Archive for the 'Dying and Caring' Category

25
Feb
11

In the Bulb there is a Flower

In December you read about the Christian Peacemakers Teams, my friend Mark Frey and his friend Glenn who has been on death row for 25 years. The post was titled,  Red Velvet Cake and the Spirit of Christmas.

Today Mark writes to say:

Glenn called this morning, saying “It’s a bad day, brother. They gave me a date: March 31.”  That’s when Alabama (but really it’s our society) will kill him at 6:00 pm.

He was task-focused, trying to figure out what he needed, and wanted, to do before the end of his life. He was filled with regrets about all the things he’d wanted to do and letters he’d wanted to write before the end, but just wont have time to do.

He asked me to call his “soul-mate” in England, so that she’d find out about his date from a friend rather than through the internet. She took the news well: “We knew this was coming.”

“Yes, but it’s real now,” I said.

She and Glenn are devout Christians. She responded, “He’ll be with the Father, in a much better place.”

“Yes, I know that……” I said. Her voice full of emotion, she emphasized for me and herself, “He’ll be having a party, talking to old and new friends….He’ll be in GLORY!”   Amen!

Later in the day Sara and I shared with Glenn the hymn text from, “In the Bulb there is a Flower.” (The composer Natalie Sleeth dedicated it to her husband who was diagnosed with cancer soon after she wrote it.  And a few years ago Sara and I participated in a memorial service choir for a close friend’s father who was taken very suddenly by an aggressive cancer.)

In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free!
In the cold and snow of winter there’s a spring that waits to be,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody;
There’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.
From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity;
In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity,
In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

We’re still trying to wrap our heads and hearts around this news that we knew was coming.

We are trying to arrange things so that we’ll drive as a family to visit Glenn the days before his execution, and hold a prayer vigil while the execution takes place.

Please pray for an end to the death penalty.

If you would like to contact Mark…write a letter of inquiry, or one of kindness to Glenn, here is Mark’s contact information:

Mark Frey, Administrative Coordinator
Christian Peacemaker Teams
PO Box 6508
Chicago, IL  60680-6508 USA

Phone: +1-773-376-0550
Fax:   +1-773-376-0549

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.

08
Feb
11

longing for home – part 2

I have been longing for home since I first experienced what the mystics call the thin place, during my *cancer treatment and recovery (2006/7). I cannot describe this experience in words. I would need to sing it, chant it, dance it. It was life-changing. Since then I long for home from time to time—the place from which I came and to which I will return. I long for it the way a tired child longs for comfort and rest.

Two years ago I walked with my sister Florence, to her last breath. A year ago I walked, talked and sheltered my adopted daughter Bettina, to her last breath. The first and the last breaths of life are the most sacred moments of life—God given at birth and God received at death.

I was privileged to do this, yet it all leaves me feeling stranded sometimes—alone with unnameable yearnings. Since my cancer experience I have become highly aware of the transience of life on this planet, and have sought to live respectfully of the time I have remaining. Since losing Bettina, I am also becoming sensitized to the losses that pile up around us as we age. People die and leave us one person short of a full deck! As my mother aged, I remember her saying so wistfully a number of times: “Everyone is gone now…I feel so lonely.” She lived to be 91 and truly was the last survivor of her clan. We were not close. I did not understand her sadness then, but I do now.

My respect for time, which has taken the form of a desire to participate meaningfully in the life of the church, waxes and wanes as I realize how much more urgency I feel for change than does my Mennonite Church denomination. The disparity can be stultifying and sometimes quite painful, especially regarding the hot-button issue of inclusion, an intrinsic extension of our peace and justice values.

I am a catalyst by nature…one of those annoying people on the side-lines who are always urging the assembled majority toward more. I do not yet know how to carry this attribute without it becoming cataclysmic! I live and breathe in an ethnocentrically based denomination with cultural leanings toward cautious introversion. This profile contrasts dramatically with my own background and personality and I feel like an outsider for a number of reasons. I don’t really know where I would fit, or if there is a fit out there for me. Probably not, given my idealism. Certainly not in either the Armenian Apostolic or Armenian Evangelical churches. I am an anomaly.

*****

It has been a difficult couple of years for living without dying. Now, as I face into the anniversary of Bettina’s last weeks, I hold memories in one hand and the present day in the other. There are days when I could really use an extra pair of hands to stir all of this into a drinkable soup.

(Curiously…just a few minutes ago, an extra pair turned up via email. You’ve just got to love this electronic age every now and again.)

Yes, I am a cracked jar and a ringing bell. I have walked through many storms, received and lost many oars and paddles. The ancient river bed is indeed muddy. I want to dance when my denomination, with all its goodness, prefers to stand, pensively waiting. Why would I not long for home?

(*For an account of this see Dying to Live on my website.)

20
Dec
10

red velvet cake and the spirit of christmas

I have a lovely Christmas story to share and a fine storyteller to introduce, but first I must give some background.

In the mid-1980s, members of the historic peace churches began seeking new ways to express their faith. Out of this desire came the Christian Peacemakers Teams, an organization, which seeks to embody an inclusive, ecumenical and diverse community of God’s love in partnership with local peacemakers worldwide. Denominations and organizations supporting active CPT chapters are—Church of the Brethren, Friends United Meeting, Mennonite Church USA, Mennonite Church Canada, Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America, Congregation of St. Basil, Every Church a Peace Church and Presbyterian Peace Fellowship.

My friends Mark and Sara—peace and justice (CPT) activists from my church—entered a letter writing program to prisoners through a Church of the Brethren friend of theirs. Through this program they met Glenn, an inmate at Alabama’s Holman Prison, where he has been on death row for the past 25 years. Mark and Sara have visited him 3 times since 2002 when their correspondence began. Each time, they found that they were the only visitors Glenn had that year.

A couple of days ago Mark sent this remarkable story….Red Velvet Cake and the Spirit of Christmas…to the congregation through our listserve :

Glenn called today and left a voice mail saying, “Brother, I have something important to share with you.”  I called him back.

He said, “You know what my favorite dessert is?” He’d told me some time ago, but I couldn’t remember. “Red velvet cake. Everyone (the inmates) around here knows that. Today, a ministry (program) was here distributing food packages.’

(Aside: there are a few ministries that distribute such food packages throughout the year. The inmates look forward to these. On death row, I’ve learned, food is a BIG deal. The daily prison food is awful, so anything normal is a major event.)

“Sister Antonia gave me my package and I told her my date was around the corner. I looked through the package and saw that there were a lot of good items. It was a pretty good collection.  And the dessert was…red velvet cake…home made!  Of all the desserts to be in there….I told her it was my favorite.”

“A little while later, she came back, and pushed another piece into my cell.”

“A little while later, another piece came, passed on down the line by the guys, from cell to cell.”

“And a little while later, another, and another, and another, until every guy on the tier had passed their red velvet cake.”

Glenn was choked up at this point in the phone call. He said jokingly, “I must have male menopause.” I told him it was a very touching thing and he was just being human and that the guys were just giving back in a small way what they’d received from Glenn over the years.  Glenn said, “Whatever they’ve received, it has been from God, not from me.”  Glenn is deeply faithful and very humble and attributes whatever positive influence he’s had on others as God’s working through him. And I believe it.

Mark goes on to share some about his friend Glenn:

Here is a story of part of Glenn’s transformation—one that happened in spite of the brutality of the so-called correctional system, and because Glenn opened himself and listened to God.

“When my sister was young, she was put into a mental hospital where she was raped repeatedly by one of the workers. As a young man, I was so angry. I pictured the man in hell, and I wanted to torture him to the verge of death so he’s feel pain like my sister.

“While in prison I asked Jesus into my heart. God said, ‘You shall know the truth and it shall set you free.’ I had to tell the truth before I could be free, and the truth was that I wanted to kill the man. The truth was not that I wanted to try to love the man. I wanted to mutilate him.

“Once I confessed to god this truth the way opened up. In a dream I heard the voice of God say:

“Glenn, there are people in your life that you hurt, not in the same way, but pain is pain, and they want you to hurt. But I don’t want you to hurt because I love you. And guess what, I love that man too, and I don’t want you to hurt him.”

“I Woke up and cried like a baby. I said to God, ‘I can’t do it, but I’m willing to let you, God, do it through me.’ I got to a place where I could envision being in the same room with the man, and telling him that I forgive him and that I love him.

“People who knew me when I was 19 (when I entered prison) will not recognize the person I’ve become; God’s love allowed me to forgive.”

In the 25 years Glenn has been on death row, the courts have denied his appeals and he will be executed in early 2011. Mark and Sara are his friends. They see a deeply wise, intelligent, compassionate and religious person in Glenn…a very different person today than who he was when he committed his crime. I believe this is true and do not understand the twists and turns that keep a redeemed person  pinned to the past. Many people say we are a Christian nation…if so, where is the repentance and compassion that Jesus taught us? He asked  the woman caught in adultery where her accusers had gone and if any condemnation remained. She tells Jesus that no one remains to condemn her. Jesus responds with compassion, and tells her that he does not condemn her either and exhorts her to go and sin no more. (John 8:1-11)

Our penal system practices an ancient code of an eye for an eye. It does not redeem, but God breaks through walls. I believe people can, and do change. In the Sermon on the Mount Jesus taught: “You have heard it said, `an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not set yourself in violent or revengeful resistance against an evildoer.” (Matthew 5:38)

As Christian Peacemakers, Mark and Sara speak for me.  If you would like to contact Mark…write a letter of inquiry, or one of kindness to Glenn, here is Mark’s contact information:

Mark Frey, Administrative Coordinator
Christian Peacemaker Teams
PO Box 6508
Chicago, IL  60680-6508 USA

Phone: +1-773-376-0550
Fax:   +1-773-376-0549

And a little child shall lead them….

13
Jul
10

beginning and ending

The day started with what I thought would be an early visit to the doctor for a cholesterol blood draw, followed by a pleasant, sweet-treat breakfast and chat with one of my dearest friends.

I drove up to the medical building somewhere between 8 and 8:30 this morning, parked my car in the nearly empty lot (lucky me), phoned my friend to say that I’d be at the cafe shortly and smartly proceeded to gather my belongings from the front seat of the car. Oh, oh, no purse…everything else, but no purse! That meant no driver’s license, no insurance cards, no money and no credit cards. Bummer! I (not so smartly) phoned my friend again to say that I would have to drive back home and start again. She was gracious as usual. I was feeling the result of having been too pre-occupied with a challenging email I’d read before leaving the house to think straight. Multi-tasking had eluded me once again.

I drove home, picked up my purse and started out again traveling back the toll road route, which is faster but unpleasantly nerve-wracking. The parking lot had filled in a bit, but miraculously the space I’d vacated 40 minutes earlier was invitationally still there! Still more miraculously, I didn’t have to wait an hour at the lab, only about 15 minutes. What luck!

“Are you fasting” the technician asked?

“No one told me to fast; I had one cup of coffee,” I said somewhat reluctantly.

“Black? That would be fasting,” the technician’s supervisor announced.

“Cream and sugar,” I said.

“Sugar? Sugar? That’s non-fasting…write non-fasting and go ahead with the test,” the supervising lady replied, while keeping her gaze directly on her computer screen.

I was given the choice of right or left arm for the poke and so it was done. I got out of there quick without caring one whit what the test said one way or the other, and called my friend to say that I was on my way to the cafe, where we would have whatever looked good to us. Coffee with cream and with sugar, for sure! We had a fine time eating, enjoying each other’s company, and celebrating her birthday. It was a lovely couple of rejuvenating hours, then time to say goodbye and head home—richer and deeper for the shared time together. What is better than that?

I drove home along the same road I’d gone  back on the first time around. It was 3 hours later. I was mulling over some things we’d discussed, and generally feeling happy, when suddenly I saw a tiny, furry body on the road. It was a small kitten about 6 weeks old—small enough to fit in the palm of the hand—black with a triangular patch of white on its chest. The kitten was lying limply on its side with legs outstretched. How does an infant cat find its way to the highway? It wasn’t there 3 hours ago when I drove this road home the first time. How did it get there? Was it feral? If so, where was its mother or litter mates? Worse case scenario: someone dumped it out the window for whatever reason. This happens, I am sorry to say. Some people think animals can fend for themselves and are better off out there. (This, of course is never true of older animals who have had human companions, or of the young who haven’t yet learned survival skills.) I have heard all sorts of reasons for the inhumane treatment of animals. Humans do not yet realize that God is incarnate in every living thing.

I gasped as my car passed squarely over that baby kitty. In that instant I felt jointly responsible as a member of the human race, and my heart broke completely. Prayers for the kitten all the way home…prayers and tears and helplessness.

Am I an animal nut? No. I am not wed to the idea of  no-kill shelters or heroic measures for the diseased and deformed. There are millions of unwanted animals in this country. I am an advocate for spaying and neutering and responsible stewardship of God’s creatures, which would include responsible and compassionate euthanasia…not the gas chambers until they are dead that often happens in county animal facilities. I do not like to see an animal suffer, just as I do not like to see human beings suffer…do not like factory farming, just as I do not like warehousing of the elderly or mentally infirm.

As I remember that lifeless little body lying there, I feel a nagging sense of guilt mixed with shame and sadness. Although life is more manageable for us now with only 2 (perfect) cats, I am filled with an urge to add another…one not so fortunate as my Ben and Bella—the prince and princess of our towerless castle. Crazy…guilt driven and compulsive…maybe I’ll just pray some more for the kitty and for all those people out there with whom I am connected as a human being, like it or not.

P.S. There will be more postings about the wedding and grandchildren…and pictures too…eventually.

05
Jun
10

june 6

This is the 3-month anniversary of Adopted Daughter, Bettina’s, death—exactly 13 weeks. The few weeks following were sometimes numb and sometimes sharp, but I was busy with preparations for her Memorial on March 27. Once that was over it seemed like life became mostly gray and I have been slogging through from oasis to oasis ever since. This is grieving 101.

My big sister Florence, a mother to me, died 2 years ago of T-Cell Lymphoma and I grieved, but in a different way. My sister and Bettina were my cancer buddies. We understood each other…walked with each other. I am the only survivor and there is a deep loneliness to that. What more can I say? Cancer: I wrote about it on my website, inheritanceproject-2.com, Project 5, Dying to Live. Check it out. No sugar coating. I write about how it really was. Cancer…the Black Plague of the modern age. I’m thinking of doing a similar project about how I experienced care giving. How it was and what it meant to me. I’ll have to give this some serious thought. Might be too soon. In the meantime… Love.

My soon to be new grandchildren are coming to visit in a half hour. Darling Daughter is getting married. Life goes on. I will write about this too and show you pictures. Grace.

07
May
10

what could have been

I’ve been reading a new book by Kathleen Norris called, Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life. Ms. Norris is a highly acclaimed poet, and author. All of the words in the title of this book are appealing to me, even the word acedia, and that is because I had no idea what it meant. Acedia, I am told, is a state of spiritual listlessness, sadness, melancholy, apathy, carelessness, and lethargy—a pathway to sloth. Originally an affliction among the monastics and religious, it was considered to have the potential of undermining faith and sensibility. It differs from clinical depression in its spiritual orientation, but can be the precursor of depression.

After the first several chapters I came to see the funk I’ve been in much of the time since adopted daughter’s death, as acedia in varying degrees. This definition stops my free-fall state with a safety net of insight. Like a person ill for years and finally getting a diagnosis that it is not “all in the head”, I feel relief. The book is dense with messages for me on all levels of my life—from aspects of faith life, to matters of creative work, marriage, illness and death, I am infused with new insights to my own shadow side.

In the last few chapters of the book, Ms Norris shares the story of her husband’s illness and death from cancer, and her experience as sole caregiver, that got my heartfelt attention. I identify. That’s me in both places: cancer patient and caregiver. Her account of care giving, both during her husband’s illness and after his death speak loudly to me. I’ve been there. I know. I’m still there.

It has been 9 weeks since adopted daughter died. Not really that long in grieving terms, but my grief has a twist to it. As executors of the estate and caretakers of all things left behind, we have been stunned to find shelves and shelves of her life that she did not share with us—did not share with anyone. In fact, we see that she lived her life in serial compartments, like an old-fashioned rolltop desk. There is a quotation my mother would offer about not letting your right hand know what your left hand is doing. This could be applied. The problem is that the original comes from the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 6:3) and is a moral directive to giving, not hiding.

What I have seen is a person I loved dearly enough to call daughter, who didn’t trust me, or anyone else enough to confide the many truths of her life that would have made the executing of her estate a far less messy and painful affair. But more than this consideration is that the love and trust she did give me was the best she could do. That says volumes. Hidden until the end. Every time she called me mamacita, she did so with the half she felt would not be rejected. “I would have loved you anyway’, I say to her memory. ‘I would have loved you and helped you make the crooked as straight as possible in the few days and weeks that were left”. If she were anyone else, I would be speaking philosophically and with a bit of distance, but because I took her as a daughter, I speak with the pain of not having been able to do all I know I could have done for her. This is a tragedy to me. Although I witnessed God’s redeeming forgiveness to her in those last few days, and know Grace was given completely, I feel a mourning for what was left out between us. I would have liked to give her the human forgiveness she was sure she didn’t deserve. But maybe in her morphine altered days, she knew it was there, and maybe she made that transaction in the shadows of her heart and soul…maybe that’s what I saw in her face as I administered the meds hour after hour with more tender love than I thought I had in me to give.

So what is the problem? Why does acedia haunt me like a child playing hide and seek in dress-up clothes? I don’t know. I am beginning to think that acceptance, letting go, and letting be is my spiritual discipline forevermore.

I hoped that by the time I finished writing this post I would have pushed through acedia, at least for a time. The estate is not yet settled and my personal sense of mourning for what could have been is not over. I do not have the sense of adopted daughter’s presence as I did with my sister after she died. I cannot explain this except to say that she never allowed herself to belong to anyone. Despite her promise to learn to hover in our lives, she does not. Perhaps there is a learning curve in the afterlife. Perhaps we are connected by this curve…she over there and me over here. Perhaps there will be a happy ending when my soul finally floats free.

Postscript: The deceptions we keep in our lifetimes may very well come to light after the funeral when there is little that can be done to alter them in any way.

22
Mar
10

2 weeks later

It is not getting easier. Grieving is hard work. It is vulnerability. It is wearing one’s skeleton on the outside. It is stretching so thin that God light can get through—in and out, back and forth. It is like my ancestors making phyllo dough, the talented women rolling it thin enough to look like paper. It is hills and valleys, plains and mountains, oceans and deserts. And mostly it just is….

I begin the last week of preparations for my adopted daughter, Bettina’s memorial, on legs both sturdy and shaky. I am ready and not at all ready. I hear the opening song…Listen, God is Calling…and imagine carrying in her ashes…walking up to the altar and placing them there, just so. Then I sit down with the remainder of my family. There will be beautiful, wondrous music, dancing, poetry, scripture…and there will be the remembrance I’ve written. I will read this as a lullaby inviting all to listen: This is who she was to me. I will do this wholly and partly awake and asleep, for the pain of it is unbearable even as I think about it.

God will grant me grace. God’s Jesus Spirit will cover us all and she will be hovering, just like she promised. It will be wonderful and terrible all at the same time. I will be closer to my sister now than ever before, because now I have lost a daughter just as she did fifteen years before. Now we have so much more in common than cancer and mother/sister relationship. I am unable to catch the words as they tumble through my solar plexus.

Just a word to all who want to connect with me…who want to see that I’m okay or not okay, or whatever: Please don’t ask me how I am. Please don’t say, “How are you?” I cannot answer that question. There is no proper bottom from which I can reply. Just tell me that you are glad to see me, or that you love me or pray for me, or whatever is true for you. All I want is to know that there are people out there who see me and care.

13
Mar
10

one week later

Saturday, March 13, 2010  —  I wake up to a dream I don’t remember, but feel sad and helpless.

One week ago adopted daughter, Bettina Ortiz, died at 2:15 p.m. with her nurse and adopted family around her (see Holiness, March 9). She had slipped into a coma during the night. I had been in a psycho/emotional coma equally as long and longer. We did this together. It was a natural ending to the team work of Tina and Mamacita. Yesterday her ashes arrived in the bronze container I chose, and she approved, on the preceding Wednesday. This engraved, bronze box is now sitting on the floor where her bed used to be…next to my sculpture called Innocents, for the victims of 9/11. The box will stay right where it is until I can think about what to do next. She said I could do anything I wanted with the ashes, but that she wanted Frankie’s ashes added to hers. (Frank was our nearly 20 year old cat who slept with her toward the end, but died two weeks before she did.) We will do that…later. Today we tend to unraveling and settling the affairs of her estate.

My unremembered dream stays with me as sadness. A recording of Jacqueline Du Pre  playing Haydn and Boccherini pours out from the living room. This is music I listened to and lived with while I was sick with cancer in 2006, just across the street from adopted daughter…also sick with cancer.

All this week Richard Rohr’s email meditations dealt with Suffering. Today the meditation is adapted from Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality, p. 25:

Pain teaches a most counterintuitive thing—that we must go down before we even know what up is. In terms of the ego, most religions teach in some way that all must “die before they die.” Suffering of some sort seems to be the only thing strong enough to destabilize our arrogance and our ignorance. I would define suffering very simply as “whenever you are not in control.”

If religion cannot find a meaning for human suffering, humanity is in major trouble. All healthy religion shows you what to do with your pain. Great religion shows you what to do with the absurd, the tragic, the nonsensical, the unjust.

If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it.

If there isn’t some way to find some deeper meaning to our suffering, to find that God is somewhere in it, and can even use it for good, we will normally close up and close down. The natural movement of the ego is to protect itself so as not to be hurt again.  The soul just wants meaning, and then it can live.

And he leaves us with this Mantra: “God, help me find you, even in suffering.”

09
Mar
10

holiness

My last posting on this blog was Thursday, March 4, 2-1/2 days before my adopted daughter, Bettina Maria Ortiz passed from this world to the next. I had been careful not to say too much about her illness and approaching death. We kept another blog going called Longing for Light where she kept in touch with all of her friends and relatives. This blog, Called by Name was where I spoke about my thoughts and feelings and those were very intimate and personal.

My partner and I met Bettina about 13 years ago through mutual friends. We introduced her to my biological daughter (Darling Daughter) and they became friends as well. We grew into a family very quickly. In those 13 years we had many adventures together—a chosen family of adults. Big Dawg and I lived within a block or two of the “daughters” and enjoyed a small sense of community—something BD and I sorely missed since leaving a Christian communal church many years earlier. Life rolled along in hills, valleys and meadows until the summer of 2006, when I was diagnosed with stage 4, non-Hodgkin lymphoma, followed 2 months later by Bettina’s diagnosis of stage 3+ ovarian cancer.

We were cancer buddies, understanding each other at a place only other cancer people can know. Sometime in 2007, when the life threatening cancer we’d both endured shook our hearts and souls, we began to silently adopt each other: adopted mom and adopted daughter. Then we all began attending church together. Walking with other Christian hearts and minds, we encountered many thin places where the division between the holy and the ordinary seem very thin. All of us grew close in this adopted family, but the bond between Bettina and me seemed at times set apart…and so it was: adopted daughter/adopted mom.

When Bettina’s cancer recurred a 4th time in January/February 2009, we asked her to come live with us so that BD and I could take care of her. We did a major revision of households, complete with turning our dining room into her bedroom and having our meals on a picnic table in the kitchen. She joined our household one early weekend in March, 2009. We hoped she would be the exception to the  ovarian mortality statistics. We became convinced she would be and dreamed of selling our house in 2 years, buying an RV with a satellite dish and a Peace sign, putting on tie-dye shirts, and roaming the country as poster girls for inclusivity, Jesus-style. We called ourselves the wild ones…in terms of Mennonite church culture, we were.

Then in December 2009, concurrent with my news of complete remission, came hers of yet another poor CA125 lab result. Her last remission was only a few months. The cancer was back and by January there was nothing left to be done. Her body did not respond to Tamoxifen and was not able to accommodate another chemo cycle. At her oncologist’s suggestion, we made a visit to a palliative care doctor on January 25th and left her office with a contract for in-home hospice care. We were already in a mild state of shock when, by the afternoon, hospice appeared at our door ready to serve. For the next 2 days, there were visits by nurse, doctor, social worker and chaplain, as well as deliveries of drugs and medical equipment. Our lives took a 180 degree turn.

Through the next weeks Bettina began a leave of absence from her job and set about putting her affairs in order on numerous levels. By the third week oxygen was required. Enter Darth Vader the O2 machine, noisily and rhythmically supplying life sustaining oxygen to her increasingly compromised lungs. After a bit of time the uninterrupted hissing and hewing became comforting to me. The morphine, Lorazepam and Remeron kept her in a relatively pain-free state allowing her the pleasure of visiting with people as well as giving and receiving love and support through her blog. In the night time hours she was fond of listening to music, especially the songs from the Sing the Journey CD, on her little Mac Laptop. Toward the end of her time she’d found Comme unsouffle fragile on YouTube and would fall asleep to it. I would often creep down the stairs to see her with her head phones and eyes closed in the blue light of her half opened computer.

During these last 5 weeks of her life she earnestly sought God and was increasingly filled with the light of God. Her last public appearance was at our church on February 28, where she shared her thoughts and insights in a meditation/sermon. The whole service was beautifully constructed around her…songs, scripture, sharing and communion. She, the pastor and worship leader served bread and wine to the entire congregation, giving each person a special word just meant for them.

By 5:00 that evening she began a serious decline that gathered momentum to the moment of her last faint breath on Saturday, March 6 at 2:15 p.m. It was a very painful, but holy day. BD noticed a flock of Sand Cranes circling high up in the sky shortly before the hospice nurse arrived. A few minutes after her arrival our pastor came too. This is our pastor’s account which she posted on our church listserve:

I arrived at Bettina’s bedside early this afternoon. Her nurse had just gotten there and turned out to be an invaluable part of the spiritual circle around her for her last hour. After taking her vitals and confirming that Bettina was in a coma, the nurse helped make the decision that she was ready to be taken off oxygen. She removed the tubes and then clicked off the noisy oxygen tank, resulting in the first blessed quiet that house had seen in weeks.

The family, along with Bettina’s oldest friend, the hospice nurse, and I gathered around Bettina’s bed. The nurse asked if she had some favorite music, and we all answered in unison, “Sing the Journey!” We put on her favorite “Sing the Journey” CD’s. Her labored breathing eased some, slowed, and at long last she simply didn’t take another breath. She had peacefully slipped away while the choir sang, “Listen, God is Calling.”

Close friends from church and work colleagues came to the house during the next four hours. At 6:00 pm, her body was carefully and respectfully taken away for cremation.

This has been a holy day.

It was my privilege to be Bettina’s friend, teammate and Mamacita…to love and care for her to the very end. I have learned and am learning a great deal about holding on and letting go, the theme of our denomination’s Lenten season. I am also learning a great deal more about suffering than I ever thought possible.

This will may be one of my last postings on this sight for a while. I will be tending to Bettina’s email and blog, Longing for Light. You are invited to visit there for more information on Bettina’s story.

Sandhill Cranes Migrating Southward

Photo by Todd Friesen

04
Mar
10

wondering

I wonder if losing a hand is anything like losing a daughter…even an adopted one? I wonder if losing a friend is like losing an adopted daughter? I wonder about a lot of things these days, like why I am called to lose this hand while having to hold on to its arm? I wonder why this is happening during Lent when my denomination’s theme is Holding On and Letting Go? I wonder how Mary Magdalene and the other Mary did this at Calvary? I don’t wonder how the disciples did it because I know they could not, at Calvary. It took Jesus meeting them on the road to help them get back on track. After that of course, they did quite well…except for one…

But I am not a traitor and am not falling asleep. I keep watch each hour and even when stumbling I am still putting one foot in front of the other…holding on and letting go. I have seen much radiant light in this watch with my adopted daughter, friend and teammate, but I have not yet received the knowing…that enlightenment that God always sends when I am ready and the time is right. So I wonder why this person dying too young from cancer…and so like a suffering child in some respects…has been chosen to leave before her time. Or is this her time and I am just too self-bound to see it?  Has God chosen her to be his paschal lamb this year of our Lord, 2010?

I wonder because I cannot yet grieve as deeply as I’d like. I am a care giver. That is my job right now: giving care—loving care. Wondering fills the void of  loss. I am wondering because I cannot rejoice. I am no saint. I am wondering like a soul wandering in its velvet deep chamber—discomfited and discontent. I did not choose this assignment. It chose me. Once again I am in God’s transformation class, hoping to graduate as soon as possible. Last year at Lent, it was a class in transformation through rejection. This year it is a class in transformation through loss and that’s my weakest subject! Never was good at loss. Don’t expect to ever excel at it. Just hope to make it through without losing at loss. I am speaking in riddles. My heart is a labyrinth of wonderment.




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