Early American writer Mark Twain borrowed
words from fellow writer Robert Richardson for his daughter’s headstone, words
that I also borrowed for my Grandmother’s eulogy: “Warm, summer sun, shine
kindly here. Warm, southern wind, blow softly here. Green sod above, lie light,
lie light. Good night, dear heart, good night.”
I have served as a hospice chaplain, a
minister in several churches, and as a hospital chaplain, and traveled for
those jobs across middle & north Georgia and in New Orleans and surrounding
parishes. There are those patient and congregant deaths that quickly come to
mind: the teenager who suffered for so many years with Cerebral Palsy only to
be diagnosed with a brain tumor during year 16. I met him as a young chaplain
resident at this hospital, cared for him at his home and at a hospice inpatient
unit, and then led his funeral at the end of his 17th year.
A woman who lived in a FEMA trailer with
her grandson in the middle of crawfish territory who was still feisty enough to
make a weekly trip to a nearby casino. Truth be told, she would’ve like to have
her death there than the old trailer that wasn’t good for anyone’s health.
A 50-something year old man who, having
been diagnosed with ALS just a few years prior, refused to be on his vent
anymore & decided to withdraw himself from all supportive care.
And more recently, a young child who died
in our ICU, without family. Be he didn’t die along; rather, in the arms of PICU
nurses and staff who, without a doubt, loved that boy through his last breath.
It was the death of my grandfather when I
was a middle-school student that has impacted me and parts of my life the most,
even to this day. I met him once. And I met him only once because after he and
my Grandmother divorced, he and his son—my father—rarely spoke again. As a
wife, mother, daughter, chaplain, a person of faith, and as a general human
being, I work from a bridge. I work hard for reconciliation, though I admit I
have caused the trouble to begin with a time or two. I believe, I have to
believe, in a God whose love is everlasting and strong enough to always be
working for reconciliation.
And I believe strongly that reconciliation
is a part of the peace that I hope is present for every death. I want love
nearby. I want clarity of mind for all. I want free, sacred space for feelings
to be shared.
I think a good death allows for stories to
be told, for there to be tears and laughter, for a good death gives some time
to remember a good life.
I also recognize that a good death for
patients and their families often means that they are difficult ones for staff.
When staff takes time to invest and hear and learn and see and meet…to become a
loved one, a part of the family, then they, we, become another griever. Our
hearts break too. And it is good to hear from colleagues and loved ones, “I
know that patient meant a lot to you. What do you need?”
Breath. We need a breath. They family
needs a breath. And a pause. Let sacred spirits have time to move—to calm, to
bring any aspect of that peace for which we search.
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