I Thought I Was Prepared

***DISCLAIMER:  I am just one of a number of people that Kim invited on her journey.  There are lots of others who assisted along the way. I’m humbled to have been given the opportunity to walk alongside her.  This is just one perspective of many.

I thought I was prepared.  Kim had been sick for years. 5 years, 3 months, and 29 days to be exact. I had watched her entire journey up close as I had a front row seat.  I was there the night of her initial surgery and held her hand and prayed with her while she was still groggy from anesthesia.  I remember feeling like I had been punched in the gut when she was told that she only had a little over a year to live. I watched as she went for months after her first surgery with clean scans, only to get knocked back down with the news of “there’s a new spot” after the birth of her 6th child.  

I recall walking into her room one day after she had begun the chemo pills and radiation.  The sight of her took my breath.  There she lay, sleeping in her all white bed surrounded by white, fluffy pillows, pristine white sheets, and a white down comforter.  It caught my attention because she looked so peaceful lying there, a bit like an angel.  I stood there staring, trying to take in every detail of the scene so I would never forget.  Her pillow caught my eye as it was covered with stray hairs that had begun to fall out of her head – a sharp reminder that my friend was terminally ill. 

There were countless other reminders of how grave her diagnosis was at every turn. For example, I homeschooled her children when she was too sick to do so. I kept them at my house for days on end because they needed a break from the heaviness at home. My husband and I sat with her and her husband as we looked through resumes of nannies who were interested in working for their family because she could not take care of a newborn plus 5 other children on her own.

I remained ringside for the duration of her illness.  I felt the highs and lows of the roller coaster she was on:  the nervousness of the slow, steady uphill climb and the giddiness and rush during the downhill descent.  I would visit her after 2 more brain surgeries and celebrate with her when they were a success.  I witnessed the effects that gamma knife treatments had on her body.  I saw as her energy was zapped time after time after time through the years.  

I watched her fight, push through the hard days, cry, and struggle.  We had the hard conversations.  The ones where she asked if I thought Phil was going to be ok.  The ones where she worked through fears.  And the ones where she rejoiced that she would soon be meeting Jesus face to face because, after all, there was no cure.  

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We talked openly when she decided to stop treatment.  We discussed the implications of her decisions – how it would affect Phil, her children, and her family.  I asked her a few times over the course of the next month if she still felt peace in her decision.  Each and every time she assured me that she did.  She even sent me a text one day that said, “Why am I getting so excited that God’s will is going to take over?”  I assured her it was because that was the best place for her to be.

We knew God could heal her.  We both believed whole-heartedly that He could.  “If He chooses to heal me, GREAT!  I get more years here with Phil and my family.  If He chooses not to, GREAT!  I get to go live with Jesus.”  Over the next few months it became apparent that healing was not God’s will.

I sat with her as she picked out pictures to put on her memory boards at her funeral.  She showed me the outfit she would be dressed in and the necklace she would wear when she was laid to rest.  We cracked up as she referred to the necklace as her “decoration” because she could not remember the word “necklace.”  “What are you?  A Christmas tree?” her husband had asked.  She shared with me about her trip to the funeral home as well as the cemetery as arrangements were made.

She laughed at what a horrible nurse I was on the nights that our husbands would go out, leaving me to be the one to give her the medication that she was to take.  I would always forget how much to give and when to give it and would inevitably have to call Phil to ask.  I put eyedrops in her blind eye and covered it with a patch because she was unable to do so herself.  I walked behind her up the steps in case she would fall as she would go up to bed, though we would giggle the whole way knowing that I wouldn’t be much help if she went down.

I cleaned her room because she was too sick to do it herself.  I laid with her 5 year old as he would drift off to sleep at night because she could no longer do so.  I washed her dishes and cleaned her house when she was too weak. I folded her laundry, tucked her children into bed, and held them tight when they would cry at the sight of mom being so sick.  Each of these tasks that I would help with was another reminder of my friend’s fate.  I do not share these things to pat myself on the back.  I share them as proof that I was forced to deal with the reality of the situation.

One of the last times my husband and I were there at bedtime, we went up and prayed with her after Phil had tucked her in.  We were 4 friends nearing the end of an arduous journey.  We said everything to each other that we wanted to say.  We agreed that we would do it all again if we needed to.  She thanked Earl for being a friend to Phil and he assured her that we would continue to walk alongside Phil when she was gone. We told her goodnight and how much we loved her.

I witnessed the decline.  I watched as she went from strong-bodied and able-minded to struggling to walk and recall the names of ordinary objects.  I saw her go from walking, talking, and laughing to being non-responsive and struggling to breathe.  I sat by her bed hours before she died, held her hand, prayed for her and reminded her that she was going to a place where:

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” ~Revelation 21:4

I promised her that we would continue to stand by Phil and the kids.  I rejoiced with her that she would soon be healed and whole and promised that I will meet her there one day.  

I knew it was coming. I was strong and ready for it because I knew where she was going. I knew she’d soon be restored back to perfect health in her eternal home where she would never struggle again. I was ok with it, prepared for it.

Until she was gone and I realized that I wasn’t.

Death is inevitable, but never easy.  We can have all of the right conversations and get our minds and hearts ready, but I don’t think we can ever be fully prepared.  We can tell ourselves that they will be better off, that they will be in heaven with Jesus, that we need to not be selfish and allow them to go. But, I’m finding that being ready is an impossible feat.  How can you really be prepared to tell someone goodbye on earth forever?  You simply can’t.

I have no regrets.  I said everything that I wanted to say and spent as much time with her as possible. I had prepared myself for years and knew that she was tired.  I thought I was ready to let her go because she was exhausted.  I fooled myself into believing that I was at peace.  And yet, here I sit in my grief.  I had told her I would be ok when she would ask.  I would say, “I’m ok because I know you are ok.”  Yet, now I question that.

Don’t let this discourage you from getting close to a friend or loved one who is battling a terminal illness.  Be sure not to run out of fear of the pain that will inevitably come.  Grief is cruel.  It smacks you down and holds you under until you wonder if you’ll ever come up for air again.  But, grief is also love. My friend Allison told me yesterday, “Grief is our heart’s response to how we loved!”  Alfred Lord Tennyson was so right when he said, “’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”  Dive into the difficult, messy things in life.  Don’t be afraid to walk with someone else on their painstaking paths.  Take it from me.  It is more than worth it.  And whatever you do, DON’T WAIT!