In the morning on Tuesday, March 19, 2019, after a relatively uneventful night where I fell asleep to the sound of my dad’s steady breathing in his palliative care hospital room, I suddenly noticed his breathing sharply slow. I hurried over to his bedside and gently caressed his head, watching intently. His inhales and exhales were irregular and drawn out. Inhale. Long pause. Exhale. Another long pause. Inhale. Even longer pause. Exhale.
“Is this the end?” I asked him. “Is Jesus coming for you?” A small tear glistened from the corner of his eye. Here we are, at the edge of eternity. As I watched, a change occurred in his irises and I saw his spirit leave. “I love you, dad,” I whispered. I looked at the clock. 7:51am.
I leaned my head on his chest.
All was still.
We had done it. I had walked with him to the border of this realm and sent him off. How poetic that he would witness my first breath and I would witness his last. I sat in the quiet and wept. Then I called my mom.
Two days prior, my mom had called me from the ER and I had booked the second last available same-day ticket from Vancouver in hopes that I could be there with him for his final moments. We ended up having almost a day together. In those precious 20 last hours, my dad gave me one beautiful parting gift: an incredible example of how to die well.
My dad had been ill for about a year and a half already, Crohn’s disease had reappeared, slowly wreaking havoc on his digestive system and making him thinner and thinner. He had refused surgery. The disease had first appeared nearly ten years prior and he had successfully treated it through dietary changes and natural medicine. He wanted to do the same this time.
When my mom called me from the hospital ER, they had found perforations in his intestines and his abdominal cavity was completely infected. The surgeon told him he had a 50/50 chance of surviving a surgery that would be painful and abrasive. My dad said no. If it was his time to meet God, he would accept it. His life motto for many years had been, “F.R.O.G. – Fully Rely On God.” This was his way of expressing his trust in God to the very end.
It’s been just about a year since he died and I’ve been reflecting on his example of how to face the end of life with grace and strength. Here are some of the ways he did it:
Considerate to the End
I’m not sure how this death thing works between a human and God. But to me, it seemed like my dad waited for permission from both my mother and me before he (and God?) decided it was ok for him to go. After the surgeon had told him about the infection in his abdomen, my parents called me. “Dad doesn’t want to have surgery,” my mom said, “He wants to know if you’re at peace with this.” Someplace deep inside me I’d known that this was coming and I told them I was at peace with his decision. When he found out I was flying out to see him, however, he hung on.
The moment he saw me walking towards him in the ER, his face lit up. “Oh Olive! You made it! You’re here! I love you! I love you!” He had been waiting for me. Then he began to wail, “You’re here! You came! I can die! I can die!” Yes dad, I’m here. You can die. How does one give permission for someone so beloved to leave? And yet, it was the most loving thing I could do. To release him would break my heart a million times but it would also be one of my final gifts to him.
Present to Each Moment
From the minute I stepped into the hospital on Monday morning until dinner time Monday evening, I would estimate that my dad received about 40-50 visitors. He was alert, able to speak, and acutely aware that this would be his last day of life. When people told him to get some sleep, he retorted with, “I have plenty of time to rest later. This is my last day!”
Each person who came to his bedside was greeted by name, often to their surprise. By then, he wasn’t eating or drinking. I watched as he gave himself away – speaking truth and encouragement particular to each visitor, using up all the energy he had left. He had words of encouragement for me, my mom, Tim, and each of the kids. He complimented the nurses and he even asked my mom to arrange for treats to be delivered to them. He truly loved everyone who came his way.
He knew time was short and he was determined to make it count.
Drawing Boundaries
Around 7:30pm, when he had already greeted many visitors, he decided he was tired and didn’t want to see anyone else. He drew a firm boundary despite the fact that there were still close friends and family on the way. He knew what he needed and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.
He also knew he wouldn’t be able to please everyone.
A couple hours later, after resting for a while, he made exceptions for two close relatives, but all the others, even the crowd that had congregated in the lounge down the hall, he would not see. He knew his limits.
Surrender
Of all the things that left an impression on me, the strongest by far was his ability to surrender. Late on Monday afternoon, at the wise suggestion of his pastor, we closed the room off to visitors for half an hour so that my mom and I could spend some time with my dad. During that time, we prayed together, one last time, just like we had on many occasions in my growing up years.
As I began to pray, I saw a picture of Jesus welcoming my dad with a big hug, saying to him, “Well done!” Then, to my surprise, my dad took over the praying with great intensity and passion. He continuously praised God over and over, and it seemed like he got louder and louder. I felt like I was being lifted into another dimension. This was where he was heading!
A few hours after that, he stopped taking visitors entirely. From that point until he died, he slept. Even though we didn’t exchange any more words, I could sense that he was aware that I was there with him through the night and that he appreciated me being there. Free from monitors, tubes, or machinery, it was like he was letting the process of death happen to his body.
I once read something (I haven’t been able to locate the source) about life being a continual practice of letting go and how death is the ultimate letting go. I saw that in my dad. It was a gentle process, full of grace and the presence of God.
Death Only Appears to be Death
One more thing I learned from my dad was that death only appears to be death. Death is stepping across a threshold into life on the other side. There is nothing to fear. Truly.
In this past year since his death, I have shed plenty of tears. But they haven’t all been tears of sadness. Many of the tears have been because I’m touched by the beauty, sacredness, and if I’m honest, also a bit of terror, of sharing that final leg of his journey with him. I still marvel at the depth of love we were privileged to share; of the holiness of that experience.
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We often hear of tragic deaths, or of people railing against death. It’s not often we hear about good deaths. I wanted to share our story because I am deeply grateful to my dad for modeling what it looks like to die well and to love to the very end.
I will always be grateful for my dad’s example of dying well. For in doing so, he also taught us how to live well.
[To read more about my dad’s life, click on this link to the eulogy I gave at his Celebration of Life.]