"I don't know," Dad sighs irritably. "What do you think Mike?"Mom, David and I are in his Hospital room where he's been quiet until now.
"About what Dad?" I ask, putting a hand on his knee.
His hands are in his lap and he's wringing them as though washing.
"I think I'm ready," he says softly, sucking all the air out the room.
The room is dim, monitors are beeping, hallway noises intrude but it's as quiet as when the earth was without form and void in darkness.
"OK Dad," I say, watching him watch the wringing of his hands, "if you're ready, that's okay."
David rushes over and tells Dad Jesus is ready for him if he's ready to pray, which David does as Mom moans and then quickly collects herself.
Dad moves to Hospice and for the next 3 days all manner of family and friends visit to say goodbye.
At the same time though, he's telling us about others who are long dead, calling some by name before sliding off into a seemingly private conversation with himself. Three days after moving to Hospice, Dad dies.
A few years later, now doing Hospice work, I visit for a patient whose wife asks to speak with me privately after I'd met with him.
"I can't take this anymore," she softly cries. "I am ready. I want to go before him. I don't have a preacher. Will you be my preacher?"
A few short months later, I hold Liz's hand as she dies, leaving her lost Dementia husband behind.
Like Dad, Liz confesses she's ready to die.
I find myself pondering what exactly it was they were ready for?
Certainly both indicated they were ready to stop living life as they'd always known it and, perhaps, that's all there is to it.
They were sick and tired of being sick and tired and decided to stop.
I can wrap my brain around that. You can't see things getting any better so you surrender, accept it, stop participating in being sick and tired. Everybody reaches the point when they stop beating their head against the wall, opting for something, ANYTHING, else!
Or maybe they chose nothing else over being sick and tired, just acceptance of death.
I certainly can't blame them.
They were fighting the good fight but abruptly reached out of the ring to ring the final bell themselves, which is certainly not what anyone expects.
"Liz," I ask, sitting on her bed, holding her hand, "I understand you're ready but I'd like to ask you something."
Her eyes are closed and she squeezes my hand.
"What exactly are you ready for?"
The only sound is her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath a pale blue nightgown. Her hand remains in mine.
"I see them," she whispers, as though sharing a great secret.
"Them?
"Them," she says with a half smile before falling asleep.
It's natural for those near death to have visions of family and friends who've died. They seem to function as a sort of welcoming committee for someone fast approaching death.
Come to think of it, my Grandfather told me of marvelous trips he was taking with long dead relatives as I stood beside his bed listening and asking, "Who," "What" and "Where"?
Is this what they are so ready for?
A family reunion?
No dead relatives are dropping in on me yet but I wonder about these things, old memories rising from their graves in my mind, usually in the middle of the night when all's quiet and still.
"Today I set before you life and death ..." the Bible says, "so choose life that you may live" but the unsaid but implied opposite is also an option, so you could choose death.
"DA," Che's voice cracks in the predawn morning chasing these prayers away.
In the darkness I rush to her room, kiss the top of her head and we cuddle on the sofa as the stars begin fading.
Sarah floats in, beautifully dressed for the day, ready to dive into another impossible list of things that must be done now.
"I want Mom's favorite toast for breakfast Da," Che announces as light pours through the windows chasing away the darkness.
