Told by a mutual friend that Brian has been readmitted to our local hospital, I feel called by God to visit immediately. As I walk in, I am thinking it is most likely just another bout of pneumonia. I discover this day is the day of reckoning, the dawn of realization, the day he knows the disease is going to win. Watching his hope die, grieving with him, acknowledging what his cancer is stealing from him, I want to find a way to pierce the darkness, to share solace for the time and opportunities that are being ripped away.
I am there with him as he lashes out with hate and anger at the disease. I hold him in my heart as he sobs with frustration. I embrace the person he once was, and the person he has become. I share his hatred of what cancer does. I pray for Jesus to wrap his arms around him.
I respect yet loathe disease. I hate that it strips away the dignity, the very essence of life. I look at his frail failing body slowly deteriorating in that hospital bed. The situation fills me with compassion and rage. It tears at my heart. My spirits sag. I listen for the lesson.
What about you? Is there someone in your life who is going through a difficult time? Do you have someone you care about who is slipping away from you? Do you appropriately risk your feelings? Do you embrace the memories of the wonderful times you shared or the difficult times you walked through together? Do you find mementos of your journey together and treasure them? Most importantly, do you cherish this experience, pray together and remain steadfast in your faith, looking to God for guidance?
As Brian and I share this time together I see acceptance dawn. I watch him acknowledge the inevitable. I listen as he outlines his plan of action and defines his ultimate goals. I marvel at how his faith strengthens him and gives him the courage to selflessly do the things he feels are important for his family and friends. I find inspiration in this brave man with the kind heart and gentle soul. I cherish every moment of our journey together. I feel the love that is his legacy. I still cry as I walk away.
When I return, less than a week later, I realize our time together is now a matter of hours, not days. I try to make him comfortable. I sit with him and hold his hand, so he knows he is not alone. This seems to help.
Mid-afternoon Brian looks at me searchingly and quietly asks, “What will you think of me if I just give up?”
I reply, “You will know when the time is right. Remember, there’s someone waiting for you.” He nods. I respond, “I will miss the hell out of you. You’ve always been a wonderful friend to me. But if it’s time to go, it’s all right.” Again I pat his hand and I reassure him, “It will be okay.”
Some time later, he says, “Come hold my hand.” I do this. He then confides, “I hate to do this to you. You’ve been such a good friend. But you are the last person I am going to see on this earth.” I remind him that this will be okay. He rests.
Later, around suppertime, he wants to “mobile.” He asks the staff to put him in a wheelchair, attach his oxygen, and wheel him outside. It’s a perfect autumn day, in the 70’s, with no wind and bright sunlight. He is joined by friends. His first request is for a ball cap. We get him one. He soaks up the sun and the companionship. His soul fills with peace. His dad joins the group and shares this special outing. When he is ready, we return him to his room. Without really realizing it, people say their final goodbyes.
Sometime after 8 PM, Brian says, “It’s time for me to go home.” I do not fully realize that what he actually is saying is, “It’s time for me to go HOME.” About 9 PM he opens his eyes, turns to me and asks, “Well, what do you think?” Not really on the same page, I ask, “About what?” He just smiles and asks me to open the shades, to pull then up so he can see outside. I don’t know what he sees, but his face changes. There is a softening, as if a deep peace and awareness enters. Once again he rests.
At 9:30 PM he awakens, cheerfully yet decidedly announces, “Home, James.” As I look at him questioningly, he clarifies, “It’s time to go home.” (A short pause) He removes the oxygen line, then instructs, “Shut off the machines. Shut them all off. I don’t need them anymore.”
As I turn off the television, and yes, at his request, even the fan, he repeats, “Shut it all off…” and he goes HOME.
Our destiny can’t be changed, but it can be challenged. Every man is born as many men and dies as a single man. A special person. I miss my friend.
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