There aren’t many popular books on the subject of death. Apparently, it’s not a hot topic to talk about. As a culture, I think we have NDD, “National Death Denial,” and we aren’t willing to break the code of silence. We pretend it doesn’t exist. We can die at any moment, but we pay more attention to Kim Kardashian’s cleavage than we do to the subject of eternity. It’s like we are a national dysfunctional family following the unspoken rules, “Don’t talk it, don’t think about it, don’t plan for it.”
Why is that?
One of the oddly popular books on death is, “Tuesdays with Morrie,” written by Mitch Album (a sportswriter). He’d fly from Detroit to Boston every Tuesday to see his friend, mentor, and former professor Morrie Swartz. Morrie was dying of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease), slowly losing control of his muscles as the disease progressed through his body. It would eventually take his life, something he freely talked about to anyone who would listen. Morrie shared life lessons with Mitch, and loved doing it. Mitch complied the many lessons and put them in a book to help the family pay for medical expenses.
Morrie talked freely about his death, but we don’t. We watch shows of dysfunctional people in provocative situations and call them “Reality Shows,” which are nothing like any reality I’ve seen. These shows are more emotionally charged than prison (and they stab each other when they get upset). We tend to follow what others think on social media and fear we are missing out (FMO). We have two-sentence sound bites from the news and feel we understand the politician’s stance, and if it sounds terrible, we feel justified in hating. We distract ourselves with the opinions of celebrities who can’t seem to find happiness or find any integrity. We binge “good shows” on our streaming devices and comfortably neglect disciplined reading. Aren’t these all distractions from reality?
We are consumed with the external at the expense of the internal and lead shallow lives with shallow thoughts and shallow passions. A thin film of denial coats everything we do. Denial invades our conversations, free time, and even discussions behind closed doors. Sitting and talking for two hours with a spouse or friend is unheard of. We live like we won’t die, like modern science has erased this problem.
Deb’s death was a terrible gift to me. It allowed me to pierce the deceptive film I have allowed to cover me. Perhaps I think about it too much now; I’m not sure. I walk in my graveyard most nights and think about how life was with her. Deb’s death was so painful that I can no longer pretend it’s not there. It’s like I’ve been awakened and see the Matrix for what it is (only I don’t wear tight-fitting spandex, dark sunglasses, or drive cars from the early 1970s).
“Most of us all walk around as if we’re sleepwalking,” said Morrie, “We really don’t experience the world fully, because we’re half-asleep, doing things we automatically think we have to do.”
“Tuesdays with Morrie” is not a Christian book, but it does bring up a meaningful conversation that needs to be had in the Church. Are we “sleepwalking” in the Church? Do we do the next fun thing and forget about eternity? I wonder if Christians are afraid to talk about death because it will result in very serious conversations—and those don’t appear to be very fun.
Do we have a will for our parents? For ourselves? Do we live more out of obligation than purpose? Obligation stagnates us (it’s always the same). The purpose is ever-expanding and adjusts a little every day. The obligation is living without God; the purpose is listening to God. Is the Church today more shallow than it was a century ago? And does anyone get upset when I ask this question? Do we allow space in our days to read God’s Word and listen to him?
Honesty in Death
My situation has provided me with an almost limitless supply of silence. I need to balance meditation and fun, but I’m in a new phase. Deb’s gravestone is my gravestone as well. It has my name and date of birth right next to hers. The only thing missing is the day of my death. It’s humbling to see my gravestone several times a week. It’s a good reminder that life is short. I think of Scrooge reacting with such horror over seeing his gravestone in the Classic story, “Christmas Carol.” We responded in terror at the reality of his death. But are we much different in the Church today?
Thinking about my death shakes me awake from my conveniently predictable (controlled) life. It makes me aware of eternity. It’s not an accident that most of Jesus’ parables were about “getting ready” for his return. I think he was trying to tell us something. He wanted the world to know that eternity is a breath away and that what we do now impacts it. There will be a day when we will no longer have a second chance to change our lifestyle (priorities).
Death makes us honest. It’s the great dominator of life. When we talk about eternity, all our fear of what “I think others think” flies away like dandelion seeds. How well we love Jesus and others is the two most important questions in our lives, but do we make time for them? I hope that the Church can think more about eternity than it does entertainment.
When I live purposely, I allow myself the freedom to read. And reading will enable me to connect with others who have struggled with pain. Times have changed, but the human heart is remarkably similar to those of ages past. Silence breaks through the transparent coating of distraction and allows me time with Jesus. It will enable me to reprioritize my disordered loves.
Eternity needs to be remembered. It impacts what I do next.
That Ambulance
Deb used to say that we would hear “that ambulance” one day, the ambulance that would take one of my parents away for the last time. They lived under two miles from us, so I knew it was right; I didn’t like it. I was unnerved by that thought. I held to the lie that they would always be there. Denial.
It was a warm June evening in 2016 when I heard it. I had just turned off the bedroom lights when I heard the ambulance siren in the distance. I heard it but wasn’t listening.
Then my sister called. In four sentences, my world changed.
“Mom’s fallen. She can’t get up. The ambulance is here! Get over here!”
My heart dropped when I saw the flashing red and blue lights strobing off the neighbors’ houses, flashing silently in the night. It was surreal, like a horror movie. An ambulance was in front of their house, and a firetruck was in their driveway, rumbling loudly with its diesel engine idling. I ran to the front door with my heart in my throat.
Inside, the paramedics had done whatever medical things they were going to do and were pushing her by me, wrapped in a cocoon while blankets with black seat belts holding her to the stretcher. I saw her face; her eyes were opened. They were passive, emotionless, like she wasn’t there. I don’t remember if I asked her a question or if I just thought I did. My dad and sister were there, crying, scared, watching my mother be taken from them. A bunch of uniformed medical people were walking around the house, strangers that didn’t belong there. It was remarkably quiet for the number of people in my parent’s house. Few words were spoken. The noise of the firetruck’s engine was the only constant. No one was pressured. No one moved quickly.
I rode in the front seat of the ambulance, although I’m not sure why I was given this honor. Before the ambulance moved an inch, the driver methodically gave precise, explicit details of Mom’s condition on a CB. His voice was calm, and his sentences were carefully ordered. Then he turned the sirens on and drove nonstop to the hospital.
At the hospital, the paramedics took her to an uncomfortably small room with several nurses, a doctor, and a woman typing on a computer on a rolling desk the same size as the laptop. They were all silently working on Mom’s body, just like Mom’s house. Mom’s face remained expressionless, zombie-like as if she were watching a TV show. She said, “This isn’t happening to me.”
My mother, the most dignified person I’d ever met, allowed the team to undress her without any resistance. The room was so small I almost touched the lady behind me, who was typing noiselessly while bumping a nurse in front of me. The doctor explained what he was seeing medically in a calm, clinical tone, softer than a normal conversation. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I knew I couldn’t interrupt by asking, “What’s going on?”
I thought that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I didn’t know I was supposed to be seeing what I was seeing. I asked, “Is it OK that I’m here?” but no one answered. No one made eye contact with me. But no one had said a word to me. No one spoke except the doctor. His words were detached, like that of a computer. The trauma of four people working on my mom was mesmerizing. It was almost beyond my ability to take in. I turned and looked at a few people, but they didn’t say a thing to me. They never acknowledged me. It was I wasn’t there.
A uniformed lady pulled me out of the tiny surgery room; “Can you sign this document?” I looked at the woman like she was speaking a foreign language. I tried to understand her words. I had the same blank look my mom had. I was lost. “Can you sign this, sir. It’s consent for surgery.” It was then I noticed how disturbingly quiet that room was. No raised voices. No sounds of urgency. Almost no sound at all. From outside the room, you would have no idea my mother was in there dying.
I signed the paper and heard a strange noise. I was confusing myself. It was an uncomfortable noise, one I couldn’t place. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me. I was crying, making a strange noise when I cried. Things were blurry as I walked away from the lady with the clipboard. Outside that small room was a much larger room, easily eight times bigger. It was barely lit, with a small, indirect ceiling light in one corner. It was the darkest room I’ve ever seen in the hospital. It only added to the nightmarish feel of the event. I cried in the corner, in my darkness, heaving at the impending loss of my mom. I was alone and confused.
I thought to myself, “Mom’s dying. Why is she in that small room? And why is it so quiet?”
Once I calmed down, I respectfully returned to that small room and stood there. Again, I asked if it was OK for me to be there, and again, no one acknowledged my question or my presence. It was like I was in a Neil Gaiman novel.
Finally, they wrapped her in a different set of blankets and moved her out of the room. I asked what was happening, but no one answered. I was too upset to complain. I followed her to her new room and was told, “Your mom has had a massive stroke.”
“Is she gonna live?”
“You’ll have to ask the doctor,” said the nurse as she left the room. No doctors were present, and no one spoke. Again, I was in the quiet. There was no one to talk to. I didn’t know what to do. My mom was lying in a hospital bed; this time, her eyes were closed. She breathed softly, so I knew she was still alive.
When I don’t know what to do, I typically don’t do anything. So that’s what I did. I just stood there. How could I leave the room with my mom dying? Was she dying? All I could do was stand there. Eventually, I called my wife and told her what had happened. Then I waited, although I’m not sure how long. And I didn’t know what I was waiting for. Someone was going to have to tell me what to do next.
Eventually, my sister and dad came in. They were told the same thing, with the “We don’t know how long she will be here” answer.
Even after the doctors showed up, we still had no real answers. But how could we? She had a terrible stroke, and nothing more was known. I wonder if I expect doctors to be magicians with answers of “How long will she live,” when they don’t know either. I think the more pain I go through, the more demanding I become. Only God knew how long she had.
Time
Jesus gave my family the tender mercy of allowing time for us all to get together. Two siblings were from the other side of the state; one was in Atlanta. We gathered to comfort our father, love each other, and witness a great woman’s passing. It was a terrible and wonderful event.
Mom never spoke again. We never heard her laugh again. She never heard another story of the old days, never heard her passion for Jesus. We were told she could listen to us, but we didn’t know. It was like she left us a little bit at a time. It’s like she didn’t allow herself to die until it was the right time.
Then, when we were gathered around her bed at the hospital and laughing, she finally let go. She hadn’t voluntarily moved since being in the hospital, but in the end, she moved her head like she was looking up and then breathed her last. We think she saw Jesus coming for her, taking her hand into eternity. All we know is that she died peacefully. And her race is over.
Now she is free. Free from pain, free from limitations, free from sorrow, and likely having dinner with her parents again.
As I write this, I feel empty inside without her. Something is missing in me, something I can’t quite explain. When she passed, I was starting to realize the wisdom she was teaching me. And now I can’t talk to her anymore. I feel I’m missing out.
Death
Death is the last enemy, the one we can’t face without Jesus. He defeated it by dying for us, but this enemy still roams around the Earth today. Someday, death will be squashed like a bug. But not today.
Sorrow is real. It tends to force us to run to our “trinket gods,” OR to Jesus. I think our culture is death-avoidant because it doesn’t have any answers for it. John summarized this battle like this:
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
Revelation 21:4 (NIV)
Death is not a choice; it’s an appointment. Eternity is not an option. We only have the freedom to choose Jesus or not. We have the freedom to have our sins paid for by Jesus or for ourselves. Perhaps this is why we need to talk about death, not for our integrity but for our destiny.