I process best through writing.  Working things out in print, through words helps me not only to process, but also to preserve thoughts and feelings from this life’s happenings.  What follows is one of those such processing/preserving moments.  The first days after my mother’s passing into glory, I became fearful of forgetting or losing the preciousness of the moment.  Some of the initial thoughts and working out of inner dialogue do expand beyond the minutes of my mother’s death.  However, they reflect many of the things I sought to process through in the final two weeks of my mother’s care.  I have tried to be as true as able to the actual events as they unfolded, for I wanted nothing but the undiluted reality of those moments to be preserved. 

 

God is good.

All the time.

I worship and adore him for gracing me with being able to experience these moments.

            I could feel it.  Simmering beneath the surface.  Anger? No, not exactly.  At least not the hot rage sort.  Frustration might be a better word for it.  It was not hard for me to understand, I mused, why some in similar circumstances to mine ended up in hot rage.  Nor was it hard to imagine or understand why that rage turned into a rejected faith.  For some, those whose journey of pain endured far longer and far more intensely than mine, it would be hard to reconcile the pain and hardship of it all.  How many times in the past 48 hours had I inquired, lamented the length and duration of this suffering?  How many times had I pleaded for God to make this breath her last?  And how many times had she persisted?  For that matter, how many times in the past two years had I struggled with watching her fade slowly and yet being powerless to ease the suffering of the fade?

            Her gasping intake of air, followed by her long exhale, pulled me back from my revere.  The past 48 hours of this cadence stuck to my ears like pine sap to a tree trunk.  It was this cadence that provoked this undercurrent of….of….oh heck with it, who am I kidding…anger.  Just dull embers of if now, but to call it anything less would be dishonesty. 

            “Why, Abba?  Why do you let her continue to struggle?  Has she not fought enough since the start of this dementia?  Has she not contended long enough against it?”

            Her words, spoken only months ago…yet feeling like an eternity…continue to burn in my heart and mind.

            “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”  The pain and sorrow, the fear and frustration palpable in her voice. 

            My tears had flowed freely then and they threaten now to spill over every time that I think of them.

            So close now.  So close to ending this suffering.  For two days, the nurses have been anticipating her departure.  And for two days, her body has clung to life with nothing but this constant rhythm. 

            With each intake of breath, her chest and body heave.  Then the long exhale.  There does not seem to be pain.  Yet, her frail body appears to be working very hard for each life sustaining breath.

            “Why?” I breath again.  In silent prayer now, “Why, Abba, won’t you just take her home?  Why do you make her struggle persist?  You have the power and ability to end it, to take your saint home. And yet, you leave her body to labor so.  Why?”

            Even as I pray the silent words, my heart turns to trust.  “You are good, Abba.  I know!  I trust you and I trust your plan for her.  Give us strength. Give us grace.”

            I run out of words.  I lay my head on her leg, taking her limp and frail hand in mine. I close my eyes and silent tears fall from them, wetting her comforter.  I find the diamond, still on her ring finger, as it spins freely now.  So thin is she that it no longer fits snugly.  I doze here for a while.  The rhythm of her breathing, a weird sort of comfort.

            I jerk up when sudden silence descends.  My heart quickens and I wonder….even as she takes another deep breath, her chest sinking deeply in, and her breathing resuming.  I did not know whether to long for the silence or the now familiar cadence.

            I look into her face and fresh tears come.

            I miss you momma. 

            As hard as the past two years have been, with her failing memory, the constant reminders and repeated statements, the agitated outbursts, I miss the moments of being with my momma.  I miss the way she would light up with recognition when we came into the room. I miss the comfort and security she had when we were around.  I remember thinking it was exhausting at the time because no one else could fill that role for her.  It carried high demands upon me, my wife, my kids, my ministry. And yet, there was a sweetness, a preciousness that I had come to cherish and value.  Until now, I am not sure I realized how much so.

            With all its difficulties and hardships, these past years and months, these past weeks since my father’s passing, have been filled with precious moments.  Every hardship, every strain, every stress has been part of and necessary to the full expression of this preciousness.  It has all led here.

            I think of my wife then.  Oh my wife…what a priceless gem!  The sacrifices she has made.  Six kids still at home. Life that continues on. I may well have been holed up here for these past two weeks;  life may well have slowed to a snails crawl for me, but life has not stopped.  This gem from God has born such a burden to ensure that my place at my mother’s side has remained unhindered.  Even now, she is absent, home, dealing with children whose tempers and moods remain unaffected by the life and death issues present in this room where I sit.

            And I feel guilty.  I know how much she has taken on.  I should be home.  It is my turn to deal with issues.  But she insists.  Moments are precious.  Time is short.  The end has been expected for two days now.  I am loathe to be separated from her.  But I feel guilty for I know my wife desires to be here too. I know she is growing weary from caring for the family alone. 

I cannot even explain why it means so much for me to be here, in the end. Perhaps because I wasn’t for my dad? His time came, unexpectedly, when all seemed to be making slow progress towards healing. Perhaps because my bond with my mother has always been stronger than with my father? Perhaps because after only three months, the grief over my father’s passing is still raw? Perhaps because of the deep struggle over the past three months with my mother’s dementia and decisions we have had to make in her care leaving me with remorse, guilt, and doubt? Perhaps all of it. I don’t know. But here I am. A gift and presence made possible by the wife of 19 years that God has given to me. Precious. That is the only word I can think of for this woman.

            “Abba, please take her.” I plead.  My heart wrenches at the request.  I am asking for my mother to die.  I am asking for her end to come.  But I ask, in comfort, of knowing her future.  Rest.  Peace.  The person and presence of God.  What awaits her is infinitely better than what she is enduring now; than what she has been enduring. 

            I ache for my mother back.  The whole and healthy one.  I struggle to even remember those times.  So long has her mind been affected by dementia; so long have the years separated us by long distances; so long has busyness kept me from reaching out via phone…that I struggle remember a time before dementia. 

            Fresh tears erupt then.  I can’t bear to look upon her anymore.  I close my eyes and lay my head on her lap again.  An ache deep inside. Regret, sorrow, and loss fill me.  I squeeze her hand and cry. Even as tears demand passage out, I clench my eyelids denying them permission like a great dam.

            Sitting up, I reach for the roll of paper towels.  These have been my tissues the past two weeks.  Not an ideal choice, for sure.  Yet, I continually fail to remember to acquire a more gentle and soothing source.  Even as I blow my nose and wipe my face, it occurs to me that it may be a suitable choice.  The roughness of the towel upon my face certainly matches the aura of this death watch.  If nothing else, it reminds me that hard is hard, but hard is not always bad.  Hard accomplishes good.  Or rather, God accomplishes good through hard things. 

            Great.  Now I will never look at paper towels or blowing my nose the same way again.

            Paper towel may not be the ideal object with which to blow ones nose and wipe ones face, but it gets the job done.  Trial and suffering, hard circumstances may well not be the ideal for life, but God gets the job done through them.  Watching my mother slowly fade, the suffering lingering may well be a hard thing, but I trust God to bring good in and through it, because He is good.

 

            I sit with her then.  Moments stretch into what feels like forever.  In truth, only a few minutes pass.  This is the hardest part.  The waiting.  The stillness of impending death.  And the steady cadence of breathing that, while seemingly pain free, seems to bear so much labor and work.  The simmering anger remains.  Anger driven by a deep desire to see my mother free.

            So my vigil continues.  I will abide.  I will sit. I will remain as long as it takes.  I will honor my mother. I will not leave her alone.

            As I watch, a noticeable change overtakes her.  The steady intake and exhale of her breathing becomes silent.  Her chest continues to rise and fall, still breathing.  However, the breathing is now silent, gentle.  Her lips moving gently as the air is drawn in and released.  Her visage changes.  Where moments ago, everything seemed labored, she now appears at rest, peaceful.

            My heart quickens.  Is this it?  There have been so many false alarms in the past 48 hours, I don’t want to jump too quickly to conclusions.  I press my fingers to her neck, looking for a pulse.  It feels weaker than it had been, weaker than it should be.   Or is it? I cannot tell. 

            Keeping my fingers there, I watch her breathing.  After several moments, several breaths, it does not return to the labored cadence it had once possessed.

            Now I feel sure, the heartbeat is slowing. 

            Anxiousness seizes me.  My wife is not back yet.  I quickly text her.

“Her breathing is definitely coming slower. Less labored.”

OK. Should I come back now?

Her heart rate is slowing too.

I would, yes.

            I pray she gets back in time.

            “Oh God, is this it?” I wail.  Tears begin to pour forth. I grip and squeeze her hand tightly as if the grip itself would stave on death and bring her back to me in wholeness. 

            Quickly dialing my sister-in-law, who had left moments before to get breakfast, I place the phone on speaker.  When she answers, I hurriedly ask, “How far out are you. I think we are there.”

            “About eight minutes. I will get back as fast as I can.”

            We end the call.

            I keep one hand resting on hers.  I don’t want to lose physical contact with her.  Every touch, every moment is precious!  With my other, I keep my fingers pressed to her neck, tracking her pulse. 

            I sit by helplessly as her breathing slows. 

            Checking doorbell camera to ascertain my wife’s departure time, I panic, She is not going to get here in time.  Still 6-7 minutes away.

            “Abba, please let her get here in time!” I cry.  I pray.  I plead. 

            I weep.  Tears streaming down.  Relief that her suffering is finally coming to an end, grief that my mother too, so soon after my father, is being taken from me.  Laying my forehead on her leg, I let the tears flow.  The comforter pressed against my face becomes soaked with tears and mucus.  I keep clinging to the little life she has left but moment by moment, I feel it slipping away.

            Unable to bear the dangling mucus dripping from my nose and being blinded by the tears wetting my face, I sit up and reach for a paper towel.  Wiping my face and blowing my nose, I discard it. 

            Turning back, I see her breathing halt.  Pressing my fingers back against her neck, I feel no pulse.  Pressing my hand against her abdomen now, I look for a pulse. So weak had her body been, her pulse had often been more clear here. 

            It is gone.

            She is gone.

            Placing my hand on her chest, I confirm that there is no intake of breath.  No exhale.

            She is gone.

            She is at rest.

            I weep hard then.  Body convulsing as grief exploded out of me.  I grip her hand even as my body tenses and tightens with the depth of grief flowing from me.  I make no effort to stop the flow of grief and sorrow.

            “Abba,” I stammer, “Thank you for taking her!”

            Gasping for breath, tears still flowing, and grief contorting my body, I stammer my prayer of worship and trust…

            “Thank you for giving her rest, for ending her suffering, for bringing your servant home.”

            Even as I weep and pray, I hear and feel one final breath.  Taken by surprise, I listen for more, but none follow. 

            Laying my head on her lap, no break in the flow of tears, I whisper, “Thank you for allowing me to be here.  Thank you for my wife making it possible.”  Even as a fresh wave of tears flows that she is not with me and fresh grief for her flowing from me.

            I breath all of this between gasps of tears and convulsions.

            I hear but don’t acknowledge when my sister-in-law arrives back at the house.  I feel her hands on my back.

            “Oh, Mike…” I hear her breathe.

            Moments later, the door opens again and hear my wife.

            “Is she gone?”

            I do not acknowledge.  I do not know what passes between the two ladies.  Moments later, I feel my wife take my sister-in-law’s place.  I feel her arms wrap around me.  I feel the convulsions of her own sobs and tears.  Reaching one hand back, I grip her and hold her tightly.  I know she is grieving too.  I also know she is torn up by the fact that she was not there when she passed.

            I hold her. She holds me, and we weep together. 

            Together, as one, we comfort one another even as we celebrate the promotion of one of God’s own whose long, hard battle is finally over.

            Together, as one, embracing each other, we become the recipients of one of the hardest gifts of grace from the loving hand of our Abba, Father.

            We will forever be grateful and thankful.

            And we set our hopes to the future when we will be reunited in worship of the God whose depth of grace knows no bounds.

            Until then.

Later, the silence would be deafening to us. The absence of her breathing as stark as the cadence had been. It would be one of our initial observations that stuck with us.

I will forever be grateful that I was able to be present for this moment. 

I will forever be grateful for the sacrifices that my wife and children made to make it possible. 

I will forever be grateful for the support of my church family and their understanding during this stage of life.

As hard as it was to watch this progression, to literally be on a death watch, I would not trade the precious moments for anything. 

It is clear to me that even in the hardness of these moments, God’s grace was present.  Not only was it present, but it was a gift of grace for me to be there, for us to be there.  I wish words could express….but they cannot.

Being present for these final moments was one of the hardest, most precious gift of grace I have ever received.

God, you are Good.  You are AWESOME.  I will forever worship and adore you!