The reality of death (again)
I mentioned earlier something about having a rough week. It began as soon as we got home from the Christmas in Pendleton Festival last Saturday evening. After walking in the door, I checked our caller ID, as is my habit when returning home. A number came up that I hadn’t seen in a while. So, I checked the voice mail.
A longtime leader in our church was diagnosed with cancer more than three years ago. Last Saturday, they took him off all of his meds and they were only giving him whatever medication was necessary to make him comfortable. He was dying. My heart froze.
This man had become a friend of mine in the short time I’ve been here. We shared a love of college sports – especially UT basketball. Every time we saw each other during basketball season, the conversation would somehow lead towards how the Vols were doing. He was one of the first people I really got to know where and he certainly made a lasting impression on me.
I turned to Christy and said, “I have to go.” I tried making a couple of phone calls but only got busy signals. I gave her a quick update and rushed to the assisted living facility as quickly as possible. Christy drove up shortly after I did and was able to say goodbye to this dear man while I sat with the kids in one of the (many) lounge areas of the facility. Then they went back home.
He died just a few hours later. His sister and I were in the room when he began drawing his last breaths. We quickly gathered the family and he passed away. It may sound strange, but I was honored to have been in the room that evening and to have shared the moment when my friend slipped away from his broken body and found himself in the presence of the Almighty. Honored might not be the right word. Maybe it’s more like humbled. Certainly moved.
Many of his grandkids were there that night. They had the opportunity to say their goodbyes while he was still conscious. I realized as I stood there, watching the family grieve over the suddenly very personal reality of death that I never had that opportunity with my grandparents. My mom’s dad died long before I was around. Grandpa Craig died two days before Christy and I moved to Evansville from central Kentucky. Grandpa was gone before his body hit the floor. Grandmama died while Kevin and I were hiking down Tooth Ridge in New Mexico. I never really had a chance to say goodbye to any of my grandparents the way these grandkids did.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not bitter or sad or anything like that. I cherish the memories I have of my grandparents. I don’t remember them in hospital beds or in any pain. Watching a loved one die is a profoundly moving experience, but it’s not entirely pleasant. Of course, there’s always a part of me that wishes I’d been able to say one final “goodbye,” but we’re never guaranteed to have that opportunity, are we? Rather than beat myself up over things I can’t change and didn’t have any control over to begin with, I’ll gladly cherish the memories I have of my grandparents. I’ve been thinking about them a lot this week. I miss them.
As I was about to leave the facility that night, his wife hugged me and asked me to conduct the funeral. I hesitated and told her I’d be honored. I paused because these aren’t the services I look forward to performing. It’s the weddings and baptisms that are the ones you look forward to. But these are just as important. And I truly see it as an honor to be part of them. Unfortunately, I’ve had just a little bit too much practice in performing funerals this year.
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I’m not sure of the right word, either, but I think honored is a good word. What word would you use about being present for the birth of a baby? It’s kind of a similar thing in a way, I think.