Highs and Lows

Yesterday I received news that a dear woman I’d visited in long-term care had died. Alzheimer’s had already stolen most of the joy from her life. Only the week before her doctor had proclaimed her in palliative state. Gone now was the confusion that had settled in her life, and gone the pain she seemed to be suffering on those last few visits. I mourn her death, for she had become dear to me.

I’d known Pat through our women’s retreat each spring. I believe she attended every one that I did. I didn’t know her so well in those early years, but later I came to know her kindness, her love for her family, and her wacky sense of humour as well as her excitement when we played Pictionary on the Saturday nights. And then nearly two years ago, my husband and I joined a new church, of which she was a member. We sat near each other and shared the peace with a hug many times.

Despite the growing dementia, I heard her voice loud and clear behind me, in the creed she’d been reciting for most of her lifetime, and the Lord’s Prayer. Those she knew by heart. And the old hymns that I heard her say she preferred to the newer pieces. That’s okay. We appreciate different things; I love the newer pieces too.

And then one day I learned she’d been placed in long-term care because her wandering had become a concern for her family and potentially dangerous to her as well. There was a waiting time while she adjusted—when she felt upset and out of place—but after that time I went to visit her as often as I could. We had snacks together, a picnic in their outdoor area, and times to visit. She kept saying she’d be back to church sometime, she didn’t know just when. And she did ask about going to retreat again, even if she remembered the chill of the room we stayed in last year together in late April (though she was tucked in under warm comforters).

Pat’s mutual friend, Terry, and I kept each other posted on how Pat was adjusting. And Pat knew us and appreciated our visits. I said each time that I’d be back. And I did go back. In the last month or two, we sensed that Pat still liked having company but perhaps didn’t really know who we were.

And now Pat’s struggle is over and we’ll soon celebrate her life with her family and friends, and church family. I imagine her family will share stories about her, ones we don’t know, and I look forward to hearing what they tell us. 

Pat's pain and confusion are gone, but the warm memories she created have not. As June, fellow member at church, wrote on Facebook about Pat today, “Heaven gained an angel.”

May she rest in peace.   

 My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?  John 14:2 NIV

Carolyn Wilker is an author, editor and storyteller.

https://www.carolynwilker.ca/about/

Our hellos and good-byes--Carolyn R. Wilker

 

Tuesday evening, as I wrote, a good-bye lay raw and heavy in my heart. Another good-bye in a string of weeks, and this one for a friend who has died. As family and friends come to terms with this new loss is an underlying knowledge of where she goes from this life.

Kathy will no longer wear the mantle of illness, nor endure more treatments that gave her extra time, or even to make do with what little energy remained. But she will wear a new covering of light and be reunited with her young grandson Leif who predeceased her months before.

My friend was a welcoming kind of person, the kind who found you new to a place and invited you in, that no one be left standing out in the cold of indifference. I know, for I have been the recipient of that caring on more than one occasion. I was grateful and always remember those times. I hope that I have reciprocated as generously as what she offered to me, and spread that kind of caring around to others. She was the rock-solid kind of friend that everyone needs—a forever friend—one who didn’t want to stand out in the crowd or desire to be the centre of others’ attention.

Kathy knew that I had been writing and that my work was being published. One day when I arrived at her home for Bible Study some years ago, she had carefully ripped out the submission page from her devotional booklet and encouraged me to write for the Upper Room. I kept that piece of paper awhile and I wrote and submitted—my first international credit. Guess who gets the credit for the initial inspiration? Both God and Kathy, but she would deny her part in it, except for the suggestion.

Jesus promised he’d be with us to the end of the age, that he understood our tears, our physical anxiety, and that through all the valley of troubles, he’d be with us and save a place for us when we’re too tired and empty, in a place where there is no more pain. He offered consoling words to his disciples, before they even realized the kind of death he’d face. Was his heart heavy too at leaving them behind?

This morning upon early awakening, I thought of how it might have been for my friend in the last months and perhaps longer, about facing her goodbyes. Like someone who was going on a journey and knew she wasn’t coming back to this place. She would know that she would see them later in another place, but would that ease the pain of saying her goodbyes? Might she have felt wistful at leaving them behind? And hope that her adult children would guide those small children well. Hesitant, too, to leave her loving husband?  Perhaps for those reasons, might she have hesitated to take that step, even knowing that it was God’s hand leading her, when the moment came?

Jesus’ words bring comfort even in the pain of loss: “My Father’s house has many rooms; if it were not so would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you (John 14:2).” And then he promises to come back for us. He’s come for Kathy.

 I may not be ready to receive those words, but I am grateful to have had Kathy in my life. She celebrated when there was goodness in life and she prayed for others, knowing that God was the right one to look to for help.

Rest in peace, my friend. You have earned it. We will miss you, but we know that our loving God is keeping you. Until we meet again.

Carolyn R. Wilker, writer, editor, storyteller from Ontario. See Carolyn at Write Canada in June 2015, member of faculty and co-leader of Creative Nonfiction Intensive.
www.carolynwilker.ca