Kindlandia: Kindness even in Death

Dearest Edythe,

Last year you reigned supreme as Thanksgiving Queen over 18 dinner guests. You told me how very happy you’d been with the meal and celebratory atmosphere. By Saturday you had the house cleaned up and back in order. You were looking forward to relaxing the remainder of the holiday weekend. Unfortunately, that was when a searing pain took over your body. The ER prescribed medication, but tests were inconclusive. Massage only made it worse. You took to your bed.
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We spoke on the phone before I left for Mexico for the first two weeks of December. You were still dealing with pain and assumed it was a pinched nerve that would work itself out. You were miserable but convinced it would pass.

Unfortunately, because my iPhone was not set up to receive long distance calls in Mexico, I was not able to retrieve a message your husband, Chuck, left telling me you were in hospital. Because he stayed there until late each night, he was never home to answer my calls, so I could not find out why you were not responding to my emails and texts. Thankfully, Chuck and I finally did connect, and he told me how the Saturday after I left, he had to call for an ambulance to transport you to the ER because you could no longer get up. After several rough days in the hospital, tests showed you had advanced blood cancer. Arrangements were made for you to return home on Hospice.

You were discharged the day I flew back from Mexico. I stayed in Edmonds one day to attend the Writing Sisters Christmas Gathering. Together, we embraced each other in a circle while we phoned you and each shared our memories and our love for you. We heard your love and appreciation for us in return. We closed our call with a prayer for you. I then repacked and flew out the next day. How I wished I’d flown immediately to Cottage Grove when I returned from Mexico. The day of that joint phone conversation was the last day you were fully conscious.

During your final days there was one fleeting moment you roused, and I heard you. I rushed to your bedside and burst into tears, “Oh, I am so happy to hear your voice!” Edythe, you saw my distress and tears and you patted my hand and commanded, “Stop that now.” That was a last plucky assertion from you.

Chuck and your family were so gracious to share you with me that last week. Chuck worked well with the Hospice Team. He welcomed home health aides in to care for you and the house. One aide baked fresh muffins for our Christmas breakfast.

Friends and family gathered off and on all week. Edythe, you were so loved. You were so cherished. Dear Friend, could you feel all that love surround you? Did you hear the words of affection and the disbelief that you might leave us?

Christmas Night family and friends gathered around your bed and heard Chuck read the Christmas Story. Later we listened to many wonderful songs sung by the a cappella singing group, the Pentatonix. We especially appreciated the Christmas song, “Mary Did You Know?” I asked Chuck to play it over again several times.

Because you were on medications every hour, we wrote up a schedule and took turns tending you through the night. My shift was early morning, December 26th. Chuck and your brother Bill went to rest after their night watch. Chuck’s daughter Lisa and I were sitting near your bed. Lisa and I wanted to make things as easy for Chuck as possible, so we began gathering information he could use for your life story and obituary.

Shortly before 8:30 a.m. your breathing changed. I looked over at you. All at once your spirit leapt from your mouth and flew out through the large picture windows into the tall trees. I’ve attended many deaths over the years and usually the spirit stays close for a bit. But you, my dear, were gone. You’d had enough. It was time to soar.

Edythe, I’d cried often during your week on Hospice. I could not accept that you could leave us so suddenly. You’d conquered cancer twice and healed from several serious surgeries. Certainly, there would be a way out of this, too? After all, just last month you were laughing, drinking champagne, and reading your stories/poetry/memoir with two writing groups. You hosted 18 people for Thanksgiving! 18! I understood the wracking pain and suffering you were enduring would no longer allow you any quality of life. Medical science had done all it could. My head knew it was time to let you go. Yet, my heart could not bear it. I wept. I sobbed. My insides were as hollow as the empty shell of your body after your final breath fled to the skies.

Later that day I found a nugget of comfort hanging in a back corner in your living room. It was a piece of storypeople art work by Brian Andreas with whimsical colorful figures and the inscription:

When I die, she said, I’m coming back as a tree with deep roots & I’ll wave my leaves at the children every morning on their way to school & whisper tree songs at night in their dreams. Trees with deep roots know about the things children need.

I still ached. I would still need to mourn, but what a kindness it was for me to see the message in the Andreas art and better understand more about you and your ultimate journey. I am also thankful for the twenty-one years journeying we shared and our co-creating of Kindlandia together.

Dearest Edythe, writing you each week for nearly a year, to share our memories and my new adventures, has been a soothing balm for my grief and has helped me in my continued dedication to live kindness, in the Kindlandia you and I created.