If You Could See Us Now

Our prayers have all been answered.

We’ve finally arrived.

The healing that had been delayed has now been realized.

No one’s in a hurry.

There’s no schedule to keep.

We’re all enjoying Jesus, just sitting at His feet.

If you could see us now, we’re walking streets of gold.

If you could see us now, we’re standing tall and whole.

If you could see us now, you’d know we’d seen His face.

If you could see us now, you’ know our pain has been erased.

You wouldn’t want us to ever leave this place,

If you could only see us now.

Our light and temporary trials have worked out for our good,

To know it brought Him glory when we misunderstood.

Though we’ve had our sorrows, they can never compare

What Jesus has in store for us, no language can share.

If you could see us now, we’re walking streets of gold.

If you could see us now, we’re standing tall and whole.

If you could see us now, you’d know we’ve seen His face.

If you could see us now, you’d know our pain ihas been erased.

You wouldn’t want us to ever leave this place,

If you could only see us now.

 

adapted from “If You Could See Me Now” by Kim Noblitt, or Don Moen

Looking at Her Face for the Last Time

My memory of the next two days is somewhat blurry in my mind. There were phone calls to family members, final arrangements with the funeral home, packing her things at the nursing home, and so much more. My sisters and I shared those responsibilities, but still there was a lot to do. My emotions during that time were for the most part ‘on hold’, and I went through these days almost ‘roboticly’.

I went to Mother and Daddy’s house looking for something for her to bury her in. I knew what I wanted, but wasn’t sure I could find it. Sure enough it was there, among her clothes. It was a skirt, blouse, and vest that she had worn on many occasions. If fact Mother is wearing this outfit in the last formal portrait she and Daddy had taken. This outfit was just typical of Mother. The pieces just didn’t quite ‘go together’ or match. The color of the blouse didn’t match the vest and the neckline of the vest didn’t match the blouse. The color of the skirt was just a little off as well. So typical of Mother.

I remember going to the funeral home early on the day that we had the family visitation to have a few minutes alone with Mother before everyone got there. It was my first opportunity to see her since the funeral home took her body the night she died. I remember walking to the door and seeing her white hair. It looked just like her, until I walked around and saw her face. Well, everything was all right. She just wasn’t totally natural. You see, Mother had many lines in her face especially around her mouth, and chin. The mortician who had prepared Mother’s body would have no way of knowing that. Somehow he smoothed most of those lines away and by doing so, the expression on her face, particularly her mouth, was totally unlike her. I was was caught off guard by the way she looked, and I wanted to be upset by it. Realizing that nothing could be done, and my anger would be for naught, I decided to just ‘let it go’. Yes, it was easier said than done, but nevertheless, I did it and I have no regrets.

At Mother’s funeral, there was no organ music. Instead a pianist played and the music he chose was perfect. It was a mixture of traditional ‘funeral type’ hymns and very upbeat, happy, songs Mother loved. Lisa again played her violin. This was very fitting because Memom, as the grandchildren called her, always ‘canived’ ways for Lisa, as she was growing up, to play her violin in church services. So Lisa played one last time….for Memom.
There was also a quartet that sang. The members of this quartet own the bakery where Mother worked.They were very special to Mother and she was special to them. They sang, “I’d Rather Have Jesus”. As daughters we selected this song because it truly described how Mother lived her life. There were many things that she did not have. She never had a nice house, or drove a nice car. She never seemed to have enough money and always worked very hard for what little she did possess. However, she did have Jesus and her heart’s desire was always to live for Him. Somehow that was always enough.

They also sang, “Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown?”. This was our ‘cradle song’. Mother sang it to us when she was putting us to bed at night, whenever we needed to be comforted, or whenever she felt like singing it. I can still hear her voice…..singing that song.

Just as with Daddy’s funeral, after the service, after the congregation files by the casket, the family has their opportunity to say good by. It was just as hard to turn away from Mother’s face as it was from Daddy’s, knowing that once again I was not going to see her face this side of heaven.

Mother and Daddy are now buried side by side in a small country cemetery outside the community of Tuscola, Texas.

Her Battle is Over, Her Victory is Won

It was Thursday morning, and Mother had been in the Hospice Unit of Hendrick Medical Center in Abilene, Texas, since Sunday afternoon. Her breathing was gradually becoming more labored, and shallow. Her heart rate was going up as her blood pressure was going down. There had been no output from her kidneys in over 24 hours. Her kidneys were shutting down. Her feet and lower legs were growing cold, especially her left leg. There a condition called ‘marbling’ that began in her lower legs. I recognized it immediately because Daddy had it before he died. She was now unresponsive to any of our comments to her. She seemed to be relaxed and not fighting at all. We knew she was ready for her coming passing from this life into the next.

My sisters were both up there that day for some period of time.  I really don’t remember when they came and when they left.  That has all blurred in my memory.  Darla, as a school counselor, had educational things to attend to, as well as the twin girls to see after. Susan, a teacher as well, had students to teach and other responsibilities.  I think from about 4:00 p.m. on that evening I was alone with Mother, though they called during the evening to check on her.

Of the events that happened that day, this moment in time stands out in my memory.  About 7:30 that evening a group from one of the local churches visited the unit and went from room to room singing.  This was a special group to our family. Some of the members of this group were Diane and Bobby,  the owners of the bakery for which Mother worked.  They had known and loved Mother for many years.  They came in Mother’s room and stood around her bed and sang several hymns.  Then, Diane, standing by the head of Mother’s bed, began to talk about meeting Mother.  She talked about the day this ‘white haired’ lady came into their bakery and into their lives.  She talked about how hard Mother worked and told a couple of funny stories about Mother and her incessant talking.  She talked about how their lives had been enriched and blessed by knowing her.  Then everyone joined hands around Mother’s bed an prayed for her and for us.  I do now have words to tell you how special that was and how much that meant to me and Mother.

After they left, my memory about the rest of the evening is unclear.  Nothing in particular stands out as being different from the previous days in that room.  I just followed my regular ‘hospital routine.’ Showered, got settled in for the night, made phone calls to family members and eventually went to bed.

About 11:30  I awoke to the sound of voices.  It was a Hospice nurse and Mother’s doctor standing by her bed, talking quietly.  When I sat up, the doctor came and sat on the couch next to my cot.  We talked a few minutes about Mother.  He thanked me for the opportunity to take care of her, and I told him how much we as daughters appreciated all he did to help her.  The conversation lasted just a few minutes, and then he left.

I dozed off to sleep and woke up again about 30 minutes later, just after midnight.  I immediately knew she was gone.  I heard no breathing.  The silence in the room was very loud.  I walked over to her bed,  and looked at her shell, the body of my mother.  I had no tears.  My primary feeling at the moment was not sadness, but relief for her.  And my thoughts were not on my loss, but on her victory.

I called the nurse’s station and a nurse came right away. She arranged Mother’s body in her bed and went to call the funeral home.  I called my sisters and grandmother, and began to pack up the room.   The man from the funeral home arrived, loaded her body onto the gurney, and took her away.

Her battle was over and her victory was won.

Time to Say Goodby to Mother

There is a time to say goodbye.  No, it is not easy, but if you have walked down this path, the path of losing a family member to a terminal illness, then you have probably stood by their bed and told them farewell.  My sisters and I did this the day after Mother arrived in the Hospice Unit.  Though she was almost in a comatose state, her eyes would open when you spoke to her. We knew that she could hear and understand what we were saying.

Many times families don’t have the opportunity to say goodbye.  If death is unexpected or comes suddenly, often there is not time for closure.  From my perspective that would be very hard.  You would give anything to say, “I love you” one more time, or “I’ll join you in heaven someday.”

It became obvious to us that Mother was beginning to have some pain.  Therefore, after we had our goodbye moments with Mother, My sisters and I  told the nurses that it would be ok with us if she slept the ‘rest of the way’.  The nurses understood what we meant and agreed to comply with our wishes.   She was kept sedated and relaxed all the way to the end.

She did occasionally open her eyes and respond when she heard  new, but familiar voices in the room.  When her former pastor came to see her, she opened her eyes, smiled and said his name.  We all cried.

I do have one regret that I must mention.  This may sound disgusting, but because some of my readers may be in this same situation,  I must share it anyway.   One of the things I did not expect and was not warned about when we took the feeding tube away, was the effect that dehydration would have on Mother’s body.  I knew her kidneys would shut down.  I expected that.  What I did not expect was the effect dehydration would have on her tongue.  For some reason I did not notice it at first.  Perhaps because it happened slowly over about 3 days. Her tongue began to dry out.  It looked chapped and well, just awful.  That must have painful.  It could have been the main source of her pain.  We don’t know because she could not tell us.  I don’t know why, but I didn’t mention it to the nurses.  Perhaps my mind was on other things, and perhaps I thought nothing could be done to help.  I feel badly that I didn’t at least try to do something.  Sometimes I wish that we had changed the feeding tube to just come clear liquids to have prevented her tongue from drying out.  Eventually someone brought in something topical we could put on her tongue.  I don’t think it helped much though.

Next post: Her battle is over.

Grieving

After the feeding tube was removed, Mother lingered on for about 3 days. I stayed there with her most of the time, leaving only a couple of times to make funeral arrangements.

Again, just as always, I began my usual hospital routine of caring for my personal needs, and asking for help when I needed it. Staying at a hospital with a family member, though exhausting, is just not much of a problem for me.

I did observe some interesting things and learned at least one important lesson during my stay with Mother on this wonderful, caring, comforting Hospice floor in Hentrick Hospital, Abilene, TX.

When Mother and Daddy were patients in the Hospital, on the Oncology floor, families talked to each other. They shared stories of their family member’s illness, hugged and cried together. I came to know many families during our stay of about 6 weeks there.

In the Hospice Unit, family members are not as open. They are much more focused on their patient, their loved one and most likely the coming moment of his/death. The average stay on this unit was only 2 or 3 days just a short time. which also made it difficult to get to know each other.They tend to be quiet and speak in soft tones. There is not much laughter in the halls, and sometimes very little casual conversation beyond, “Good morning”. I think there are two reasons why families were this way, first as I mentioned above, they were involved in the very last days and hours of their loved one’s life. They were physically, emotionally and spiritually focused on that person. The other reason, I believe, is the awareness that every family there was walking down the same path, and every family wanted to be respectful of the others.

There were a couple of exceptions that stand out in my mind and these exceptions taught me something about grieving.

Shortly after Mother arrived on this floor, there was a patient admitted to a room across the hall and one door down. This patient was a Hispanic man, the patriarch of his family. Please understand that my comments here are not in any way demeaning of Hispanic families and their strong family ties. This patient did not come alone. Oh, no, not at all. there were at least 15 to 20 family members with him at all times, around the clock, even the wee hours of the morning. They never left, or if they did leave, more came to take their place. These family members ranged in age from infant, through adult and everything in between. Their room was changed to a location that was somewhat isolated after some of the other families mentioned that the running up and down the hall of the children was disturbing to us. Yes, I was one of those families.

After about 2 days they were gone because their beloved father, grandfather, uncle, cousin, brother, passed away. Even though we might consider it to be inappropriate to have that many people present, especially children, they had the right to grieve for their loved one in the way that was appropriate for their culture. They greived in groups, sometimes large groups. I realized that my judgment of their actions was inappropriate. Well, except for the running up and down the hall.

The other experience came early one morning. It was about 5 o’clock, still dark outside. I awoke to the sound of guitar music and singing. I was angry. How on earth could someone be so inconsiderate as to disturb the sleep of the patients and their families by singing at such an early hour!!! I flew out of bed, determined to find out where that music was coming from.

I went to the door of Mother’s room and opened it. I stood in the doorway and listened for a moment. The music was coming from a room to the right of Mother’s. While I was standing in that doorway God began to speak to me. I began to understand the room that was the source of the music also contained a dying person. A person who was loved. The music was someone’s gift to that person. Why so early in the morning? I don’t know why. Perhaps that was the only opportunity the musician would have that day. I don’t know, nor is it important that I know.

There was an important lesson for me here. God helped me to understand that families need to be able to grieve and walk down the path of death with their loved one in their own ways, without being judged by me. Sigh. I closed the door, went back to my bed, and prayed for the patient in that room and his family.

Removing the Feeding Tube–The Decision is Made

When the feeding tube was inserted into Mother’s stomach, she was also placed under Hospice Care.  It is difficult for me to remember all the details at the time, but for some reason Hospice agreed to accept Mother with a feeding tube, as one of their patients, even though I don’t think they normally do.

Once she was admitted into the Hospice Unit in the hospital, however, the nurses began to talk to us about removing the feeding tube.  For me, it was not a difficult decision.  It was time for the feeding tube to go.  She had told us that she was tired and ready to die.  I had accepted her passing as something inevitable and should not be delayed by a feeding tube, especially when she was in a semi-comatose state.

For my sister, Susan, however, this decision was much more difficult.  Susan had spent hours and hours with Mother at the nursing home, talking to her and caring for her.  Even though Mother’s conversational abilities had been limited or nonexistent, she  had been Susan’s best friend and confidante.  Susan was having a hard time letting her go.  I understand. If I had been in Susan’s place, I would have probably felt the same way.

After Mother’s doctor talked to Susan, she finally agreed to allow the feeding tube to be removed on the second day of Mother’s hospital stay.  It was very hard on Susan.  There was no way we could make it easier for her. As much as we wanted to, there was nothing we could say or do that would comfort Susan.

“Well, hello there”

Some things you just remember.  The details of some things remain clear in your mind even after the passage of time.  While we were on the hospital floor that contained the Hospice Unit, I talked with many people.  A significant number of them recounted with me experiences they had while their loved one was a patient in this same unit.

To a person, they could all tell me which room their loved one, husband, m0ther, father, brother, sister, was in.  They didn’t say things like, “My family member was in the room across the hall.” No.  Instead they said, “My family member was in the bed across the hall.”  or “in the bed two doors up on the left.”

Of course, I immediately understood the significance in the phrasing of their statements.  Their memories and emotions were more tied to the bed in which their loved one died, than the room where they spent their last days on earth.  In a hospital setting, I am sure that for various reasons, the beds get moved from room to room, so the bed to which they are referring may or may not be the actual bed in which their family member died.  I’m sure they realize that, but perhaps their memories and emotions, which are still so strong, may not allow them to acknowledge it.

Yes, I can take you to the exact room which belonged to Daddy and, a year and 9 months later, to Mother.  And yes, the beds in those rooms may have changed, but in my mind the beds in those rooms will always be the bed……..

After transferring Mother to the Hospice unit, her breathing once again became labored.  It was so similar to the way Daddy was breathing during his last hours, that I really though she would not make it through the night.  Even so, I went ahead with my ‘hospital routine’: asked for the locations of the linens, set up a cot, unpacked my luggage,  etc.  My sisters went home, and I prepared them for a phone call from me during the night telling them that Mother was gone.

This labored breathing continued for hours.  She was not in pain, that we could tell, but seemed very relaxed.  I went on to bed, and slept off and on for several hours, waking up to listen to her breathing.

I don’t remember time it was, sometime during the wee hours of the morning.  I woke up and I heard nothing.  I couldn’t hear her breathing at all.  Feeling sure that she was gone, I got up from my cot, and walked towards her bed.  As I approached her bed, in the dimly lit room, what I saw was totally unexpected.

Her eyes were open, wide open.  She was awake and was watching me as I approached her bed.  I walked over to her, touched her arm, and said,  “Well, hello there” and  in a very strong voice, she replied, “Well hello there”.  The shock of seeing her awake and talking (which she hadn’t done for quite some time), was overwhelming.  I felt as if I were going to faint, throw up, and have diarrhea all at the same time. (ok, so that’s more info than you wanted to know).  I had to sit down.  I called the nurses station and asked them to come, and went to sit down and gather myself together.

It was a good 5 minutes, before I felt strong enough to stand without feeling faint.  By the time I was able to stand by her bed, the ‘window of opportunity’ to talk with her had passed.  Sadly, she was not alert anymore.

In looking back I have several regrets about this experience.  If I had been awake, instead of sleeping that night, I would have known when she first woke up and perhaps been able to talk to her without the shock on my part. If I had communicated with the nurses that I was feeling faint, they could have perhaps helped me get past it quicker.  If I had pulled a chair over by her bed……If I, If I, If I………

Is it possible to go through these experiences with no regrests?  I don’t think so.  The reason?  We are all human and will therefore, exercise poor judgment from time to time.  We will make decisions that we would love ‘do overs’ on.  We will say or do something that could be said or done more appropriately.  I think some regrets are unavoidable.

What we do with those regrets is, in my opinion, the most critical part of any crisis.  Since we don’t get ‘do overs’ in these situations, then it is best to learn the lesson we need to learn from this regret, this poor judgment or decision, or whatever, and then file the regret in our memories, not allowing it to dominate our thoughts and emotions so that we can function and do what needs to be done during our crisis.  In other words, move it to the back burner, and get on with ‘business’.

Mother’s breathing relaxed and she comfortably slept through the rest of the night.

From Nursing Home to Hospice Unit

It was Sunday morning when the phone call came.  The phone call that changed the direction of my next week.  I was getting ready for church when the phone rang and I answered.  Darla told me that Mother was running fever, was very weak, and seemed to be ‘going down hill quickly’.  She told me that when news of Mother’s situation spread to  the staff around the nursing home, they all began to come to Mother’s room when to tell her goodbye when they got off work.  So many of them loved her.  I knew I needed to come.

These types of events rarely occur at a convenient time.  That has been our experience.  When this call came, my car was broken and waiting for repair.  We only had Rick’s pickup for transportation.  But God’s grace is sufficient for our needs in times of crisis.  I went on to church, and talked to my pastor and other friends about Mother.  My pastor, knowing that we had only one working vehicle offered to let us borrow his pickup.  God is gracious.  That pickup was God’s Provision which enabled me to be by my mother’s side. Another God wink.

It was decided that I would take Rick’s pickup to Abilene, That way we could return our pastor’s pickup when our car was repaired.  About 2:00 p.m. I left my home to drive to Abilene.  After traveling about 5 miles my cell phone rang.  It was Darla.  With the sound of panic in her voice, she asked me where I was.  I told her that I had just left home.  She said that Mother was doing worse, that she seemed to be ‘seeing things’, that her breathing was vey shallow, and to “Please Hurry”!

What I did next I do not recommend under any circumstance to anyone.  I hurried.  Rick’s pickup has a powerful V8 engine.  I turned on the emergency flashers, set the cruise control on 90 mph, and drove to Abilene.  That was an amazing trip.  I drove right past highway patrol troopers and it was like I was invisible.  No one tried to stop me.   I tried to go faster, but somehow I could not make the pickup accelerate higher than 90.  I felt like God was saying to me, “Deborah, you don’t need to go any faster.”  God was Present with me as I drove.

When I arrived at the nursing home, Mother’s breathing had improved somewhat and Darla was calmer. However, it was obvious to me and everyone else that these were Mother’s last days, perhaps last hours.  After conferring with Mother’s hospice nurse, we made the decision to transport her to the Hospice unit at Hendrick Hospital right away.  Mother left the nursing home never to return.

Tomorrow: Once again, the feeding tube.

An Afternoon With My Memom

This post is written by my daughter, Lisa. It is a very special, very touching account of her last memories with her grandmother, Memom.

An afternoon with My Memom

My Grandmother, “Memom” and I spent a-lot of time together as I was growing up. For awhile she lived just outside of the town I lived in and would come in to work. From the time I was six up through my college years she and my Grandad would sell snow cones on a truck they owned to kids throughout the city. I was proud to be the granddaughter of people that owned a snow cone truck and got as many snow cones as I wanted. (Consequently, I now have no appetite for them at all, perhaps because I had so many and perhaps because none taste as good as theirs) Memom also worked at a bakery, in fact, I can never remember a time in which she was NOT working. This fact really hit me as I saw her stop working. Memom went from an unstoppable woman to one sitting quietly in a wheelchair in a nursing home. The things that once gave her joy she either did not want to do or was not able to do.

As I went through my childhood, my family moved away from the town my grandparents were near, and I saw them less. I saw her less during my adolescence, but when I chose to return to the town of my elementary years for college, I began seeing her much more. I would meet Grandad at the bakery and go to the back to hug Memom. I even began attending the church that I attended as a toddler, the one they had been members of for decades. I loved that time because I feel like I got to know my grandparents as an adult. I gained a new respect for them, their passions, and their relationship with God.

After college and after having gotten married, I moved to “the big city”, leaving my home town and Memom and Grandad as well. My husband and I would see them for holidays and when making a rare trip back. Annually, my husband would return to teach at a camp our university sponsored every summer. The first time he went back, he got to see my grandparents and visit with them. The second visit coincided with my Granddad’s funeral. So, when I accompanied him back to our University the third year, it was almost exactly the anniversary of my grandad’s passing away. This is where I found myself, one June afternoon, in a chair next to my Memom.

As my husband was teaching over lunch, I went to a local burger joint and grabbed two identical hamburgers, fries, and a couple of drinks. I took them over to the nursing home and sat down to visit with my Memom. We laughed and talked. She ate her entire hamburger (and rather proudly I might add) and half of her fries. We settled in to talk about life. Though I do not remember every bit of our conversation, it probably consisted of giving her news about life with my husband, talking about church and friends and family. She laughed and sighed as her room mate came in, asking the same question over and over again. “She does that every day,” Memom sighed. Then I saw her glancing over at the picture of Grandad. “It’s been a year hasn’t it,” she said quietly. “Yea,” I said. “I miss him.” I saw a couple of tears in her eyes and heard a little sniff, but she smiled and I leaned over to hug her. “I love you, Memom” I said. She said, “I love you too.” The remainder of the visit was a return to chit chat.

A few months later as my husband and I were driving through for Thanksgiving, we stopped to visit Memom. She looked down, was tired, and responded very little. After she passed away a few months later, I thanked God for those couple of hours in June I got to spend with my grandmother as I remember her. I realize that the goodbye that I said, stepping out of her room that day was truly a goodbye.

No “do overs”

It was in January (I think) of 2005, that my husband, Rick, said, “You need to go see your mother”. You see, I hadn’t been going to see her very often, perhaps once every 2-3 weeks. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was difficult to see her in that bed. She could still talk some. She would answer questions with a word. However, she did look at me most of the time when I talked to her and she seemed to understand what I was saying. It was just hard to go see her.

Staying away, because it was hard for me, was wrong. You see, by doing that I put the focus of Mother’s illness on me. It was hard for me. I didn’t want to see her that way, etc. The truth was that no matter how I felt, no matter how hard it was for me, I’m sure my mother wanted and needed to see me. She needed to hear my voice. She needed to see my face. She needed to feel my hand touching hers.

It would be so nice to have “do overs” here, but this is one of those times in life when there are no “do overs”. So my friends, if you have a family member who is……..OK, I’ll just say it…….dying, slowly or quickly, it doesn’t matter. Make sure that you keep the focus on them; their needs and feelings, not yours, because when it is over, it is over. The door is closed and there is no opening it again.

My sister, Susan, however, continued her faithfulness, visiting Mother every day, sitting and talking with her. Susan talked about everything with Mother. Her day at school. The dog’s illness. The war in Iraq. Everything. I am sure this was as much a comfort to Mother and it was wonderful memories for Susan.

In February and March Mother began to seriously decline. It wasn’t going to be long.