Category Archives: Saying Goodbye

The Long Goodbye (By Louisa)

Posted on by

Papa’s body has slowly been shutting down over the past 24 hours. We’re all here, each spending time sitting with him, holding his hands, kissing his cheeks and telling him how much we love him and appreciate all he’s done for us. By the tears that keep coming I think it’s obvious that each of our hearts are breaking over temporarily losing our Papa.

I’m writing to you this morning in place of my mom because she’s sitting at my dad’s side. For the past 24 hours she’s held her position there letting him know right where she is by talking to him, reciting verses, singing hymns, showering him with kisses and holding his hand. The nurse who’s been here all night said that in her 19 years of working in hospice care, she’s never seen a patient in the end stages of pancreatic cancer hold on this long, or seem as peaceful as he does. We’ve all been praying for a peaceful passing, knowing that where he’s about to go will blow this entire world out of the water. I think God’s answering those prayers.

My mom plans on giving a detailed update later tonight. As of now, Papa’s still holding on with a faint heartbeat and shallow breaths and she’s still by his side.

With Love,

Louisa

The Hardest Part

Posted on by

Life has changed dramatically in the last 24 hours. Nate’s pain has increased at phenomenal speed, and we’ve had trouble keeping ahead of it with the drugs Hospice has given us. Yesterday, from around 3:00 pm until 3:30 in the morning, he was extremely agitated, attempting to get out of the hospital bed with energy so forceful we needed the adult boys to “convince” him he could no longer stand on his weakened legs.

As we talked repeatedly on the phone with the Hospice nurses, we decreased the intervals between medicine doses until we were administering one thing or another every hour. During our struggle to determine how best to overwhelm his sky-rocketing abdominal pain, the nurse decided to make a visit.

Her summary statement was, “He’s shutting down, one organ at a time, and is very close to the end. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Men hang on longer than women and wait to slip away until their wives are not in the room.”

I told her I wanted to be sitting next to him holding his hand if I could, when he died. “If that’s important to you, then do that, but be sure your words give him permission to leave you.”

She assisted and directed us in changing the Depends and washing him, pointing out the bluish toenails and fingernails, as well as pooled blood at his knees, back and palms. She also changed his white t-shirt. Just as we were wondering how she’d get the old one off without upsetting him, she said, “We have a trick for that,” and pulled out a giant scissors. Even after the soiled shirt came off in four pieces, she continued to use her scissors to cut the clean shirt up the back, leaving the neck band in tact to hold the whole thing together.

“Voila,” she said. “As good as any hospital gown.”

Mary offered to stay the night, and we sent everyone else to bed with a promise to wake them up “if anything happened.” Dozing here and there between 3:30 and 7:00 am in chairs pulled up to his bed, we each kept an ear open toward his gravelly breathing.

As the light of dawn came through the window, his throat and mouth were filled with an ugly grey phlegm causing him to choke and panic. We called Hospice again, and the nurse returned, showing us how to place drops under his tongue to decrease bodily fluids including the ones in his throat. She remained calm throughout the process over a 90 minute period, even as Nate struggled, until gradually his body responded to the drug, allowing him to breathe easier.

As I write now, at midnight, oxygen is helping him, and medicine every three hours is holding back his pain. He’s sleeping peacefully, pink-cheeked from a 105 degree fever as his body tries to cool itself down.  We are thankful for his brief visits yesterday with each of our kids and several others while he was still alert and talking. They were able to give love and receive it, to share hugs and kisses and express gratitude. I’ll never forget how he worked to stretch out his thin arms to receive each child, winking here and there at things they said, using this creative way to stay in the conversation without words. Today those scenes could not have taken place.

This afternoon as Nate slept, the younger girls and I had a great conversation about what we’ll be feeling when we stand next to Nate’s non-breathing, cooling body. As the tears poured forth, we talked about his point of view. “We’ll all be crying,” I said, “but he will be happier than ever before. Let’s do our best to think about all that good stuff.” They nodded and cried.

As I hold Nate’s hand and watch him sleep, I search for a way to put this heavenly phenomenon into earthly understanding, so have pictured God putting the finishing touches on his dwelling place. Right about now he’s unfurling the rugs and putting fresh flowers on the tables. Nate’s prepared home (mentioned in John 14) is almost ready.

God knows what he’s doing within Nate’s body and in the lives of the others under our roof. He is perfecting his plans minute by minute, and we are trying to follow his lead rather than usurp it. I am keenly aware that our Lord has a specific moment in mind, planned from before Nate was born, when he will pluck him from this world and escort him into the next. No matter what we do or don’t do, that moment will not change.M and N in hospital bed

As we go into another watchful night of waiting and wondering when and how Nate will separate from his earthly existence, we hover between exhaustion and anticipation. As Nelson said tonight, however it works out, it will all be good.

“As for me, my life has already been poured out as an offering to God. The time of my death is near.” (2 Timothy 4:6)

Being nervous

Posted on by

What would it feel like to have a doctor say, “There’s nothing more we can do for you. Go home and get your affairs in order.”

Nate wasn’t told those exact words, but getting things in order is what he’s been doing during this last month since he learned he had terminal cancer. Most of us have categories in our lives that we set aside for later, things like redoing an address list or cleaning out old files. We procrastinate at balancing our checkbooks and washing out our refrigerators. If I were to die tomorrow, I’d be mortified to have other people rummaging through my dresser drawers and seeing the disarray there. My things aren’t in order.

Nate has been trying to square off with each procrastinated category in his life. It has been overwhelming, yet he’s done valiantly. One of the most difficult parts about setting his affairs in order has been discovering he couldn’t accomplish it alone. He’s had to humble himself enough to accept the help he’s been offered by those who love him, no easy task. We’d all rather be the helpers than the helped.

As he has acquiesced to the efforts of others, I’ve seen a fresh calm come into his life. Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Maybe the rest Jesus meant was the relief that sets in when we let others help us.

Whatever the case, Nate has worked to set his affairs in order and to touch base with those who are important to him. Time is slipping away, and he is well aware of it. Today we drove two hours back to our old church so he could meet with Pastor Colin Smith. Linnea accompanied us, and although no one verbalized it, we all knew it would be Nate’s last visit there. His fatigue is escalating rapidly, and I’d prayed he would be alert and focused during the meeting, able to settle any lingering spiritual questions.

Linnea and I sat on a bench outside the room as they met, praying for clarity and the Holy Spirit’s power to move within both Nate and Pastor Colin. On the drive home, we tried to get him talking about what had gone on during the meeting, but Nate was exhausted and non-communicative. Later, however, during our bedtime conversation, some of his thoughts bubbled to the surface.

“Life has a precarious nature to it, but we don’t realize it on a daily basis. I’m realizing it now, because of the crisis I’m in.”

We talked a little more, and then I asked, “Are you afraid of anything?”

He thought for a minute, fingers-to-fingers as always, and said, “I’m not afraid, really. But I’m nervous.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Well, not about what’s going to happen after I die but before that.”

“You mean the cancer? You’re wondering what the cancer is going to do to you?”

“Yes.”

We talked about the Hospice ladies and their assurance he won’t have to suffer any great pain. He nodded in approval, but didn’t seem convinced. Then he said something that gave a clue to his meeting with Pastor Colin.

“I guess eventually God takes everything away except faith. That’s the one thing that can’t be taken away.”

We looked up the verses about God shaking everything that can be shaken to show us the things that can’t be shaken. (Hebrews 12:26-28) I sensed a type of little-boy nervousness in Nate, completely understandable under the circumstances, and thought it would be good to quote that wonderful promise in Romans 8:28 for unshakable reassurance. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”

“That’s you,” I said. “This whole mess is going to work out for good… for you. You’re going to beat me to heaven, and heaven is about as good as it gets. You’re going to be freed of your constant back pain and every bit of this awful cancer while I struggle along probably into my 90’s, becoming a burden to everyone and wondering why I couldn’t get to heaven as fast as you did.”

He smiled and said, “Do you think you could squeeze into this little bed next to me?” (the hospital bed)

It was tantamount to a comedy routine, but it was worth the effort. He was asleep in a few quick moments. Moving my hand across his chest, I could feel the small tumors now erupting randomly on his skin like dime-sized boils. I’m nervous, just like Nate is, and my thought paralleled his: what is this cancer going to do to him before the end?

“I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, nor powers, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.” (….and not cancer, either) (Romans 8:38)