Death of a loved one

(December 20, 2019)
Yesterday I watched my baby brother draw his final staggering breath.
I've always wanted to be in the room while a person died. That seems like an odd wish, but I was curious. People talk about how thin the veil is when someone passes through it.
It was a very spiritual experience, but I don't ever want to experience anything like it again.

It's uncanny how similar birth and death are. In both cases, no one knows the exact timing or how long it will go on. Loved ones and trained professionals are typically there to support, but cannot take away the burden that the individual must pass through. You get to see the person in their most raw, vulnerable, human state. The love in the room is so strong you can almost taste it.

Here's the story:
December 18 I got an urgent call from my dad at 11:30 PM. The hospice nurse had called and reported that Curtis was agitated and his breathing was raspy. She believed he would pass on soon. My parents wanted to know if I wanted to come with them to the hospice house. I was just finishing up nursing Ruby and was about to head to bed, but I had a very strong prompting; an urge, to go with them. I packed my bag of yarn, crochet hooks, and games and we drove over there. Being at the hospice house brought back the memory of the night three generations of women sat at my grandpa's bedside, playing games and talking. Grandpa passed a few hours after we left. I wondered if I would be there when Curtis passed.

Shock overcame me when I stepped through the door of room 12. His skin was wrong. It was purple-ish and pale. He always had such healthy pink skin, even in the hospital. His mouth was open and I could tell it was very difficult for him to breathe. His breaths were rattled and shaky, as if he was gasping with each one. I hadn't been very emotional until that point. It felt like the events that were taking place were part of a distant story, not my actual life. When I saw him in the active dying phase, it was like a splash of ice water to my brain saying "Wake Up! This is real!"

I rushed to take his hand. All of the tears I had wanted to cry came rushing out. I held his soft, motionless hand and sobbed into a pillow for what felt like an hour. My mom held his other hand and murmured words of love to him between the questions she directed at me (and the world at large) like "what are we ever going to do without him?"
He continued to gasp for air, the intervals between breaths stretching longer and longer. Eventually there was a space of about 30 seconds and I thought he had gone. But a desperate gasp surged suddenly, as though he had been underwater too long.

Exhaustion and grief overtook me and I had to lay down on the couch. I tried to sleep, but his loud raspy breaths grated against my soul. I sat up impatiently and fished for the notebook and pen in my purse. I felt that God was inspiring me to write these lyrics to a song:
"The fragments of my heart somehow beat on.
There’s a gaping wound the shape of you, shadowed by grief and despair.
You were ripped away from me in mortality.

But Jesus has the pain I feel engraved upon his hands.
When life’s unfair I turn to him and find peace in prayer.
He has felt the depth of this despair.
Through every heartache he is there.
I lift my sorrow up to heaven and put it in his hands. “

I wish I hadn't had to go through the pain of watching Curtis die. I wish he was still here to make us laugh. But I know that God will sanctify this painful experience. I know it will help me when I need to understand, mourn with, and comfort others.

In my soul I could feel my entire essence screaming "No! Curtis! No, not Curtis!"
The sensation of icy fire still wells deep within me and catches me off guard. It feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me, but under the rug was nothing. Sometimes it feels like there is a bottomless pit in my soul. I feel myself falling into it when feelings of despair creep up like ivy, choking me.
But I've learned that life is a trust fall, not an uphill battle. I am falling into the scary, dark, unknown experience of losing a brother. I know God is there to catch me. "The Son of Man hath descended below them all." D&C 122.

Another hour passed and Curtis' condition continued to decline. His rattling breaths were interspersed with eerie long pauses.

I didn't realize it would be his last breath, but as my mom grew more agitated and quietly called out to me I knew I needed to take his hand once more. I told him how much we love him. And no more breaths came.
Knowing he was gone, I gave his hand one more squeeze and sat back down on the couch.
Emotion choked my dad's voice as he quietly said, "oh, Curtis. We're going to miss you so much." He tenderly laid his hand on Curtis' head and gently closed his half-open eyes. I had the urge to kiss his cheek and felt guilty that I hadn't done it moments before. I got up and kissed his pale cheek, trying to transmit all of my love into him.
I hope he got to see how much we loved him, during his whole life and those final hours and moments. I hope that from where he is he can see how much we love him still.
We sat in the room on the couch, my mom on my left and my dad on the right. The gentle nursing staff occasionally came in to talk to us or give my parents paperwork. We waited in that room with Curtis' body for at least two hours. I was desperately exhausted and wanted to curl up and sleep for the entire day. Eventually I learned that we were waiting for the funeral home to take his body.

At around 4:30 AM the people from the funeral home arrived. We stepped out of the room while they transferred his body to a gurney. It was heartbreaking to watch them wheel it out with his face covered in a dark blue quilt. While we could see his face it seemed he was still with us. A light drizzle and sharp frigid breeze sent a chill through me as we watched them gently load his body in the back of a black Grand Caravan, close the door, and drive away. I felt numb. Empty. Shattered inside. I watched the hearse until it slipped out of view, then stumbled to the car with my parents.

On the ride home it felt like someone was sitting next to me in the back seat of the Nissan. It felt like Curtis was there. I had been hoping for a spiritual experience in all this, but I wasn't sure if I was just making it up. Because of another experience I had after the celebration of life, I believe Curtis really was there, sitting beside me in the car.

The cheerful Christmas lights on my home seemed unaware how much sadness could fill a soul. I sometimes look at young adults, with their faces aglow and futures bright before them. And I think "you don't know. You can't understand." But it's good that they don't know or understand yet. I don't want them to feel the pain that I feel.

It was 5 AM. I trudged up the stairs physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted. I laid down next to Ruby and Michael and was able to sleep for about 3 hours.

That day it seemed as if the world was mourning his loss along with us. The rain poured down in a torrent, filling huge puddles in the road.
Michael and I saw Ammon's preschool Christmas program. It was refreshing to feel a whiff of joy waft through me. He sang songs like "I'm a Funny Little Puppet Clown," and "I'm a little snowman," and "Jack in the box." There was a little girl who sang louder than all of the other kids combined. I loved listening to them sing "We wish you a merry Christmas" at the end. Then Ammon gave us a calendar full of artwork, photos, and quotes from the year. It was wrapped in paper that he had painted.

As I walked through the rain to pick up Quin from school, I had the shocking realization that someday I would have to pass through what Curtis just did. It was as if ice crystallized through my blood. My soul squirmed in horror, searching for any possible way to escape that fate. My fate. The fate of every living thing on Earth. Death, with it's coldness, stiffness, leached color.

I had never really feared death that much before. In fact, I had foolishly welcomed it with a total of 3 emergency room stays due to suicide attempts/ideation. I know better now. During Curtis' final moments I tried to find words to express my regret that I had ever attempted to take my life. I could see now the depth of the sorrow I would have forced my parents to pass through if they had lost me 12 years ago. I thought I could never have another suicidal thought again after watching death take someone before my eyes. But in the lonely, hopeless hours of caring for 3 very little kids on a super tight budget, those unwanted thoughts have crept back in.

(January 5, 2019)
Today I was playing the organ for Sacrament meeting. I felt prompted to play from a prelude book that I don't use very often. I was nervous about doing that because I don't have much experience or practice at that particular book. I played "Sweet Hour of Prayer" and then turned the page to "I Know That My Redeemer Lives." When I play a song I almost always hear the lyrics float through in my mind. I came to the part that says "He lives and grants me daily breath. He lives and I shall conquer death." I was shocked by those words. It made me think of Curtis and how frightening death looked on his young body. I now know that death is very scary. Four years ago I had lost an uncle in a tragic car accident. A year ago, grandpa passed away after months of pain and discomfort from his cancer treatments. I saw grandpa a few hours before he died. I was relieved that death had mercifully lifted his soul out of his broken, bleeding, exhausted, body. But for Curtis, who was 59 years younger, it felt like death was robbing us.

It was horrible to have nothing I could do but watch as he passed through the active dying phase. Death came. And it felt like death won. How frightening it must have been for Jesus' disciples and followers to helplessly watch him die! Then to hurriedly lay his pale, lifeless body in a tomb.

Having witnessed a death, I have a greater appreciation of the marvel that Jesus "seized the keys of death" and was the first to conquer the grave. How powerful he is to break the bands of death! How sweet to draw upon his mercy and be saved from doom. I know that Jesus died for us. A truly amazing thing, considering how ugly and awful death is. That he would go through that for me! Oh, it is wonderful. I know that he rose from the grave. His spirit once again inhabited his perfect body, marred only by the marks in his hands, feet, and side. I know that his victory over death assures a glorious resurrection for Curtis, Eldon, and Carl. And that his mercy assures a marvelous future after death for those who believe and follow.