Go Peaceful Into That Good Night

Thank you JACE - House Targaryen for the pretty red ribbon!


Go Peaceful Into That Good Night

Have you ever witnessed the fear in someone's eyes the moment they realize they are dying?

I have.

Have you ever heard a wife's mournful wail after she's been told her husband passed away?

I have.

Have you ever cried with a stranger, knowing that at that moment they need to feel your arms around them more than anything else in the world?

I have.

But I've also seen elderly men die peacefully, their hospital beds surrounded by 20 family members, each one with a hand on the dying and whispering words of love--the walls of his hospital room wallpapered with hundreds of memories and moments captured on film.

The sight took my breath away.

It occured to me as I stood there looking at the photos that not one of the people in them would be here if not for that little elderly man in the bed: smiling little children sitting on the shoulders of their proud fathers; beautiful teenagers, their peaches-and-cream skin glowing as they pose for the camera on some obscure beach; three brothers in their 30s with their arms around each other, their wives and children sitting or kneeling on the grass below them as they all try to squeeze into the shot. 30, 40, maybe 50 people altogether--each one a descendant of this one man.

The thought is overwhelming.

How different the world would be if this one little man hadn't ever been. Look how much life, love and joy he's brought into the world.

And they say one person can't make a difference.

As this man lay dying, one of his daughters wanted a few moments alone with her father, so the rest of the family went outside for some much-needed fresh air. It was the beginning of my shift--just 7:30--when she walked past me and back into her father's room with tears in her eyes. I knew in my gut that I needed to go in there ... just be there for her if she needed me ... ask if there was anything I could do, but I also knew that doing so would be extremely hard on me, I was likely to get very emotional--and I still had five other patients to see and 11½ hours to go in my shift. I debated. Finally, after about five minutes, I walked into the room and asked her how she was doing. 

"Oh, he's OK I guess, or as OK as can be expected."

"Yes," I said, "but how are you doing?"

She instantly started to cry. Grasping onto the side rails of the bed, she hung her head and wept. I approached her, gently rubbed her back and asked her, "Do you need a hug?"

She wrapped her arms around me. I just held her for as long as she needed me to, and we cried together.

It brings tears to my eyes still.

Another thing I've noticed is that, no matter how much someone thinks they're prepared for a loved one's death--whether it's due to a long bout with cancer or other chronic illness--no one is ever really prepared. The reaction by the family is always the same--gut-wrenching sorrow and mournful wailing.

I found out yesterday that my mother-in-law only has two weeks to live. Her battle with cancer started about 15 years ago, but through all the years and all the chemo and all the surgeries and all the radiation treatments she's always been tough as nails. She's a fighter.

On Monday we were told that the cancer was back, had spread to her pelvis, and had all but eaten through her femur. She was in excruciating pain, and in an effort to relieve some of it she was begging the doctors to put a rod in her leg to prevent it from literally snapping in half. The doctors resisted, saying they didn't believe she'd survive the surgery, but she begged them anyway. They finally agreed.

My husband and children drove up to Montana Tuesday night. The surgery was Wednesday, and they drove home Thursday.

We received a call from my father-in-law Friday (yesterday) saying that she still wasn't awake. Doctor's were concerned about her deteriorating status, so they decided to do some more tests to see if the cancer had spread even further than they originally thought.

The tests revealed that she's full of cancer--even her brain. "She has cancer in so many places they finally just stopped looking. It's everywhere," he said. "Doctors  don't expect her to make it more than two weeks. She's awake now, but she doesn't recognize anyone and is refusing care."

She's had enough.

I'm going to miss her and I'm so terribly sorry for my husband and children, but it's time. How much suffering does one person have to endure? That poor woman has been through so much over the past 15 years that death will be a blessing (I truly believe she was hoping to die in surgery) and we all know she's going to a better place--a place where she won't feel any pain--a place where those old arthritic legs of hers will dance with joy.

Over the years we've had our differences--we are both very strong-willed, hard-headed, opinionated women, but I've also grown to love her and accept her for who she is. I'm also very grateful to her--if it weren't for her I wouldn't have the man I love or my son.

Thank you, mom, for the hundreds of memories and moments captured on film and in our hearts. Thank you for our smiling children as well as their proud fathers. Thank you for our beautiful teenagers, their peaches-and-cream skin aglow as they pose for the camera or gather 'round the tree to open Christmas presents. Thank you for my three brothers-in-law, their wives and their beautiful children and grandchildren. Without you I wouldn't have any of these wonderful people in my life.

The thought is overwhelming.

How different the world would be if it weren't for you. Look how much life, love and joy you've brought into the world.

I pray that you'll go peaceful into that good night. We all love you so much, and you will be greatly missed.