet moments of eyes locked on eyes as we talk, sing, or smile. Hints of what is going through her mind when her eyebrows raise while we sing to her, just as they always did when she sang to us. And yes, also the blank stares beyond us at the ceiling of the guest room where she lies.
No one in real life focusses that deeply, riveting their eyes on you without wavering. It’s flattering and disconcerting. What are you seeing? What do you know that you can’t say? How can we love you best?
We use our words, our presence, our smiles, our care for her precious form. We sing hymns, read scriptures. I have never before had reason to notice how many hymns end with a glimpse of heaven in the 4th verse, or how many Psalms reference sheltering under God’s wings, or confidence in heaven.
Her hands shake their way to her face, feeling, I suppose, to find out why her chin has lost it’s feeling, or to see if her tongue has gone missing.
Her children have gathered around her, sharing gifts of love, service, presence. The laughter and tears flow freely, binding us together in shared experience, each of us wearing our personal quirks and remembering what we share and how we are different.
And we wait.
“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” [1]
It sounds a little shocking when you are standing at her bedside, watching her form fade and the simplest tasks become a struggle.
“Precious, Lord? This agonizing, slow struggle delights you?” And I stop to wonder what death must look like from His higher perspective.
Birth is painful, too. But we gladly endure it with anticipation, knowing that at the end of pain is the miraculous, incomprehensible arrival of a precious, brand new life. An astounding, beautiful beginning of something that once simply was not.
I wonder if that’s the kind of anticipation Christ feels as he waits to welcome Mom home.
On our side it’s an ending; on His it’s a beginning. We pry our fingers off; He throws his arms around. Sorrow lasts for a night, joy comes in the morning.
I know before me is the weirdly incomprehensible absence of someone who, in my lifetime, has always been a constant, steady presence.
Is dying tragedy or triumph? It all depends on if you are on the side of the Goodbye or the side of the Hello.
So we grieve. We choke up and the hymn gets ugly. We laugh. We stroke her brow and adjust her bony form. We give soft kisses, hoping her dementia makes her forget we’ve just done this a thousand times. We time her breaths and check her brow for furrows. We chatter beside her and watch her relax to the sound of our voices. We check the calendar, wonder, try both to plan and not plan. We look into her eyes and tell her her own story.
We find, amazingly, that we are able to relax and be content in this moment. We work, we rest. We wait.
Her rhythmic breath, steady as her character, becomes our lullaby.
Kathy, thank you for so beautifully writing about your dear mom and a close up perspective on watching a loved one die. Our dear friend is dying of a brain tumor and his sweet wife is caring for him as he slowly leaves this world. I sent her your blog-- I know it will encourage her to read of another Christian going through what she is.
My love to you and your family. Nancy