Goodbyes

“The Descendants”

When I stopped into the movie theater last night to see “The Descendants,” a new film starring George Clooney, I didn’t expect to spend the next two hours thinking about goodbyes. But saying goodbye was a huge theme throughout. I don’t want to spoil the film, so I’ll just say that the plot revolves around a woman who has sunk into a coma after a boating accident -– and the emotions she ignites while lying in her hospital bed. The movie drives home the point that relationships are messy and that goodbyes can be infused with love, tenderness, anger, disappointment, guilt, forgiveness, anguish, and plenty of unresolved questions. Enjoy the exquisite Hawaiian scenery. And notice the quilt in the very last scene....

 

Video lessons

As 2011 was winding down, I caught a TV segment about a remarkable teenager from Texas whose short but profound life story has moved people around the world. His name was Ben Breedlove, and he had a chronic heart condition that apparently contributed to his death, at age 18, on Christmas Day. A few days beforehand, Ben had produced a two-part video message about his illness and his three brushes with death over the years. What's especially poignant is that Ben tells his story using a stack of hand-written index cards, holding them up one by one without speaking. Beautiful instrumental music plays in the background. I heard his family found the goodbye videos in the hours after Ben died, and that they've since gone viral. More than 1,500 people attended Ben's memorial service, paying tribute to this honest and insightful young man.

Here's one of several links to his videos on YouTube.  

 

Love of her life

Lynda lost her husband, Craig, to cancer in September 2010 after 26 blissful years of marriage. She was heartbroken. But she was also grateful to Craig for showing her what lies ahead when he asked Lynda for permission to "go home" in his final days and seemed to be seeing something or someone from his hospice bed. 

Several months after his death, Lynda wrote an essay about Craig that she shared with me through a mutual friend. I think it's a lovely description of their meant-to-be relationship and their goodbye. I'll share excerpts of it here, starting with how the couple met:

I had worked with an insurance company in Hamilton [Ontario, Canada] since 1964 at the age of 19. Craig worked for the same company, but was traveling all over Canada in a managerial position. I got married in 1967 and went through a 17-year abusive relationship that I was finally working at leaving behind in 1981, when all of a sudden Craig was transferred into our branch as the new manager. He was not happy at all  about coming here -- but they insisted he was the man for the job. He also was trying to leave behind a 30-year relationship that had just never worked out. The fates had intervened, we met, and two years later we realized we were meant for each other. ...

My whole world changed when I met Craig. I always liked to say that life began at 40 for me, and it was true! I had never felt more loved or more respected in my life. While perceived as having a gruff exterior, Craig was a very soft and caring person. ... I will never forget him approaching a failing small grocer in the town where we lived a few years ago. It was Christmas. He knew the man was probably going to have to close out and walk away from his business, so he offered to pay for all of his produce. He then asked the grocer to deliver the goods to a shelter or food bank to help out other people in need. He did not want his name used and he wanted no accolades; he did it from his heart. He was such a good man in so many ways.

And he was a romantic! He loved nice dinners at fine restaurants and he loved to dance, many times getting me up on my feet in the middle of a restaurant where no one else was dancing. I soon learned to go with the flow and to not be embarrassed. He loved and enjoyed life to the fullest, and I loved and enjoyed it right along with him.

We had a beautiful wedding in May of 1987 with just close family and friends, and then later in the evening opened it up to everyone we worked with. It was a day I will cherish forever. Craig's adult children were very happy for us and took part in the ceremony. A few years after we married, we welcomed our two grandchildren into our lives. .... We bought our first house together, and with Craig's encouragement I learned to garden. We did everything together -- soaking up every opportunity to make up for lost time in our earlier years. We had a lot of friends and we entertained back and forth with them. 

When we retired, we started traveling extensively, with Italy topping the list of our favourites. We were so very happy. But more important than any of this, I was loved, and I thrived and grew into the person I was meant to be, and who I am to this day. Our age difference had been a concern for Craig when we first met. But in Spring of 2010 we were coming up to 26 years together, and I felt truly blessed. I imagined that we would have at least another 10 years together because he was a very vital and young man at heart. 

Then our world fell apart.

We knew something was wrong when we moved to our new townhouse in March, and by May we got the news that he had terminal cancer that had spread to his bones. With broken hearts we trudged on, with Craig worrying as much about me as I did about him. He was still my rock, the one who was strong, while I tried desperately to control my emotions. ... We tried to make the best of the six months we eventually got, pouring our hearts out to each other and cherishing every moment we could. But in the end it hurt so much to watch him suffer.  ... 

One night when we were struggling quite a bit with his care, he turned to me and said, "You need to call hospice in the morning. It is time for me to go." I cried and said "no," but he insisted and simply reminded me that we'd had a good few days visiting with family and friends, but that now it was time for him to go. One of the hardest days I have faced was seeing him go out the front door with the transport team, knowing that he would not be coming back ever again.

The 19 days he was in hospice was quite an experience for me. I started seeing a change in Craig that I had never imagined. About a week before he passed, he started pointing to the corner of the room as though he were seeing something -- and neither his son nor I could figure it out. .... Two days before his death, Craig called out something that we couldn't understand. Also in that time period, he reached up over the bed with his right arm and made grabbing motions at the air from right to left. He would knit his eyebrows together and his eyes looked different, as though trying to listen to someone. This is just my take on things while he was having the near-death experience.

I will never forget the day he turned to me and said, "I want to go home." I started crying because I thought he wanted to come home to our house. But he said, "No I can't" and then, "When can I leave?" Almost immediately I realized exactly what he meant. ... I put the rails down on his bed, sat as close to him as I could, taking his hands in mine, and told him he could leave whenever he wanted -- to go and do whatever it was that he needed to do. It was one of the most profound moments of my life because when I remembered it in the weeks that followed, I realized that once again Craig had given me an amazing gift. He had opened up my mind to what lies ahead for all of us, and I will always love him for that moment. 

Craig passed away later that week in the early morning hours of September 4th. He is with me every day in my heart and in my memories; he was and always will be the love of my life!

 

A 'weirdly perfect' day

While spending a few nights in Burlington, Vermont, this month, I picked up the local paper and found a touching "goodbye" story of sorts on the front page. Author Chris Bohjalian is a columnist for the Burlington Free Press; today he was remembering his dad, Aram "Bo" Bohjalian, who had just died, at 83, after a blood vessel burst in his brain. My dad went the same way, though he was about half of Bo's age.

In his piece, Chris recalls his father's last day and the time they spent together doing seemingly mundane things, like shoe shopping and dining out. Although frail and slow, the elder Bohjalian knew just what to say. When Chris jokingly asked, "Proud of me?" for not getting lost en route to the restaurant, his dad replied, "Son, I am always proud of you. Always."

What better gift can a parent give a child -- whether a toddler or grown-up -- than to express his love and pride with a few simple words? Although Chris didn't get to say "goodbye" directly to his father, his sense of loss surely has been softened by their last hours together -- what Chris calls "a weirdly perfect day." 

You may read the column here.

Recent Losses

My father-in-law, Bill, died in February. After several years of up-and-down health, his body finally gave out. He was 89. When it became clear that he was declining, we took our two teenage sons down to New York City to see their grandpa. Bill was hospitalized in the intensive care unit.

As we stood outside his room, hoping to go in, his nurse popped out and said, "Mr. Ruder wants to write down a message for you." He'd had several bouts of pneumonia, was breathing with an oxygen mask, and was extremely frail -- although his mind was still sharp. We didn't know what to expect. After a few minutes, the nurse emerged with a piece of paper and held it up for us to read. On it was one simple hand-written word, "Goodbye." 

Although I'd been writing this blog for three years and have done tons of reading, thinking, and talking about goodbyes at the end of life, Bill's note stunned me. It seemed so final and profound and perfect. 

We went into his room, anyway, and were able to lean down and tell Bill how much he meant to us as a father, father-in-law, and grandfather. I'll remember him as a delightful man who embraced life, art, nature, travel, and the people who filled his universe. I can still hear Bill exclaiming, "Oh, boy!" when someone or something caught his fancy. You couldn't help but smile. Bill, a leader in the public relations world who once served in President Kennedy's Administration, was generous with his wisdom, and I sought his career advice on several occasions over the 20 years I knew him. He relished his family and lovingly asked to see our sons' school papers, then sent them notes reflecting on what he'd read.

We miss Bill terribly.

Right around the time of Bill's memorial service in March, another important man in my life, my uncle Dave, died. He had recently celebrated his 90th  birthday with a handful of friends, but his heart and health were deteriorating. Dave was an engineer in Kansas City, Missouri, but his real passions included sailing, jazz, spending time on the shores of Lake Michigan, and teaching kids to snow ski -- which he did until he was 86. He and my aunt Barbara were married for 62 years!

An amateur drummer, Dave would hit the local jazz clubs and jam with whoever invited him to join. Last winter, when he was on hospice care, Dave kept rhythm at home by banging on a cookie tin. And he went out "clubbing" one last time with his grandson, Richard, and beamed as the young man strummed guitar with a local group. Watching Richard perform with skill and love at Dave's memorial service in April was very moving. 

When Dave and I talked for the last time by phone, I sensed that he was at peace. Bill also seemed at peace at the end of his life. I'm so glad I had a chance to say goodbye to both of them. But their deaths hit me hard emotionally, and I realized that I needed to take a break from my blog these past few months.

I'll plan to keep posting the best goodbye stories I come across ... They seem to be everywhere.

Widows look to enjoy life again

While getting post-surgery rehab for my knee the other day, I picked up a copy of the Dec. 13 issue of People magazine. Amid the celebrity gossip, I spotted a story about an organization borne of grief called the American Widow Project. Started by Taryn Davis, who lost her husband to roadside bombs in Iraq, the organization offers support, resources, friendship, advice, and hope to military widows around the country. The project organizes regular events like surfing or skydiving outings that bring together widows to share memories and "to enjoy life the way they did when their spouse was still alive," the website (www.americanwidowproject.org) notes.

As I see it, Taryn Davis' act is a kind of goodbye to her fallen husband, Michael. Here's a description of her journey to found the organization:

"Taryn Davis, 23, was living the "normal" life; She had married her soul mate, was about to graduate college, and had her future with him to look forward to. That was until May 21, 2007. Her husband had been killed by multiple roadside bombs just an hour and a half after they last spoke. Feeling lost and alone in the new world she'd been thrown into, she began traveling around the country to hear other women's stories of love, tragedy... and overall survival. In hearing their accounts, she hoped to learn more about the title that been had given to her... that of a military widow.

"What began as her own personal journey has expanded into a non-profit organization, a documentary film, and a growing website. She has grasped on and embraced her new life with all the enthusiasm and passion she had when Michael was still alive. Inspired solely off the willpower and strength of the women 'in her shoes,' she has found that true love is eternal, that the lessons and things her husband said and did still run through her veins, and mostly....she is not alone."

You can read the People article here.

Dreaming big

Many people remember Ronald McNair as one of the seven astronauts aboard the doomed Space Shuttle Challenger, which exploded shortly after liftoff 25 years ago, and one of the few African-Americans to visit space back then. But I didn't know about his history of dreaming big and challenging the status quo. 

During an interview on NPR's "StoryCorps" program yesterday morning, his brother Carl -- who is devoted to continuing Ron's legacy -- described a trip his 9-year-old brother took to the public library in their hometown of Lake City, South Carolina, to check out some books on science and calculus. It was not a place that welcomed African-Americans like himself, and his handling of the situation was brilliant and brave. He went on, by the way, to earn a PhD in physics.

This weekend, the building that housed the library is being dedicated as the Dr. Ronald E. McNair Life History Center.

The story is really worth a listen.

 

Goodbye to a versatile artist

When the calendar flips from December to January and we welcome a new year, media outlets often run or air stories about the notable people who have died over the past 12 months. It's a lovely tradition. Our local public radio station even gave listeners a chance to call in and pay tribute to folks they had loved and/or admired and who had passed away in 2010.

The Boston Globe devoted a whole page to its farewell this year, and I scanned the very long list of people in various categories, amazed at the collection of talent that is no longer with us. One name I'd like to add is Elliot Offner, who died in October at age 79.

Elliot was an accomplished sculptor, a devoted educator, and a genuinely kind man. I met him in the 1980s when I worked at Smith College in Northampton, Mass. -- where he was on the faculty for four decades -- and reconnected with him last year, when he was facing cancer. Although passionate about printing, calligraphy, and other media, Elliot was known as a realist sculptor who earlier on conveyed the horrors of the Holocaust and later captured the beauty and movement of birds, fish, horses, and other animals in bronze. His metal menagerie included a leaning heron, a rising crane, a plunging whale, a spiky hedgehog, and a horse that looks like it's ready to gallop away. His great blue heron outside the greenhouses at Smith has been described as "a virtual symbol of the college, with its exhilarating unfolding of wings and elastic curve of neck."

I will miss Elliot and the joy he exuded. But I know his spirit remains alive in the people who loved him, especially his wife of more than 50 years, Rosemary. And I look forward to seeing the world through Elliot's artful eye when I visit places housing his elegant, inspiring, and sometimes whimsical sculptures -- like the new healing garden at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston or Bates College in Maine, where his loveable bronze beagle is a perfect tribute to young man named Dan who died way too early.

Thanks for sharing your many gifts with us, Elliot! 

Farewell to a friend

Boston Globe writer Beverly Beckham lost her childhood friend, Janet, to Alzheimer's disease this month, and the beautiful tribute she wrote really struck a chord with me.

Beverly described their lifelong bond, which began with countless hours spent laughing, singing, and sharing stories and dreams. Her piece transported me back several decades to vivid memories of my own childhood pals ... Doing color-by-number drawings after school with Suzanne, watching Fred Astaire and other vintage movies with Jane, and even going trick-or-treating with Kathy the day after my father died because I didn't know what else to do.

Moments and friendships like these help shape the adults we become. Thanks, Beverly, for reminding me of that with your poignant goodbye.

You can read her piece here.

 

Her days were well spent

Elizabeth Edwards, who died yesterday at age 61, touched so many of us with her strength, candor, and sense of hope in the face of adversity -- from her teenage son's death to breast cancer to her husband's infidelity. What has really resonated with me was her commitment to live life to its fullest, including after announcing in 2007 that her cancer had spread and, although treatable, was no longer curable.

Every day, she believed, should be "a day well spent."

Told by her doctors recently that additional treatment wouldn't help, Mrs. Edwards chose to forego it and focus on being at home with her loved ones. On Monday, this gracious author, lawyer, political advisor, and mom posted a comforting message on Facebook, noting that she was sustained throughout her life by her family, her friends, "and a faith in the power of resilience and hope." 

Her choice was a gift to her family, in my opinion. Additional medicine might have made Mrs. Edwards feel miserable and deny her the chance to die with dignity and peace. It seems she did a wonderful job helping prepare her children for her eventual death, even (I heard) composing a "dying letter" to them over the years filled with motherly advice about choices they'll make as they grow up. 

Research at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute has shown that gravely ill people who receive less aggressive medical care have a better quality of life at the end. And avoiding aggressive, life-extending treatment (like going to an intensive care unit) can also make it easier for those left behind to cope after the loss. Discussing end-of-life issues with one's doctors is key to this happening.

Elizabeth Edwards made many wise and valiant choices in her life and shared many of them with us. For that we can be grateful.