Tag: Death

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The Journey

“There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveller” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

Three years ago my father, brother, and I lived these words as we drove to Canada. Our purpose was to visit a family friend who lay dying. But there was another purpose hidden in that trip, of which we knew nothing at the time.

Driving through the bleak landscape of upstate New York our conversation turned to matters of the heart. The solemnity of our purpose drew out discussion about death, life, love, faith. The three of us shared openly at the inmost level. It was cathartic and deeply bonding. And though we could not know it at the time, that conversation became a touchstone throughout my own father’s decline and death earlier this year.

It had been years since I was in my hometown. I took the wrong exit. This took us past our old church. We stopped in on a whim and slipped into the back to join the evening service. Each of us was filled with grace in that moment.  Though unspoken at the time, we each knew we were on holy ground. We were somehow meant to be there, together as a family, and together for our dying friend.

We saw her the next morning. She lay in bed in her living room, sun beaming through the window, surrounded by family. Our time together was filled with tears and laughter, as it should be. We wept with joy recalling the times beyond number of outrageous fun. We wept knowing this was the last time we would all be together in this life. Once again the conversation moved gracefully to matters of the heart. As a result my brother and I quickly drew close with the family daughters, whom we had known well as children but had not seen in many long years.

This January, during my dad’s memorial service in Canada, this very same family–these same daughters–provided the anchor for my brother and me. Who else could so closely identify with our grief? And who could ever have foreseen this at the time? “Life is lived forwards, but is only understood looking backwards”-Søren Kierkegaard.

Marian in Spring

Beams of light bend through the trees

The beauty brings me to my knees

Golden peace cascading to the ground

Silence all around, and simple stillness save

The bending ferns and flowers bowing down

Spring begins her overflow

The season’s graceful undertow

Drawing life from every dormant bloom

You sail on her tide, as sparkling laughter flows

Encircling hearts to yours throughout the room

Marian our dearest friend

Your life a gift that never ends

By the Living Springtime you embraced

You in dappled light, the Maker’s heart, and ours

The sweetest springtime garland interlaced

This post is dedicated to our late friend who passed away three years ago this week, to her dear family, and to my own dad this Father’s Day – my first without him.

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Thanksgiving – 27/11/2017

As I blacked out from cardiac arrest I thought: I am going to die in Africa, naked, at the hands of a French dwarf. How disappointing for my parents.

 Days earlier I had felt an exquisite pain like someone twisting a knife in my back. I was 20 at the time, sitting in a restaurant in rural Cameroon. I stumbled from the table and dropped to my knees in the parking lot, bawling like a calf. My colleagues took me to a local clinic. I was soon transported to a private clinic in the capital city.

 I was met there by a doctor of exceptionally short stature. With an outrageous French accent and extreme platform shoes, he was a cross between Jacques Clouseau and Gene Simmons from KISS. The diagnosis was renal colic–kidney stones. I had been working outside in the tropics for 9 months, sweating hard every day. At night I drank mostly beer. Eventually my desiccated kidneys had enough.

 I was rehydrated in the clinic over several days. Before being discharged, the doctor wanted to do a full body x-ray with an injected tracing fluid. This would confirm if all the calcium was out of my system. In preparation I had to suffer an enema, witnessed by the entire clinic staff at my bedside. Further humiliation followed as I lay naked on the cold x-ray table. No secrets that day. Or dignity.

 They injected the iodine trace. Who knew I was allergic to iodine?  My heart stopped beating.

 Other people see a light at the end of the tunnel. Not me. I saw African faces bending low, weaving in and out above me like a kelp forest in the water. There was a tiny white shark circling the kelp forest. It was speaking French and wearing platform shoes. I also vaguely remember my tongue being clipped to the side of my mouth, injections, chest compressions.

When the ordeal ended I was weakly helped off the table and into a wheelchair. Unexpectedly, a nurse brought me a chocolate bar. I remember clearly it was a Twix. I had not seen chocolate in 6 months. Her gift unleashed a flood of uncontrollable tears. I sat there naked, savouring the chocolate, sobbing and laughing and overwhelmed with inexpressible gratitude for the precious gift of this life. May I feel that way every day.