On Death and Dying

My first reaction was that maybe I was experiencing my first hot flash. I’m really not old enough to be going through that yet, but I figured, hey, it could happen! When I spoke to one of the nurses about it, though, she said that nausea isn’t usually associated with a hot flash. It was the other nurse’s reaction, though, that brought me to a complete halt. She gave me a broad smile and said, “so you’ve experienced it, too, huh?”

I’ve been more emotional lately than I usually am; maybe it’s because I’m close to finding a call in ministry and aware that soon my current lifestyle will be completely uprooted and reformed. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been actively working at “centering” myself with more ritual and more prayer, in order to bring a sense of authenticity that I’ve felt has been lacking lately. Or it could be because the son of my former pastor (who I knew in Arizona and haven’t seen in a decade) died in our ICU this past weekend. I’d recognized his name on the patient list & his wife, mother and sister warmly welcomed me, excited to be able to tell his father (who wasn’t there at the time) that a former parishioner and seminarian he’d counseled was now ministering to his son. He’d come in looking terrible, but had vastly improved by late last week, so it was a vivid slap in the face when I saw that he’d coded and died. The chaplain on call that afternoon said that he’d taken a massive turn for the worse that day and that his father had been here this time; the family had prayed together, then he was removed from life support. Aside from the upset, I was fiercely glad that I wasn’t on call that day, because I was certain I wouldn’t have been able to hold it together for the family. The son was only 53, and all I could think of was how much worse it hurts when death affects someone you know personally. Oh death, where is thy sting? I’d always tried to be optimistic, but I have to say that this week it’s really hurt like an SOB.

When I came in the day after I learned of his demise, I was told of a 50-something patient who was actively dying of AiDS in one of the regular hospital units, and to expect The Call at some point. It never came, but I DID get paged at 4am to attend the death of a 70-something gentleman with prostate cancer. I went through all the motions that I usually go through; our hospital is unusual in that the chaplains are those who complete the paperwork after a death. It’s extensive and can take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour; this morning I finished it 30 minutes since there were no suspicious circumstances. The patient’s daughter and I spoke about his love of art; she said that at various times in the previous 24 hours, his right arm would lift straight up in the air and make stroking notions as if he were painting a canvas that only he could see. I was charmed by that; rarely do I hear such things from family, though it brought to mind a death I attended last October. A 60-something man who’d been hospitalized for 2 weeks following a severe stroke that left him speechless had been in the habit of doodling or writing gibberish on a pad they gave him; the staff had had trouble communicating. Six hours before his death, he picked up the pad and wrote clearly, “Jesus loves us” – his only communiqué since the stroke. There was no further expression before he died.

In the past, I’ve struggled with the questions about death and dying; we ALL avoid talking about it. But this morning, after some minutes hanging back and talking quietly with the daughter, I approached the bedside opposite the patient’s wife, who was still stroking his arm. I asked if she believes that he’s in a better place and without hesitation, she smiled slightly and said, “oh, yes.” I knew that he’d had several forms of cancer, and said something I sometimes say about how “there” he won’t have a physical body with problems. As his wife voiced her agreement, in an instant, I was suddenly engulfed in heat. I could literally feel myself burning through the core of my body, though my extremities felt cold. I also felt so faint that I was certain I’d be sick in a matter of moments. I hurriedly wrapped up and stumbled out of the room, then rested at the desk with my head in my hands for a full 2 minutes before moving. Was it a hot flash, I wondered? Do you usually feel sick along with the heat? Both nurses with whom I spoke are about 30; one figured I might be feeling the onset of a cold, but the other smiled and told me that she’s experienced this three times when a patient dies, including her own father. She is convinced that what I went through was experiencing this man’s soul or spirit finally leaving this world and making its transition. I’ve been through some strange experiences in the past, so it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me, but I wasn’t sure I believe her. After I left the unit, I took the paperwork to the transfer center (where all ‘night shift’ deaths go) and spent time talking with the nurse on duty that shift. We talk a lot about faith and how it helps people, but this morning she spoke to me openly and in an amazingly serene manner about death and dying.

She was raised Southern Baptist, she told me, but found no faith in a tradition where all she ever heard was that people are evil and sinful and hell awaits us. At age 20, she became a Big Sister to a teenage girl who was Roman Catholic; one Saturday evening she attended mass with her young protégé and the first thing she heard the priest say was, “God Loves Us”. She’s been Catholic ever since with no regrets or apologies. One night she had a dream that an enormous black cloud had enveloped her parents and herself; the next day she learned that her father had died of a massive heart attack in his sleep. When her mother was living in a nursing home, she says that one day she literally smelled her mother’s presence all the way over here in New Orleans, though Mama was in Arkansas. She could sense it, hear it, and feel it. Mama’s doctor called a few hours later with the news that she’d passed.

The best comment of all was when I asked her what she thinks life after death is really like, and she said to me with the excitement of a child, “I really believe that when I die, my first reaction to it all will be to say to God, ‘why did you leave me down there so long’?” My brief experience in the subject of the Afterlife has me agreeing with her 100%. It’s difficult to keep this in mind, though, when all we know is what’s right in front of us. The nurse said she thinks that’s the reason some of us are down here longer than others; we have things to learn, to process, to go through, before we Go To A Better Place. Just the way she said it wrapped me in a warm blanket of reassurance, and made me feel a lot better about all the deaths I’ve attended. For the first time in my entire life, I finally feel that in this existence, we're still off stage, waiting for our cue, not quite ready to get out there under the bright lights and really live. But whether it’s the artist with cancer, the pastor’s son, or the man who writes only the most important thing to know, one thing I can say with utter assurance: death has no sting for me anymore. My only prayer is to continue learning what I need to know, and how to impart it to those I’ll serve, so that when the time comes for me to go to that Better Place, to get out there on stage, the fire of my transition will warm the heart of another person who feels death’s sting too strongly.

Ode to Joe

Over 18 months ago, I wrote a blog about my love for my adopted home, New Orleans. The landscape is gorgeous, the food unsurpassed in taste and uniqueness, and the people the friendliest you’d ever hope to meet, even when they struggle to recover from catastrophe. When I arrived in the Big Easy in early September 2008, most of the city was deserted due to Hurricane Gustav. As I spoke with the natives, and got to know the city a little better, I realized how much the topic of “The Storm” (that’s what they call Katrina) dominated every thing that occurred. It was only much later, looking back, that I realized how things – and people – have changed since August 29, 2005. When I arrived here, there was an emotional inertia that emanated from most people, one that I didn’t realize was unusual since it seems to be commonplace in most large Northern cities. New Orleans was different before The Storm; emotion is what powers the people who live here because they understand that life is a gift to be enjoyed, not tolerated. Slowly, over time, they have managed to reclaim that feeling. It’s taken over two years for me to discover that I’ve been witness to a miracle: the rebirth of a people, the rebirth of a home. I feel as if I’ve witnessed the Israelites in the 39th and 40th years, struggling through the last of the desert before arriving at the edge of the Promised Land. The genuine hope and good will that now fills the air simply was not present when I began my work here as a hospital chaplain. Joy once again dominates this city, and I’ve rarely seen it so prevalent as it was in Joe.

Joe was born and raised here in NOLA, went to university in Baton Rouge, joined the Marines and served in Viet Nam, then returned home to work as a truck driver for some years before he retired. Of course, retirement did nothing to stop him from activity; he was barely 60. He was always full of ideas, and every time I spoke with him, he acted as if he were truly excited to see me. His life has been affected by The Storm in much the same way that so many lives have been: his family scattered to the four winds. I can’t begin to describe the joy on his face when he told me last month that his sister and her husband were at last returning home to New Orleans, after over five years in exile due to The Storm. You’d have thought he was a little boy expecting Santa Claus to bring him an X-box or a Wii system. His happiness was so contagious that you couldn’t help but feel it yourself. That’s a gift that many natives of NOLA possess, but Joe really demonstrated it every time I spoke with him. It makes me think of a blog I wrote a year ago this week, about what it means to live as a good man. To bring happiness to others, to bring joy alive in others’ lives, is certainly part of the definition. Defined strictly in that sense, Joe lived as a great man, because I never saw any petty behavior in him. I’ve no doubt he felt it at times; after all, he was only human. But what matters is that he never demonstrated it in the 2+ years I knew him. It humbles me when I think of how I can let little things irk me, such as a pickup that pulls out in front of me and makes me put on my brakes, or someone who cuts in front of me at the grocery store check out. Little things that annoy us mean nothing in the face of the greater common goals: to love God, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. I’m hard pressed to think of someone who was a better role model than Joe when it comes to demonstrating these things.

Joe was not in church on Sunday morning, which is highly unusual. His sister who had recently moved back home said as much to the interim pastor at church, and after the service, she and her husband went to check on him at his home, where they found him unresponsive on the floor. He was taken to Touro Hospital, where he died peacefully early on Monday morning – Valentine’s Day. As much as this has been a terrible shock to those of us who are his church community, I think it’s very fitting that he went home on the day dedicated to loving others. On this day, February 19, we celebrated his life in a memorial at the church; it was the first funeral service in which I’ve ever participated as a pastor. Joe’s beloved choir, who he considered his second family, sang in tribute to him: His eyes are on the sparrow, so I know He watches me. I cried a little, and let those tears stream boldly down my face. I didn’t care if my mascara streaked or if some people thought the pastor shouldn’t express emotion; it took two years of living in a city where people aren’t afraid to express themselves for me to feel comfortable doing this. What stands out most to me is the words spoken by Joe’s nephew: that his fervent wish is to live to be half the man his Uncle Joe was, because then he’ll know that he lived as a good man. After the funeral, the family went to honor Joe’s last request: that his ashes be scattered in his beloved Audubon Park, where he jogged faithfully every day.

My time in New Orleans is nearing its end; I’m actively searching for a call in parish ministry, and my own denomination has no openings here. It’s bittersweet to me since I love this city so, but I know I’ll always have a home here. Lately I’ve been looking back over all the experiences I had here and how I’ve grown as a person and as a pastor. The blogs I’ve written help me to remember the sharpest of those, which most times is a very sad thing for me. As much as I enjoy the Creole Creamery, for example, I will always associate it with February 17 of last year, when I could not manage to get past a particularly painful experience with a family whose baby girl died in the ER that morning. But now, exactly one year later, I realize that I will always associate the beauty that is Audubon Park with Joe, and I’ll be reminded of how important it is to bring joy to others in my life and my ministry. How very fitting that he is the cause of one of my happiest memories. In writing this tribute to Joe, I realized how much my blogs have brought life to me. It was such a privilege knowing him. And realizing that I’ll always carry a part of New Orleans inside me, partly due to his influence, makes the impending departure a little easier. Thank you, my friend.