Anticipation
Be Not Afraid Anticipation
Chapter 7 Anticipation
Though death is the last thing most of us have on our minds on a normal day, there are times when circumstances force it to the forefront of our thoughts. A bad accident we pass on the highway; a terrorist attack, natural catastrophe, or violent crime reported in the news; the diagnosis of someone we know or love with a serious illness such as cancer – all these things remind us how death strikes at random. Suddenly dying is no longer a distant prospect – something for other people to worry about – but something we have no choice but to confront. Whether we do so fearfully or with confidence makes all the difference.
I have met people who say they'd rather die a quick death than undergo the drawn-out suffering of a slow one. Still, in three decades of counseling I've never met a dying person who wasn't grateful for the chance to prepare for death.
Be Not Afraid Anticipation
When Winifred, an elderly editor I know, was scheduled for heart surgery, she looked forward to the possibility of a new, healthy lease on life. She had suffered for years from a debilitating condition, and
her doctors recommended heart valve replacement. On the other hand, she did not ignore the seriousness of the procedure, and privately prepared for the worst.
She started with her desk. Though it normally was strewn with messy piles of books and folders on every available surface, the afternoon before her surgery it was uncharacteristically bare: everything was stacked neatly, as if waiting to be sorted by someone else. Later the same day she asked a co-worker, Kathy, for a chance to talk privately. Kathy says it was "nothing big" – a few misgivings that still burdened her conscience after many years, including an incident when, as a teacher, she had been overly harsh and impatient with the children in her care.
Winifred came out of surgery in a semi-conscious state, and died several days later – without being able to say goodbye to her husband and their five daughters. Winifred was seventy-nine, and had a host of medical complications. Had she not had surgery, and died of her heart problems, no one would have been surprised. As it turned out, however, her daughters were beside themselves with grief and self-reproach. Everyone had known there were risks. But this was the last thing they
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had expected. Hadn't the doctors been confident that everything would go well, and said that their mother would come out of surgery as a new woman? Besides, their father had successfully undergone the same
operation not long before.
But even if the family did not anticipate Winifred's death, it was clear from Kathy's conversation with her that she herself had. And through the difficult months of mourning that followed, it was that knowledge, more than anything else, that was a lifeline of comfort and peace.
After 35-year-old Rilla was diagnosed with cancer, she underwent surgery and went into remission. Two years later, however, the disease crept back, and it soon became clear that further medical help would be futile. Believing that there was nothing accidental about the recurrence of the disease, she decided that this time she would not fight it, but accept it as God's will. Rilla, a tall, red-haired woman with a radiant smile, was a person you could not forget. Soft-spoken but not reserved, she loved the beautiful things in life: flowers, music, poetry – and children. At the same time, having come of age in the turbulent years of the late 1960s, she was painfully aware of life's ugly corners, and was always looking for ways to reach out to prison inmates,
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elderly shut-ins, and the mentally and physically disabled. She continued to do this even after her illness began taking its toll.
Toward the end of her life, after she became too
exhausted to go out, Rilla wept for the need of the world, especially for the suffering of children, saying, "Our hearts are so small, but we can still wish that they are somehow stretched wider, to pray for all who suffer."
Rilla's cancer was diagnosed during my father's last days on earth, and she was the first dying person I counseled without my father's advice. Previously I had always depended on his support.
Like many sensitive souls, Rilla could be a torn, rather complicated person. She was easily distressed about her perceived shortcomings, and she struggled for years to find a personal faith. Through sharing in the experience of my father's last days, however, and realizing that her own death was not far off, life suddenly became simple for her.
One day Rilla asked me to baptize her, which I did one week after my father's death. The strength her new-found faith gave her was remarkable. She said, "I am experiencing grace in my life; the richness and fullness of God!"
As her illness progressed, she felt the urgency of using each day to prepare for her final separation
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from those around her. There was much she wanted to accomplish. One project involved sorting through her poetry collection, which contained several pieces she had written, and deciding who should get each piece.
Her brother Justin, who helped her, says she did this in such a carefree, light-hearted manner that it perplexed him. She noticed, and the next morning, saying that she did not want to add to his pain, she apologized for talking to him about her death. But in retrospect, as with Winifred, Rilla's willingness to look the future in the face was a help to those who mourned her. The courage that had emanated from her in life became something for them to hold on to after she was gone.
Lynn was diagnosed with leukemia in 1979, just after her sixth child was born. At first, chemotherapy and radiation put her cancer into remission; then it returned. A second round of treatments, too, slowed the disease and fed hopes for a recovery. But it wasn't to be. Soon her leukemia was flaring a third time.
Specialists urged Lynn to consider experimental treatment, but once she found out that it would mean traveling to a faraway hospital, she decided to forgo the treatment. Besides, as her husband James later put it, they both felt that God held their family in his hand, and they wanted to entrust the future to him alone.
Be Not Afraid Anticipation
This didn't mean sitting and waiting for death, however. Sensing how little time she had left, Lynn methodically set about to prepare her children for life without their mother. She saw to getting bigger beds
for them and extending their quilts to fit; she made them each a photo album and special baby outfits to keep for their own future families. In consideration of whoever might care for them after she was gone, she put their clothing and belongings in order. Beyond that, she lavished time and attention on friends and neighbors, and prepared herself inwardly to leave this life and enter the next. As Lynn's pastor commented, she was like one of the five wise virgins mentioned in the Bible. She had filled her lamp with oil, and was prepared to meet the Bridegroom.
As her strength waned, Lynn was less and less able to spend time in the family living room; whenever she did, however, she was there fully, listening to the children tell of the day's activities, settling a quarrel, or reading a story. Even when nausea confined her to bed, she did not relinquish her role as mother, but took as much time as possible with each child. At the end she could only reach out with her eyes. Lynn died at home, in her own bed, surrounded by her family.
Not everyone is given time to prepare for death. All the same I know of several people who – though they had
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no obvious foreknowledge – must have had some sense that their time on earth was limited. This was true of Rachel, a nine-year-old who lived in the Paraguayan village where I grew up.
While making toffee over an open fire, the common means of cooking, Rachel's mother was called away "only for a moment." Just then Rachel bent over to stir the candy, and her dress caught fire. She screamed and ran for help, her other clothes bursting into flame. Her father heard her cries and came running, rolled her on the ground, and quickly extinguished the flames. But the damage was done: one-fourth of her body was severely burned.
Brought directly to a nearby mission hospital, Rachel was given the best possible care, but over the next days her condition worsened and she suffered terribly. Her doctors used a short-wave radio to consult with a specialist in Asuncion, the nearest city, but his advice was futile: fluid loss depleted her strength, and by evening of the fourth day she was unresponsive.
By now it was clear that nothing more could be done to save Rachel. Her family gathered around her bed, singing the songs they knew she loved. At one point her mother spoke to her, and she unexpectedly sat up and sang a few lines with them. During the next hours she remained conscious, even holding a few brief conversations with her mother, and singing to herself.
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Early the next morning she had a relapse, however, and passed away.
Several days later her family remembered that some time before the accident, Rachel had given away most
of her few belongings. Then, just the week before, while sitting outdoors with her mother and watching the stars, she had brought up the subject of death and asked about God. No one could be sure, of course, but in retrospect it seemed that she was intuitively preparing for her own departure.