We received the news last night that my aunt, Dorothy, passed on. Mom tells me that she didn't have Alzheimer’s, but she was frustrated by having increasing memory loss and limited mobility, for a few years, at least. It progressed to the point that she was rarely fully cognizant of her surroundings. It makes one reflect on the value of life and the mystery of death, when death is a merciful event that seems preferably to life, for family members who watch their loved ones slowly slipping away. I have had a few people in my life who dealt with terminal illnesses. When the terminal illness is a protracted condition, the family members have time to adjust to the inevitability of human mortality, such that, when death finally comes, it is a relief. The family members who are left behind can rest assured that their loved one is no longer suffering the frailties of the human condition.
I remember the illness and death of my next door neighbor, George, when I lived in Burnsville. George had a type of degenerative distal muscular dystrophy. George and his wife, Janet spent a lot of time with me in the several years that his health was declining. We would go out to dinner and go for drives in the outlying areas of the suburbs, usually about once a week, but sometimes more often. I worked from home then more than I do now, and George would call me at the house for assistance. I would go next door and help him to the restroom and get him drinks and so forth.
George was a man who was of pedestrian faith like so many of us as we go through life, distracted by the things that seem important at the time, but in the big picture, are trivialities. We really enjoyed going out to dinner; the company was as good as the dining experience, but it was not destined to last. George was a big guy, funny as Bob Hope, and as George grew weaker, he had more problems with his limited range of movement, labored breathing, and poor balance. We stopped going out to dinner, because he was not able to walk or maintain his balance, even with assistance.
When George couldn’t go out any longer, it was something we all missed. His strength completely failed him. However, what happened in the meantime was significant. The more physical abilities were stolen from George by the MD, the stronger his faith became. Near the end of his life, George began to talk about the future, and how he would soon be strong again. George grinned, as best he could with his weak muscles, and he told us how he would soon be a new and better man, and how he would dance with the Lord. George was very frail, but when he did manage to go to a church service, he found the strength to carry on for another day. Ultimately, the MD caught up with him, and he couldn’t leave the house. I continued to visit him until the week of his mortal end, when he left the pain behind and found the gift of immortality. He spent the end of his life with his pastor and prayer leaders of his church. He told his wife not to grieve for him, but to be ready to move on with life and to celebrate every day, not endlessly dwelling on his memory. His wife told me this part: At the end, his weakness left him long enough for him to put his hands to heaven and to wear a big smile on his face. Later that day, George passed away. I have no doubt that he danced with Jesus with a renewed lightness of being. I am confident that it is that way with others who suffer from terminal illnesses. I am not sure, though, if it is better when death comes unexpectedly, or after an illness, when the end is expected and predictable.
Would the anticipation of the death of a loved one give some comfort in knowing that the family was preparing and able to say good-bye? Having lost three of my closest friends in accidents and another to heart failure at the age of twenty six, the shock of a sudden loss is hard to comprehend and not easy to accept, as if those left behind have a choice but to accept the loss. I have had capacious experiences with the deaths of extended family and friends. Revisiting the losses in my mind reminds me that the whole idea of the death of a loved one is hard to consider, without becoming awash with maudlin poignancy and private melancholy. I do know that the family and friends can find a modicum of comfort, and that is in this:
While I was not close to my aunt, I can empathize with her children, and the losses that my dad and mom are going through. My mom grew close to my aunt in the past months, as my aunt’s health declined. I was happy to hear that seven of Dorothy’s nine adult children were able to be with her as she passed from this world. There may be some comfort in that. I can say that from my own experiences. I hope that Dorothy’s children know my mother went to visit often and to ensure that Dorothy was well attended until the end mercifully came. I am confident that Dorothy is in a better place now, without pain and earthly concerns.
The Bible tells us that we do not have the capacity or authority to judge the worth of another, since righteous judgment is left to God alone. As a human with my own weaknesses, I still insist that we can faithfully believe, as my mother said, "If Dorothy did not make heaven, then no one will."
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