The Vagaries of Dying

What do we see, “before we go?”

When both my parents were diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, a little over five years ago, we all knew it was the end of the line, but held onto the last flimsy bits of hope for as long as we could.

After about seven months, perhaps more, of my sister caring for them in her home, and literally being on call for them twenty-four hours a day, their condition became such that they had to be admitted to a hospice facility.

They shared a room. Two beds side by side. Funny how the memory of my mother and father in that room…in that last place before tip-toeing off this mortal coil…is at the forefront of my brain, pushing out so many recollections of better times.

Memories are odd, are they not? Often, those events and situations we choose to remember — the good stuff — we inadvertently keep at arm’s length, while the more disturbing elements in our past, are the ones that torture us relentlessly. Like some twisted form of mental masochism.

At least that’s how it is for me. I’m trying to change that, but it’s hard. As I am in turn, hard on myself. Perhaps that’s why I’m not particularly “mindful.”

My mind is full, all right, but the characters taking up residence therein could use a boot in the ass.

My mother was whom I’d always known her to be right up until the end. Tough, irascible, smarter than she gave herself credit for being, and funny as hell.

The hospital staff, during her many visits, loved her, as did those who cared for her in hospice. She was constantly cracking jokes, many of them self-deprecating and her sharp wit and positive mental attitude leave me in awe to this day.

Mom loved her vodka and was allowed a nightly tipple from the bottle that my sister gave to the hospice staff so that she could get her buzz on. After all, what did it matter at that point?

If she was scared, and I can’t believe that she wouldn’t have been, I never saw it.

My father was also tough, and often tough to get along with. But that didn’t negate the love we felt for one another.

It didn’t take long for him, after entering hospice, to get on that downward slide that so many people do, when they’re facing “last call.”

But the worst part, the part my mind won’t allow me to cover with cobwebs, is the look on his face when he stopped speaking.

Dad was a very proud man, and when he became incontinent and had to be diapered, that was the end for him.

We all tried to get him to talk. God knows my mother did. She’d reach out for his hand, and say “Lorry, talk to me, please.”

His name was Lawrence and people either called him “Larry,” or “Lorry,” as my mother did.

Nothing worked. Nothing seemed to incite him to speak to us. Every now and then, when my sister and I told him that we loved him, he’d reply with a “love you, too.” But it was barely a grunt.

This was bad enough. But the thing that got me…that haunts me…was the look on his face. He’d taken on this thousand-yard stare, where he wouldn’t actually look at us, but somewhere in the distance. Around us. Above us.

Who knows where? But I am convinced that as he faced the end of his life, he saw something. Or someone.

Part of me wants to know, and badly, what my father was looking at, while at the same time, I’m not sure that I do.

Was it his father, who he was very close with? His mother, with whom he wasn’t?

Do we ever know?

As I was thinking about this story, I knew I had to talk about my beloved Aunt Helen, one of my mother’s sisters and older by only a couple of years. She passed not long after my mother.

Aunt Helen was a sweet soul her entire life. She loved my mother dearly, and that love was returned. They were alike, yet completely opposite in their manners.

While my mom cracked wise, Aunt Helen would giggle. They got such a kick out of one another.

As Aunt Helen faced her end in a hospital room with her husband and children around her, my cousin recounted the following:

Aunt Helen appeared to be resting peacefully. Suddenly she opened her eyes and succinctly, and with a wry twist, said, “Oh, Jeannie, don’t say that!”

My mother’s name was Jeannette, but close family and friends called her “Jeannie.”

My cousin, who was at her bedside, is convinced that her mother was talking with my mother. Having a conversation.

This blew me away, and naturally, I want to believe that’s exactly what they were doing. I want to believe that my mother was ushering her sister into that Great Beyond and in so doing, eased her passing.

Oh, if only this were true. If we knew, for a fact, that “going” doesn’t mean we disappear, would we be less fearful of our ultimate fate?

Even though I’ve asked my parents for a sign, something to let me know that they’re okay and at peace, I’ve never received one. My sister, on the other hand, believes she has.

I believe it’s the same with animals. I often feel that our cats who have passed, are still with us. And, being the empaths they are, I believe our existing cats sense their presence.

Perhaps I sound crazy, but all of the above is true. Yet the questions and the vagaries remain.

Who and what do we see before the light, the light here, anyway, is extinguished?

I suppose we’ll find out.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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