family

Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

I was away when Sarah’s husband died. A neighbor sent me a staccato email, “Joe died this morning. Been over with food support.” We all expected Joe’s death. He had been on hospice for about a week and was declining rapidly. A couple of days before I left on my trip, when no hospice volunteers or caregivers were available, I sat by his bedside for a few hours one evening while Sarah rested. He talked deliriously for most of the time, the large-screen TV just feet from the end of his bed, blinking incessantly with wild-animal videos from the San Diego Zoo. I found the flashing images distracting and asked if I should turn them off. He said no, he liked the creatures, so I put down the remote and repositioned my chair so my eyes would not stray to the screen. I muted the sound, but the colors still danced on the wall behind his bed.

I had not talked with Joe for a while. Before COVID struck, we went out for coffee a few times. He told me about his life, work, and some of his unusual adventures. I mostly listened, except when asked a specific question, but the conversation always floated back to whatever was on his mind. He’d had a challenging career as an engineer, a happy family life, and enjoyed travel and living abroad. I relished getting to know him, and as a bonus, he introduced me to an excellent local café.

Now, as I sat beside his bed, he told me that he was content with the way things were ending. His children had taken good care of him during the last months, and he knew they would be there for Sarah after he was gone. He had completed everything he felt he needed to do and was ready to die. Even his garage workshop, where he had repaired all sorts of electrical and mechanical gadgets for folks in the neighborhood, was in order, thanks to his son’s help.

I moistened his cracked lips and dry mouth. I said I was happy to sit with him, that he needn’t talk, that he could close his eyes and rest, and he did so for about five minutes. Then the phone rang—his son was calling to say goodnight. I held the receiver up to his ear. After the call, there was no stopping his flow of words. As I hung up the phone, he launched into tale after tale about his life, much of it incoherent, with occasional dramatic bursts of clarity. He kept this up for nearly two hours until Sarah came into his room from her nap, and I rose to go home. I said goodnight and told him I was glad we had spent some time together. Indeed, I was grateful to have the opportunity to say goodbye to this gentle and kind nonagenarian. However, I didn’t know if I was saying goodbye for the night or forever. The next day, I left for a week’s vacation.

When the email announcing his death came, I decided to give it a day before calling Sarah. I know a lot of details must be settled immediately after death, and she and the children would be occupied. So, when I called, I just said I had heard, asked how she was, and told her I would come for a visit when I got home. She was grateful, and I found the call easier than expected. She seemed poised and peaceful, and that eased my shy discomfort. 

A day after I arrived home from my trip, I went into my garden and picked a few autumn flowers—some dahlias, some ferns, and tiny sunflower blossoms. I placed them in a vase and, taking a deep breath, called Sarah to ask if I could come over. She said a visit then would be fine. It took her a while to push her walker to the door, but it finally opened, and she warmly welcomed me. I offered the flowers, and she led me to a table along the dining room wall where she had put pictures of Joe, a copy of his death notice, and another small bouquet. Finally, she added my little offering to the display, invited me to sit, and suggested tea.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve just had my morning coffee. How are you?”

“Well, I’m okay, really,” she replied. I smiled and nodded, my eyes inviting her to say more. It seemed clear to me that she was, indeed, okay.

“Things went well at the end,” she continued. “He had finished everything he wanted to complete, made all the necessary legal and financial arrangements. He said goodbye to the children. Once he stopped eating and drinking, things went pretty quickly. I was sitting with him when he died, and he was peaceful. After that, my daughter came, and we just sat there for a couple of hours, looking at him, saying our goodbyes, and quietly talking until we were ready to call the funeral home. Of course, I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept much in the last month, but I’m relieved that it all went so smoothly. We had wonderful help from hospice and the children. I couldn’t have asked for it to go any better.”

I told Sarah about the few hours I spent with Joe the week before—that he had expressed gratitude for his life and peacefulness about death. I wanted to validate her sense that his end had been good. She smiled and thanked me for being there for Joe and here, now for her.

“Do you have the support you need right now?”

“I do. I’ve never lived alone in my entire life, and my health is still good enough that I think I can do that for a while. I’d like to see what it’s like to be on my own. So many people have been in and out of here, all his caregivers, hospice nurses, people bringing food, family. I’m enjoying the quiet and getting some rest. Yes, I think I will be fine, and I know the kids will help when I need it. And I’m fortunate that I can afford to stay here. Very fortunate.”

I asked a few more practical questions, to which she had ready answers, delivered calmly and confidently. She said that hospice had offered her grief counseling, and she might consider it. She thanked me for the few hours I spent with Joe before his death, and I expressed my gratitude for them. I said I sensed that she would, indeed, be okay.

As I got up to go, she remembered something she wanted to tell me. On the day of Joe’s death, an appliance technician had arrived in the morning to install a new dishwasher. Unfortunately, theirs had broken down, and the one ordered a couple of weeks ago had just come in. She explained to the fellow that Joe was dying and suggested perhaps he could come back another day. “I’ll be quiet,” the technician replied, so she let him go ahead with the installation.   

I chuckled and thought that Joe, an engineer and consummate handyman, would have appreciated that life goes on and dishwashers get hooked up, even while one is dying. Neither Sarah nor I put our thoughts about the peculiar irony of Joe’s final morning into words, but Sarah had a twinkle in her eye as she waved goodbye from behind the screen door. I walked home smiling and feeling okay, too.

Continued in Part Two