Several recent events have resulted in some very provocative thinking and actions on my part: A discussion group on death, a recent article in my local paper about an older man who wrote a guide for those facing loss, and the passing of a beloved brother-in-law.
Many people know that I am writing my next book on dying with faith in the afterlife. I believe it will be the most important book I ever write. While the topic may sound morose, it isn't. It will be written to give peace and comfort to those facing end of life (we all are - just some a little sooner), and a way for those included in the book to leave a legacy.
But what question has this all conjured up for consideration? If you were dying, would you want to know?
For me, it's a no-brainer. For one sister, she isn't sure as she thinks the person who is dying already has an innate sense of what is occurring. No one will need to tell her. That may be true in many cases, but I have reasons in wanting to know if the time for my transition to the next life is somewhat predetermined.
My thoughts go back to the terminal diagnosis of my late soul-mate and husband, Steve. He fought a very courageous battle with cancer, but we didn't really want to think about, less discuss, his demise. That didn't even occur when he was given just three months more to live.
Some people think that a terminal diagnosis takes away hope and may make the person simply give up. That might be true in some cases, but in ours, we just fought harder. The will to live is strong in most people and they will do whatever it takes to remain in the only place they've ever known, even with faith in the afterlife.
For us, facing the inevitable came a month sooner than expected, but Steve's last ten days in the hospital were bittersweet. We finally had to admit that the cancer was winning even though I vowed to pray for a miracle until his last breath.Nevertheless, I’m glad that we faced this together and had the time to lean
on each other (and our faith) for strength. Not everyone is given that
opportunity and sometimes there is a very difficult decision when only one
person knows and must decide whether to tell the other.
During hist time in palliative care, we tearfully planned his memorial service with our pastor, talked about how to disperse his clothing, forgave any hurts, and professed our undying love for one another. Thanks to our local hospital, we were able to move two hospital beds together and hold hands throughout the ordeal. That alone was one of the most important moments in sharing our lives and love.
There is a desire to avoid a future (or any future knowledge of it) when we understand it will change our world so drastically, but sometimes that is accompanied by peace - the bittersweet moments to which I earlier alluded.
I hate what Steve and I went through. I hate being widowed and separated from the person I loved most in the world and who loved me in the same way. I hate that I have to go on without him. But I also am grateful for our intimate conversations when we could no longer stick our heads in the sand and had to acknowledge the elephant in the room, as Steve liked to call it.
I did not wonder how to handle his possessions, what songs to sing or passages to read at his memorial service, or what he really wanted both for himself and for me. I have not yet been able to do what he most wanted for me in going forward, but grief knows no boundaries, and we were very open about the future without him.
Would I change anything about our last days together? Probably not. It brought us, as a close couple, even closer. In the end, there were no more words to speak. Losing him was the greatest tragedy of my life, but it came with a little peace in knowing what he wanted. That is why I would want to know - to share a little of that peace with my loved ones who will be left behind. And that is what I also hope to give to those who will become part of my book as well as their loved ones who must face the future without them.
In the end, we all know that death is a solitary event. As a person of faith, I expect it to just be a transition, and I expect Steve to be there when it occurs for me. To believe is truly a blessing, just like "knowing" can often be.
