Transitions (making sense of the walk toward death)

Do you remember that moment when you knew you were going to give birth--that today was the day?  I understand that everyone's feelings are different, but I know that at least for me there was a sense of anticipation, of awe, and of the sense that something sacred and blessed was about to begin.

Then there's the transition from single to married.  You are walking step by step toward your wedding day.  At first, it's so far in the future that it seems unreal in a way, but as the days, weeks, and months pass, you become more and more aware that this is it--the moment that you've dreamed about your whole life is here, and you again feel anticipation, awe, and the sense that your world was about to change forever, and something sacred and blessed was about to begin.

So why isn't there that feeling in death?  It's another transition, isn't it?  I realize that I'm speaking about vastly different things to different people.  If your loved one was murdered or died in an accident or a sudden illness, of course there can be almost no transition.  It's sudden and unexpected and devastating in its intensity.  But the majority of people, I think, die differently.  There is a process, much like giving birth or getting married, where you have time to understand, to fully prepare, and to await the transition with a holy expectancy.

As I write these words, I can hear you.  You're thinking, 'Holy expectancy?  That's crazy!' But really, it isn't.  We are the crazy ones.  We ignore death for most of our lives, and when we see its face, we do everything that we can to disguise it, to separate ourselves from it--to pretend that it isn't really death.  We keep our loved ones in the hospital when they could be at home.  We keep them on life support when they could be released.  We try as hard as we can to put off the moment, and when it does come, we dress our dead in their Sunday best--no, strike that--the hospital sends the body to the funeral home and IT dresses them in their Sunday best.  When we see them, they are a parody of the person that we knew--made up with rouge and foundation and blush to hide the true skin color--the pall of death.  We gaze fondly at them in their coffin, so lifelike that we have trouble believing that their chests aren't moving up and down, and then we speak holy words over them and put them into the ground.

It didn't used to be this way.  Our ancestors cared for their sick at home.  They died at home.  They were taken into a sitting room, a coffin was made by the undertaker, usually a carpenter, then  brought to the house, and they lay in state there until time for the funeral, when the hearse would bear them first to the church then the cemetery.

But what about this sense of expectancy that I was talking about?  Is it morbid to think that there should be one as a person dies?  As a Christian, isn't a holy death the transition from a life on Earth to everlasting life with Christ, and shouldn't that be a joyous affair?  Every time I think about this, I remember my son's death.  His whole span of life was only eleven days, and most of those days were spent in horror and tears and at the same time a rugged hope that refused to leave, even though we knew from the beginning that his chances were pretty much nonexistent.  Looking at it today, I know that we were in denial for much of that time.  I choose not to wonder about the alternatives--how the transition would have been if we had realized the situation and allowed him to simply cease to be rather than insisting on respirator and heroic measures.  I can't wonder--we made our choice and Tommy lived as long as he did because of it.  But as he was dying, there was a sudden burst of activity and I was excited--a muddle of excitement to finally hold my baby and terror at his death, something that I definitely didn't want.  When I held him, my soul felt the transition.  It felt him leave his body and go to be with God.  I believe I was even granted a vision of that departure.  It didn't do away with the grief and the misery of the months to come, but it was something that has never left me.  It was both a horrible and somehow a joyful time.

On NPR today, Lucia Maya spoke of this transition with her daughter, Elizabeth Blue.  She had cancer, and her mother was with her in the ICU.  They had tried all sorts of life-saving things, but finally she realized that her daughter was done.  She asked if they should consider hospice, and then and only then did the hospital agree with her.  They didn't raise the issue; she did.  The daughter soon returned home, and she and her mother were able to share time before she died:  writing together, being together, speaking about things that were important.  When her daughter died, family readied the body, family and friends had a service, and the family even brought the body of their beloved daughter to be cremated.      You can read about her story here  http://luminousblue5.com/2014/01/ .

Now as for the sense of holy expectancy, I just wonder if we are missing something.  When I think about my own death, it's with this same sense of anticipation as I felt when awaiting marriage or childbirth.  An enormous, wonderful change is about to come.  Why can't we feel that when awaiting the death of our elders, of those who are soon to be released from the devastation of disease, of those who are soon to be reunited with God?  It's an obvious answer, isn't it.  It's not our journey.  It's theirs.  But we can share in the journey and help them on their way.  We can choose to be part of it or we can choose to shield ourselves from it and leave our loved ones to die on their own.  But it is a choice.  There are groups that can come to the bedside of the loved one and sing them on their way and through this final transition, such as Threshold Singers.  We can choose to take the risk of allowing ourselves to carry the burden of a hospital bed in our front room so that our parents don't have to die alone.  I didn't do that.  I wish I had had the nerve to.

Thanks for reading along with me as I tried to make sense of this.  This post is as much for me as for any of you--maybe more.  I just have this feeling--can't we do more--be more--have more understanding of the joyfulness of the time of transition?  Maybe we can, and maybe God will allow us to experience the peace of his love in the midst of it.