I Don’t Like Death Very Much
I don’t like death very much. I say “very much” because there are occasions when death can be a good thing or at least an acceptable thing. For instance, when someone has suffered for a prolonged period of time with mind-numbing pain day after day, with little to no relief, death can be accepted as a welcomed friend.
Bubba, a friend from Rotary, had suffered for a long time with bone cancer. For days, his wife and children sat by his bedside, helplessly watching the man they loved writhing in torturous pain. The trauma of seeing their loved one in such a condition carved deeply into their faces, concealing macabre stories that no one would ever hear.
One Saturday afternoon as I entered the room, I could see that Bubba was agitated. His head was moving from side to side, unable to find a comfortable position. “He has had a terrible day,” his wife quickly said to me. She looked at me with weary eyes that betrayed days, if not weeks, without restful sleep. Bubba glanced at me but only for a moment before his head turned away. I stood before him, wanting so much to ease his suffering, but afraid even to hold his hand for fear of increasing the pain in his cancer riddled body.
My friend continually pushed the morphine button but to no avail, as it only periodically administered the analgesic drug. His eyes filled with tears. Were the tears caused by the pain in his broken body or from seeing his family in such distress? Perhaps both. His speech was raspy and soft, hard to understand. I lowered my head to his mouth and turned so my ear was just inches from his lips. I could hear him trying to make a sound. I think he said simply, “Why?”
What did Bubba mean by “why?” To this day, I don’t know. Maybe he was saying, “Why has God allowed this to happen?” or “Why can’t I just die?” Maybe something else entirely.
He didn’t die that day or the next. When my friend finally passed away several weeks later, I visited his wife to help plan the funeral service. She had slept little for several months and her eyes looked bleary, with heavy dark circles underneath. Her speech was slow, halting, and she apologized several times, saying she was having trouble with her memory. She was only 46-years-old. Sleep deprivation can do that.
She began to cry. Her son put his arm around her. She said to me, “Pastor, I feel so horrible.”
I asked her why.
She hesitated for a moment to collect her thoughts and then said, “Because I’m glad he’s gone. I just couldn’t stand to see him suffer. Am I being selfish?”
“No,” I replied. “You’re being compassionate. There comes a time when we have to let go.”
Death was a welcome release for my friend, Bubba, and for his wife and children. Sometimes death can be a good thing or at least an acceptable alternative to an endless life of pain with no hope of recovery.
Then again, death doesn’t always end the suffering, at least for the ones left behind. The memory of a loved one who has left this world can resurface again and again, oftentimes catching us off guard, evoking either pain or joy or sometimes both at once. We may learn to live with it, or circumstances may change that push the death of a loved one deeper into the subconscious where we don’t think about it as often. Yet, the remembrance of a deceased loved one will continue to creep into our thoughts, making it virtually impossible to completely let them go.
A year or so later after Bubba’s death, his wife came to see me. For the first 10-15 minutes the conversation was casual, and I wrongly assumed that she was just paying me a courtesy visit, an appreciation for conducting her husband’s service, but suddenly her entire countenance changed and she began to cry softly.
She told me that she missed her husband, her life would never be the same, and she didn’t know how she could go on. She had gained considerable weight since I had last seen her and appeared almost as distressed as the days following her husband’s death. We talked for a long time and I recommended grief counseling to her.
She agreed that might be helpful and left my office still dabbing her eyes with a tissue. In the following weeks, I phoned her several times and learned that she was attending a therapy session provided by hospice. I was also pleased to learn that several ladies from our church had befriended her, and they were making sure she didn’t spend too much time alone.
I saw her often over the ensuing years and we chit-chatted about different things. One late afternoon I saw her at a ballgame where one of her children was playing football. She appeared much better and her greeting signaled to me that her recovery was well underway. Before I went to find my seat, she said, “You know, Michael, I will always miss Bubba. He was the love of my life, and I will never be the same. But I know now that I can make it. I’ve got wonderful friends and family.”
Friends and family. If there is any medicine that can make the loss of a loved one less intense, the support of family and friends is a God-sent elixir. It is not a cure, nothing in this world is, but it can fill much of the emptiness and bring back the joy of living.
I don’t like death very much. Its emotional effects linger far beyond the graveside service and leave people forever changed. We may learn to put one foot in front of the other and manage to get on with life, but we will never be the same. Death etches sorrow into our lives. How deeply that sorrow burrows depends on the support we have. Sorrow can be significantly relieved through the love of friends and family.
The Bible understands how impossible it is to put death completely behind us. While the Scriptures celebrate the death of an aged person full of years, the sacred texts also recognize that permanent loss, at any age, is painful for loved ones.
My parents and brother have been dead for many years, but I find myself sharing events in our family’s life with them, especially when something good happens. I want to include them, make them a part of what has happened, and thank them for their influence on my life. I’ve learned to live with their deaths, but I will never get over the loss of their presence in my life, nor do I want to.
Several passages of Scripture promise us that someday God will swallow up death forever and wipe every tear from our eye that death has caused (Isa. 25:8; 1 Cor. 15:54; Rev. 21:4). I look forward to that day. Surely, God will have boxes and boxes of tissue. But, of course, any tears we shed then will be tears of joy! In the meanwhile, I don’t like death very much.
