When the Veil Thins

In the weeks and months since mom’s passing, I have held close those final moments like a gift.  Not as a joyous thing, but more a gift of infinite trust, rare and costly, the merest glimpse of an Eternal Beyond .  To be present as her soul prepared for this final journey was at once the most painful, humbling, heart-wrenching task I’ve ever been given, as well as the most sacred.
 

My heart stutters to find words that would adequately express the emotions of those last days.  But I am drawn over and over to the unexpected Moments of Holiness, these Grace Gifts that are forever etched on my mind. 

 

Perhaps God knew I would need a tangible “rope” to hold onto when the sorrow and grief threatened to swallow us up.  These memories of Mom’s last hours are the bridge to an assurance in God’s Blessed Grace.  For if I had not witnessed it myself I would never have believed…
 

We didn’t know that Death was stalking Mom the day she entered the hospital with pneumonia that Sunday in November.  Well, with a terminal diagnosis we’re always aware of the Death Stalker, but to be clear, this was a simple case of pneumonia, not the ugly metastatic claw of the pancreatic cancer.   The plan was clear.  A few nights of hospital pampering, some antibiotics and iv fluids, and we’re back home getting ready for the next round of chemo. 

 

As I have shared here, mom’s condition deteriorated so rapidly that within a week we were calling on hospice to walk us through those final hours.  Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to describe our mental and physical state.  While the doctors ordered more tests, more antibiotics and more scans, mom was locked in an internal battle as her body heaved and fought with Eternity, pleading for one final Gift. 

 

We just didn’t know… 

 

For the first few days in the hospital Mom valiantly worked up the fighting spirit.  She spoke easily and intelligently with the doctors, nurses and techs, as well as laughing and visiting with family and friends in brief spurts.  We knew she was in pain, and much was done to alleviate this, but she seemed to brush off concerns and bravely attempted physical therapy, despite the severity of her condition.  Morphine was increased steadily, but even so it became an insurmountable task to move from the bed to the chair, and by Wednesday, she was effectively bed-ridden.  She tired very easily and slept, dosed often.  In hindsight, I can see that her endurance had been sapped completely by the disease and treatment.  The moments she pushed herself to eat, to laugh, to smile were for our sake, always.  I see that now.

 

That week in the hospital we put together a revolving rotation of family to stay with her.  She was never alone.  For this I will Always, Always be grateful.  I have two brothers.  Dean lives close, Steve about 5 hours away.  Between Dean, Dad, myself, my husband and daughter, we spent the days and nights, sometimes engaged in her care, sometimes just a solid presence while she slept.  Steve kept in touch by phone, text and email every day.
 

By Friday, we began to notice a weakness that was all pervasive.  She slept much, spoke little, and when she did it was more mumbling or nodding in response to our questions.  We knew our time was dwindling, but had no idea how soon the end would come. 

 

Steve had agonized being so far away throughout the week.  He wanted to be there, and wavered so many times back and forth whether to drop everything and come, or wait for our call.  Doctors and hospice had warned that she could linger for days in this weakened state, so we assured him we would call.  Mom had even told him earlier in the week that she just needed time to whoop this pneumonia and he could come visit when she was back home recuperating.

 

We really thought we would have time and then some…

 

Pancreatic cancer had other ideas… 

 

Friday evening I sent Dad home to get some much needed rest and took the evening rotation.  Mom was more restless this night, agitated and mumbling, mostly incoherent when she did rouse.  She would look at me but sort of through me, nod, as if assuring herself I was there, then slip back into a deep, but troubled sleep. 

 

Around 6 in the morning, the nurse came in to let me know that mom’s blood sugar level was low.  She wanted mom to sip on some orange juice to help get it back up.  We roused mom enough to wake her and as I was helping her take small sips of the juice, she opened her eyes wide, looked across the room and asked very clearly, 

 

“Who is Dad talking to?”
 

The nurse and I exchanged glances, somewhat startled at her clarity of voice, and I simply responded, 

 

“I don’t know.”  It didn’t even occur to me to argue with her and tell her Dad wasn’t there.
 

With a small sigh, she said, “Well, I hope it’s Steve.” 

 

Continuing to feel a little unhinged, I just said, “Okay, maybe it is.”

 

Then she looked straight at me, and said so clearly that I can hear her voice today,

 

“Steve’s not going to make it in time.” 

 

I could barely hold the juice glass in my senseless fingers.  Nor could I form a word on my tongue.

 

I looked to the nurse and she gave an imperceptible nod of her head.  I knew in that moment that we were facing the end.

 

Striving for a calm that I was far from feeling, I forced the words out, 

 

“Do you want Dad to call Steve?” 

 

She held my hand tightly, with more strength than she had a right to have, and said, “You better call him.” 

 

Assuring her I would, I grabbed the phone and immediately called my brother.  Through tears I told him what had just transpired.  He was on the road in minutes.

 

I gently rubbed mom’s shoulder and her eyes fluttered open again.  When I told her that Steve would be here soon, she smiled a little, looking relieved and just said Ok.  She then slipped back into a much more peaceful sleep, resting easily until Steve walked through the hospital doors 4 hours later. 

 

As he leaned over to kiss her cheek, she gently woke and in a pleased whisper said, “Oh, you’re here.” 

 

He hugged her frail body and told her he loved her.  She smiled and again, in the clearest voice, said, “I love you.”   And then looked around the room at all of us.

 

There was not a dry eye in the room.  Tears poured from our very souls as we realized this was what she had held on for. 

 

Her Circle of Love was complete.  All her children now ringed her bed and she appeared so very content. 

 

She passed away less than 24 hours later… 

The veil between heaven and earth wavered briefly, thinned to ethereal, as God beckoned her home.  My heart still beats hard to think of the strength it took her to stall His calling. 

But for Love.

 

She waited until my brother made it to her bedside, the last of her children to arrive, before giving in to the bone-deep weariness of her fight. 

 

How can I not see this as a Gift of Grace?  The Strength of Love, the Ties of Family, these are the things that hold us together when the Grief would pull us apart.

When the Veil Thins… Mercy gives Himself