Dying – Linda & her sisters

The previous post and responses drew my attention to the topic of Life and Death. Especially I find myself thinking about Death, the greatest fear.

 

I think nearly everyone has a fear of death. Nearly everyone. I’ve received the gift of being with people when they die, and it is an incomparable blessing they’ve given me. They’ve taught me how to die, and I’ve been able to feel much more accepting of it. Like most, I want to die in some level of comfort.

 

Linda was 81 when she died. She had survived breast cancer in her early 70s. She was incredibly tough, growing up on a sheep ranch in northwestern South Dakota. When she was a child at home, they lived summers in a sheep wagon. (See the photos below.)  Mostly they slept outside, under the stars, or under the wagon if it rained, a very rare occurrence. Clearly Linda, second from the oldest, and her sisters were strong, resilient women.

 

When Linda’s breast cancer recurred, she decided she’d had enough chemo, enough hair loss, enough skin-burning radiation. She decided it was time. Never demonstrative or overly self-disclosing, Linda said she’d talked it over with God, and they were in agreement. I absolutely trusted her words.

 

As Linda grew weaker, she moved off the distant ranch, and into town with her daughter, Sue. Sue was of the same mind as her mother and God. The last time I saw Linda alive was the day before she died. She was lying in bed on her stomach. Her liver was done, and she knew her time was very short. Linda was so serene that I was too. Sue told me Linda had referred to herself as a real Golden Girl earlier.

Maybe there is something about the life and death struggles of life on a sheep ranch. Something about killing coyotes before they can steal a lamb. Something about droughts, pulling sheep out of holes, lambs living and lambs dying.

I buried the oldest of Linda’s sisters shortly after I arrived at that church. I never knew Ida, but her children gave me her Bible to help me get a sense of Ida. That Bible was heavily marked and underlined, pages dog-eared. On the inside cover Ida had written, “Thank you God, that all days aren’t like today.”

 

I’m still extraordinarily m

oved by that brief sentence. It provided the basis of her funeral sermon. I am so grateful to have met Ida in that special and profound way.

 

That experience with Ida gave me a sense of that family of hardy ranch women. Linda told me more.

 

I went to her bedside and knelt down with my communion kit and anointing supplies. Linda had a level of awareness, but I wasn’t sure how much. Sue told me that Linda had wanted communion and anointing. It was one of those occasions in which God’s presence was so palpable that I almost thought I could hear Her and feel Her. I was in the midst of the Great Holy Mystery. I couldn’t think about that too much, without being completely overwhelmed and crumpling to the floor in awe.

 

I anointed Linda, and reminded her that the cross of Christ, etched on her forehead in oil on the day she was baptized more than 80 years ago, was still there. After a pause, without opening her eyes, Linda responded, “Is that right.” It was not a question, more like a little nudge to remind her that I wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know first hand. I smiled to myself. Yeah, at that moment Linda knew so much more about God and her relationship with God than I had any idea. To say that was humbling is to be guilty of an enormous understatement.

 

Linda died the next day and I will never, ever forget her. She gave me more than I can really evaluate. I just know that she changed my life profoundly.

 

That was in my third year at First Lutheran. In my 5th year, the third sister, Joan, became ill with pancreatic cancer. In 2004 pancreatic cancer was an absolute killer. Joan was well aware of that, and accepted it, but she did not give up. Joan believed that she could recover. It was not a denial type of belief, not a desperate hope, but a real possibility. Still, she was prepared to accept that she might not survive.

 

I continued to visit Joan regularly and be a part of her effort while being thoroughly blessed again through such a wonderful woman. She did indeed succumb to her disease. Well, her body succumbed. Her soul, her gift to the community and to me continues to live on.

 

Buddy was the last sister, the littlest sister, considerably younger than the others. In a short five years she had gone from the loving cocoon of her sisters, her partners for a lifetime, to become an only child. Buddy carried about herself an understandable melancholy. My heart went out to her, but I felt some relief knowing that she was formed of the same strong and faithful stuff as her sisters. (Buddy continues to survive today.)

 

There were a few deaths that were heart-wrenching because the individual died in fear and emotional suffering. They were terrible. I will never forget those either. They taught me that the opposite of faith truly is fear. My heart broke for those people.

 

There were several other deaths I witnessed, or played an intimate role in. There were several other people who taught me how to die. One was a 16 year old girl whom I taught in high school in 1980. Sue had developed bone cancer. She showed us all extraordinary heart and grace through her leg amputation, and gradual physical deterioration. She had loved playing basketball. When Sue returned to school after her amputation, I gave her a small award at the sports banquet. The inscription read: “The human body has limits, but the spirit is boundless and beautiful.” Her parents put that on her grave stone. I was blessed by Sue’s death.

 

Age was never a factor in any of these death experiences. Trust was the difference.

 

I don’t think dying is the worst thing that can ever happen to anyone. It can be, but it doesn’t need to be. I think, through the many blessings I have received from Linda, her sisters, and others like them, I will not be afraid. Really, thanks be to God.