Death with Dignity - the Old Fashioned Way - Coffee, Faith, and Chronic Disease

I read the headline with a warm cup of coffee in hand. And it just made me sad: Right-to-die advocate Brittany Maynard, right-to-life advocate, ends her life.

It didn't help that it was day before the 18th anniversary of the day my first husband left this earth; his labored breathing a means to his end, or his bright beginning as I often reflect.

The mystery of losing a loved one became real that day and has remained a woven thread of beauty and pain ever since. I marvel at the beauty and wipe tears when the bitter overshadows the sweet.

But I can't imagine cutting any moment short.

So what does it mean to die with dignity? To ensure no one will ever have to change your diaper? To make certain you'll never feel pain? To leave this earth before your memory fails or you lose control?

The last three months of Jason's life weren't easy. His balance was failing. Mobility a chore. His right eye was going blind and hearing slowly fading. That's the short list. But we fought to squeeze life out of every opportunity we could.

As hard as it was, I can't wrap my brain around at what point we would have called it quits the way this modern movement encourages. We took a trip the week before he had brain surgery. He needed a wheelchair and couldn't navigate steps without my hands moving his feet. I probably even fed him because his arms weren't working well.

But he was there. With us. In the mountains. One last time.

They swung in the hammock.

Nathan, Sammy, and Jason

Jason held a sleeping Sam on the Georgia Mountain Railroad, and tried to imagine Jesus holding him with the same father heart he held his son.

And we left with one last family photo, knowing the days ahead were very uncertain.

October 14, 1996

He died three weeks later.

"Bail before it gets too hard," they say. Say goodbye with a Hollywood-type-not-too-messy-ending, barring the harsh realities. Take control instead of trusting the Creator of the Universe to carry you through each moment and hour.

Some might say I don't know what I'm talking about because I wasn't the one with the brain tumor. No, I just took care of him every day as he faded from earth. I sat with him in doctor's offices and hospital rooms, hoping beyond hope for a miracle.

And I got one.

About ten minutes before he died, I looked at some friends and said, "He's either about to be raised up off that bed or I have nothing to worry about."

With renewed confidence, I walked into the living room where he laid on his back on a fold out sofa bed and cuddled next to him. In fact, I leaned over him, in prayer, sensing a peace I couldn't explain. I felt like Jason's arms were wrapped around me even though he hadn't moved. And as that distinct, divine sweetness lingered, I heard someone say, "I think he just breathed his last."

I was in awe. My husband had just died, but I had felt the transaction, sensing a presence not my own right in the room as he entered heaven's door.

That, my friends, is death with dignity, courage, determination, and trust. And this is one of many drawings left behind by the artist I loved till his sun set and his visions of Narnia became real.