it will come

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear:  seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come. Shakespeare

It felt a little like a party.  Twelve people sitting in a circle in a cozy living room.  The host and his girlfriend laughing about their cooking competitions.  She makes a to-die-for cornbread, as several in the room could attest to.  He said his Hawaiian pie was irresistible, and heads nodded for this too.

This was one of the light moments of the afternoon.  The host, George is 89.  He had just returned home from yet another hospital stay.  But this time his doctor had shared that there was nothing more that could be done.  "You have weeks to months" was the prognosis.  George signed onto hospice and had invited our team over to meet with his family -two children and five grandchildren, and get everyone on the same page.

"I've had a wonderful life." George told his family.  "60 years with grandma.  You all know how much I've missed her.  And then Anna here came into my life to keep me company.  And now I'm winding down.  I feel fine today, but it's coming.  And we are going to talk about it."

George turned it over to our nurse.  She spoke about his illness in laymen's terms and laid out the different scenarios for the last days.  Our social worker talked about options for full time care and I talked about the funeral plans that had been made.

The family asked questions.  They were wonderful - affirming George, teasing George, supporting him.  They were one of those families you immediately fall in love with and want to hang out with and protect at the same time.

Anna, however.  Anna sat with her eyes down and her lips pursed together.  "Anna, are you doing ok with this?" our nurse asked.  "No",  snapped Anna.  "This is not appropriate to talk about."

George picked up her hand.  "Honey, this is happening.  Like it or not.  And I don't want secrets in this room.  I want us to be able to talk about everything."  Tears ran down Anna's cheeks as she squeezed his hand, but she still couldn't talk about it.

I felt for Anna.  It is rare that a family wants that much openness and candor.  On the way home I wondered how I would do if it was my loved one.  Would I hide in denial?  Or would I find strength in laying it all out?

Henri Nouwen wrote "First, I must discover what it means to befriend my own death.  Second, I must discover how I can help others befriend theirs."  I've been thinking about that all week.  How do I befriend my own death?  Especially when I really don't want to die.

It's spring in the mountains.  There is a beach vacation in my near future.  I have a handsome husband who is so fun to hang out with.  And two darling boys that keep surprising us with their thoughts and personalities.  The list goes on. I don't want to die.

This morning our hospice team talked about the idea of befriending our death.  And we came up with two things.
     1.  Being present.  Being aware of deep breaths and unfettered steps, of beauty around us and companionship. Living in the moment, instead of worrying about the end.
     2.  Being grateful.  Appreciating all that we enjoy in the present. Counting our blessings. Recognizing our joys.  Knowing how full our cups are instead of measuring what we don't have.
We realized that the best way to befriend our death is to fully live our lives.

George understands that.  Without discussing it or being taught it or reading quotes about it.  He just lives it.  And inspires us all.