The journey through life sometimes takes you down a dark alley. Dark alleys are scary places to tread. They’re dark, they’re ominous and they’re almost always entered into with a sense of trepidation. Death is one such alley.
For those who have faith in Christ, the end result is glorious. We know where we’re going. But the journey there is uncertain and uncharted for each person. It’s a journey that can only in part be shared, but eventually must be taken alone. It’s a time of introspection for the dying but for those left behind, it’s a time of grief, forgiveness, a little anger and reckoning. And it’s a time of saying good-by.
How do you say good-by to someone you love? Especially when death seems so inconceivable? I must confess that I’m still trying to figure this one out. But I’m grateful that I have had this opportunity to ponder and work through it. Many haven’t. For some, the death of a loved one is sudden and catastrophic. For my dad, it’s been a six-year-long journey.
I have had six short years of knowing the end was coming. We’ve known all along that his cancer was terminal. I’ve walked by his side as he struggled with illness, pain, depression and hopefulness. While he’s always known the inevitable, it was impossible to face until he had no other choice. He fought for his life gallantly and without complaint. There was always hope that the cancer might go away, a cure would be found or a treatment would stop it. There was no cure, no treatment and it did not go away. So how do you say good-bye to someone you love as he struggles with everything he has left in him to hold on to his life?
As I look at this diminished man who was once so strong and protective of his family lying there in bed unable to eat or drink and incapable of even letting someone know he is hurting, I am saddened. As I whisper into his ear all of the wonderful memories I will forever cherish, the difficult times of our past seem so inconsequential. The events that once put such a wall between us now seem so petty and unimportant. The grudges are gone and the bitterness is wiped away. Perhaps that in and of itself is a loving good-bye. And as he moves closer in his journey to the end of his life here, I have given him permission to die, to let go and to step into eternity. We all have. He knows we’ll be okay. He knows we’ll miss him. He knows we’ll survive.
And now, as he lies there barely able to respond to caresses and tender endearments, he must set out on this part of his journey with no earthly companions. Even though we will be right there by his side and hold his hand up to the end, he still walks this part of the path alone. Our presence is now more for our closure and ourselves then it is for him. But it has been such a privilege to walk with him this far. Perhaps good-bye is more than mere words. Perhaps it’s forgiveness, acceptance, peace and unconditional love. Perhaps good-bye is letting go.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
My Dad's Journey
Life is an interesting journey. You are born, you walk through life, and then you journey to death. I have seen that in my father.
Dad was diagnosed with multiple myeloma cancer six years ago. Multiple myeloma is a cancer of the plasma cells in the bone marrow. It's very painful and it destroys the bones. He began this journey with pain and fear. Because of his battle with this disease, many of the things he loved were taken away from him. He had to give up his medical for flying and sell his airplane. Little by little, he had to give up driving. His love for wood working became too difficult and painful. An unfinished project still sits in his garage. He eventually had to give up going for walks because of the pain and fatigue. And sadly, he had to give up going flying with his two dearest friends to breakfast in Payson. They were known as The Three Muskateers.
The walk with cancer and heart disease took him to many doctors who all wanted to treat only their narrow specialty, and thus my dad was fragmented. In stead of looking at him as a whole person, he was seen as a heart, as cancer, as a bladder, as a broken back. One doctor wanted him on coumadin, one wanted him off it. One would give him a pain treatment regimin, another would change it, and still another would change it yet again. All the while, he had chronic pain.
I don't think I ever actually heard my dad complain. When I would ask him how he was doing, he would always answer, "Just great!" He would only be completely honest when I would press.
Now my dad sits in a hospice facility waiting to die. The cancer has spread to all of his bones and probably his brain. He barely eats enough to sustain life, he is restless and anxious. He is incoherent and unable to hold a conversation. Not that my dad was ever a man of many words. He is confused, but still staunchly hangs on. He is now on a journey that only he can make alone. Just he and his Savior. So my prayer for him is that in his slumber, God would reach out His hand to my dad, and he would take it.
Dad was diagnosed with multiple myeloma cancer six years ago. Multiple myeloma is a cancer of the plasma cells in the bone marrow. It's very painful and it destroys the bones. He began this journey with pain and fear. Because of his battle with this disease, many of the things he loved were taken away from him. He had to give up his medical for flying and sell his airplane. Little by little, he had to give up driving. His love for wood working became too difficult and painful. An unfinished project still sits in his garage. He eventually had to give up going for walks because of the pain and fatigue. And sadly, he had to give up going flying with his two dearest friends to breakfast in Payson. They were known as The Three Muskateers.
The walk with cancer and heart disease took him to many doctors who all wanted to treat only their narrow specialty, and thus my dad was fragmented. In stead of looking at him as a whole person, he was seen as a heart, as cancer, as a bladder, as a broken back. One doctor wanted him on coumadin, one wanted him off it. One would give him a pain treatment regimin, another would change it, and still another would change it yet again. All the while, he had chronic pain.
I don't think I ever actually heard my dad complain. When I would ask him how he was doing, he would always answer, "Just great!" He would only be completely honest when I would press.
Now my dad sits in a hospice facility waiting to die. The cancer has spread to all of his bones and probably his brain. He barely eats enough to sustain life, he is restless and anxious. He is incoherent and unable to hold a conversation. Not that my dad was ever a man of many words. He is confused, but still staunchly hangs on. He is now on a journey that only he can make alone. Just he and his Savior. So my prayer for him is that in his slumber, God would reach out His hand to my dad, and he would take it.
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