the last days

Soon you will read in the newspaper that I am dead. Don't believe it for a moment. I will be more alive than ever before....Earth recedes....Heaven opens before me!   DL Moody, on his deathbed

My Dad went to the doctor on October 21 to get the results of his CAT Scan. I knew he wasn't doing well, but I just figured it was the chemo, or that they could switch to a new chemo if this one was no longer effective. When my Mom told me the oncologist had given him 4-6 weeks, I was floored. Was I in denial? Perhaps. In the very beginning, I remember reading that the average pancreatic cancer patient lives 6-8 months from diagnosis. But they weren't my Dad! This would be different, I thought. And then I put statistics out of my mind, because who needs statistics when you have an All Powerful God? (For the record, my Dad lived 5 months from his initial diagnosis.) Certainly not me. But then I heard four to six weeks, and I thought that's not enough time! That's not even to Christmas! But the doctor was wrong; my Dad lived two weeks and two days past that doctor's appointment.

Who told us we'd be rescued? What has changed and why should we be saved from our nightmares? We're asking why this happens to us who have died to live? It's unfair.

He faded fast. We found this out on Monday; John and I went to visit him that Friday, and he was already confused, tired, quickly fading. And I thought that was how he would die, just like that. But I was wrong. It got worse. Cancer is a monster that robs the body of its life quickly. I had no idea how devastating it would be. He could still talk to us that weekend, when he wasn't sleeping. We left on Sunday and returned on Wednesday. By Wednesday, he was sleeping most of the time, and we had to wake him to try and talk to him. But talking to him wasn't a good thing, because he was easily agitated and restless. He kept trying to get out of bed, but he was too weak to stand, so we were constantly on guard. He was increasingly restless; we increased his medication. He slipped into a coma on Sunday.

This hand is bitterness. We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow. The wise hand opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

By Monday, we knew it would be soon. We constantly poured over the book from hospice on the signs of death. He had all the signs that said death was 1-2 days away, or hours. He was pale; his body was robbed of nutrition and muscle. It appeared not much different than a skeleton, every bone protruding from the skin, his face sunken in. On Wednesday, his hands and feet were starting to turn purple. His breaths became very shallow, like he was struggling for a breath, but the hospice nurse told us that he was not struggling. We knew it was coming, but I didn't even like to be in the room because it was so painful to see my Dad...this man lying in the bed who hardly resembled my Dad anymore. My Dad's heartrate increased, because his heart was trying so hard to compensate, trying to bring oxygen, working overtime. His hands became cold. My Mom and I were sitting in the family room. John came out and told us he was gone. I ran into the bedroom, and saw my Dad take his last two shallow breaths, and then no more. No pulse. I sobbed. I cried out to God, in pain and in joy. My Mom hugged me, and she prayed. It was the most heartbreaking moment of my life, and yet the most joyful, all merged into one. How is this possible? Jonathan held a picture of my Dad that was taken one year ago; you would not have guessed that it was the same person lying there on that bed. The funeral home came and took him away. I knew that he was no longer there, that his spirit was already home, but yet this body, that's who I have known for 32 years. I followed him out to the porch, crying while he was wheeled into the hearse and taken away.

This is what it means to be held. How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive. This is what it is to be loved. And to know the promise was when everything fell, we'd be held.

This post is perhaps more for me than anyone else. I told myself I didn't really want to remember these last moments, but then a part of me doesn't want to forget. I thought all I would be able to remember of my Dad is the frail image of him as he died, but I find that image is replaced by a thousand other images, when he was healthy, laughing, joking, singing. But part of me still needs to remember the image of him dying, because that is what brings me to the Cross, draws me closer and closer to my Savior, holding me through my pain, knowing I can't do it on my own, trading my sorrow for joy, drawing me to Him. And that's where I want to be.

Comments

[Christina]

I can barely write through my tears... such a poignant monologue, so honest and raw. It is so real, reading through your eyes. Thank you, and may God bless your family with his continual love through this time.

[Dale and Cindy Hamm]

I am still weeping with you. I do have faith that he is well now...spending time with the Father. Oh...the walks and talks they must be sharing! Randy is still taking about his wonderful kids and his precious Marsha, not to mention his wonderful son-and daughter-in-law.
You are still in my thoughts and prayers. I consider it a blessing to have met you. I will never forget you.
Cindy

[Desta]

I too can barely write this through my tears. Such a beautifully written account of your memory of the last days, weeks and even months with your amazing dad. The lyrics from the song you have written in between your journal is a song I also almost sent to you, as every time I heard it I immediately thought of you and your family. May God continue to bless you and speak to you during this time.

[Liz Snyder]

"1For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling, 3if indeed by putting it on we may not be found naked. 4For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. 5He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.

6So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, 7for we walk by faith, not by sight. 8Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. 9So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. 10For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good or evil." -2 Corinthians 5:1-10

[Renee]

Again, my tears are falling for you and your Mom and your family and your dad's friends. It's easy to write about the easy things and so difficult to write when it hurts. I know you will be so thankful that you did write about your daddy's death. It is so evident in your words how very, very much you love him.