What begins well ends well

Sitting at his bedside, I listen to him breathing. Every now and then a hand emerges from beneath the blue comforter to scratch his neck; a smile plays across his lips; the deeper sleep resumes. For the past three days, since another "heart event" on Sunday evening, there's been a precipitous decline. His legs will barely support him now, and only by strength of will has he managed the trip between the bed and his chair. Yesterday he didn't get up at all; today when we arrived he was sitting in the chair trying to eat some soup a nurse had brought him, but he was having so much trouble breathing he was quickly exhausted, and fell asleep between breaths. Then he asked for a cheese sandwich, and I made him one, against our better judgment, but after two bites he began coughing and said, "I've eaten, my stomach is nourished, and now I think it is time for bed." He struggled to his feet with the usual exclamation of  "yu'allah!" and grasped the walker while we both supported him, and fell into bed with a sigh.

He doesn't know us now, all the time. Two nights ago, yes, but last night in animated, happy conversation, lying on his bed, he wove in and out of the present and the past, sometimes completely here with us as his son and daughter-in-law, sometimes back in the Damascus of his youth, talking to J. as if he were his brother Fuad, or Henry Nachtman, his old friend and rival for the same girl's affections.

"She had such a long list of suitors," he said, smiling, his eyes tightly closed, "She was beautiful, and had quite a presence. I used to take her to the symphony concerts - she loved music, and I of course knew nothing about it - but I always orchestrated our entrance, and people would turn their heads! She was the favorite of all the intellectuals at the university. There was Charles Malleck, a philosophy professor, and Henry Nachtman, a doctor -- six or seven men were fighting for her. And I was the one she wanted." He shook his head slowly from side to side, on the pillow. "The night before she left for Cairo I was with her at her house, and we were talking, and talking -- she was waiting for me to pop the question. But it got later and later...and I didn't do it. When I walked out of her house, they were all there, waiting in the woods, hoping! So later I arranged for Henry to have an appointment with her, and she ended up inviting him to come to Cairo and spend Christmas with the family."

"Why didn't you marry her?"

"I don't know! But I think the main reason was that she didn't want to go to college. I remember that she told me, "Oh, I read books!' but the books turned out to be Khalil Gibran! And probably the copy I had given her, at that! We didn't really talk about anything...our summer  plans, things like that."

"Why did you arrange the appointment for Henry?"

"Because...I was 'closest to the door,' so to speak. The rest of them were all waiting outside. I felt responsible, once I had decided I wasn't going to marry her. And Henry was really the best of the lot. But she didn't choose him, even though he went to Cairo. She married a very wealthy Egyptian with an Italian passport!"

He fell silent, thinking, and we thought he had dropped off to sleep again, but then he suddenly said, "Imagine! She could have had Charles Malleck, and she preferred me!"

--

Yesterday afternoon he had told my husband that he expected to die that night. They had had a long conversation together, with his father expressing several wishes, and making a few surprising confessions. As he has been doing quite consciously over the past few weeks, he was continuing to tie up loose ends, to conclude unfinished business. For some inexplicable reason, he had wanted his son to take the money he had in his pockets: "I have 13 dollars and 50 cents in there," he said. "I don't want to die with any cash. And you need to get hold of the people in M."

"Why is that?" J. asked. (This was a congregation he had served during two winters after his retirement)

"Because I told them a lot of lies and they collected them and published a book, and I want you to find all the copies and destroy them."

"Well,  Dad, I think that's going to be kind of hard!

--

But when we came back after supper, he was even weaker. He was confused about what time it was, and whether he had eaten or not, and seemed convinced that the nurses were refusing to give him his medication because of some mix-up, but finally relaxed when J. went to talk to them. "I am perfectly comfortable!" he assured me. "I know what is happening, I am not worrying at all, and I've become rather fascinated with watching the process!"

Today he's been repeating the same theme to the nurses, and to several people who called on the phone. Any trace of anger or frustration from the past weeks seems to have dissolved and his personality distilling into the sweetness we've always suspected to be its dominant trait. He thanks the nurses and staff profusely, and praises everyone who's mentioned: "a wonderful girl", "such a kind man!", "so decent, so lovely!" whether he knows precisely who they are or not. I wonder if he's made a conscious decision how he wanted to end his days, and chosen the better part; it seems to be so.

Just now the phone rang and he picked it up, listened, said thank you very much, and told the caller his son and daughter-in-law had been there but had gone home, 'reassured that he would be saying good morning to them tomorrow.' He hung up, then turned to me and said, "My goodness, what's going on? The word must have gone out that I am dying and they're all calling to say goodbye to me." He fell asleep, then woke up and declared, "I've been here 77 years and it's the best place in the world!"

"You mean here, in America?"

"Yep! I've lived 77 years among you and they've been good years." He shut his eyes and a contented smile creased the corners of his mouth. "What begins well ends well!"

Comments

[Pascale Soleil]

Oh my. How I wish I had had this kind of experience with my father before he died.

[Kaycie]

I'm saddened by the knowledge that he thinks he's dying, and by the possibility that he's correct.

[Lorianne]

(o)

[mb]

Beth, thank you for all of this.

[leslee]

{Beth and J}

[Bitterroot]

Beth, this process is very moving. Thank you.

[marja-leena]

Yes, very moving, Beth, thank you for sharing. I, too, wish I'd had this kind of experience with my father. ((0))

[language hat]

Thank you for allowing us to follow him on the way down; it's a real privilege to be a distant witness. And even in severe decline he retains his ability to make me laugh and think at the same time:

"Because I told them a lot of lies and they collected them and published a book, and I want you to find all the copies and destroy them."

[jzr]

Very moving. Death is all about living. I hope that when my time comes I will be blessed with this same grace.

[Pat]

Ohhh my. Thank you for sharing this. Such a souland graceful passing.
I imagine too, the photo here is from his room?

[Pat]

Ohhh my. Thank you for sharing this. Such a soul and graceful passing.
I imagine too, the photo here is from his room?

[Judith]

Beth, thank you all for this glimpse of hopeful passing.

[elizabeth]

Oh Beth. I hope you were able to bring him the yogurt soup. Thank you for giving us this story--I hope we are all lucky enough to end this well, in the company of such love and care.

[beth]

Thank you all for writing...yes, Pat, the photo is of one wall in his apartment. That cross and the picture have always been in his study or close by him. I'm not sure where the cross came from - I'll ask if I can - but the picture is a pencil drawing entitled "The River Tay at Perth, Scotland, 1944" and it's by a good friend of his, Byron Thomas, who was an artist in the New England village where he taught and was a minister for many years. There's a couple on the banks of the river, arms around each other, and they're looking across it at a cathedral veiled in fog.

He's weaker but had some clearer moments today, and we've been able to talk. A very precious time.

[Kat]

[heart]

[anasalwa]

Ohhh Beth, thank you for sharing your beautiful experience.

[anasalwa]

Beth,
I wanted to write, "sad and yet beautiful experience."
I'm sorry for my mistake.