As a rabbi and a hospital chaplain, David had presided over many funerals and counseled numerous bereaved families over the years.
But when he was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, David didn't talk much about his eventual death with his family –- and his wife didn't want to dash his hopes for a medical miracle.
David did, however, confide in a fellow clergy member.
Laura was a lay Catholic chaplain at the same hospital where David provided pastoral care to Jewish patients when he was not leading his own congregation. They had known each other for several years and were accustomed to comparing spiritual notes.
On Thanksgiving Day, David called Laura and told her that he had been hospitalized and needed to talk right away. She wasn't entirely surprised, as David had been feeling disoriented and off balance lately. Laura left her turkey in the oven and went over to see him. The doctors had discovered a mass with a grim prognosis.
"He said, 'I'm going to need a chaplain.' And I said, 'Don't you want to ask one of your Jewish colleagues?' He replied, 'No. I know you, I know what I'm going to get.' It was a big challenge, because I had never done that kind of pastoral care with somebody from another faith. I couldn't use my Christian terminology, like the crucifixion or resurrection."
Over the next eight months, the pair met nearly every week and talked about what was on David’s mind: his family, his health, and the meaning and purpose of his life.
They also did some healing work using imagery, as Laura explained to me one day in the lobby of the hospital. "The first time we met I said, 'We're going to experiment with this. Why don't you close your eyes and we'll do this visualization. Tell me where you are geographically, the topography of your landscape.' He said, 'I'm in a very cold, dark place. It's wet, like it's raining. I'm standing on a precipice, and it's dark and raining.'" The setting was particularly striking, given David’s extreme fear of heights.
At each session, Laura would ask David to describe where he was, and eventually the darkness in his image waned. "Initially he was too afraid to get close to the precipice, so he stood far away in the dark. As time progressed, he got closer and closer to the edge and found that instead of staring into nothingness, he discovered a panorama of verdant valleys. Even though he was on this precipice, it stopped raining and it got lighter, and it was hopeful and green."
During the last two months of his life, David grew more dependent on others to take care of him physically. This was not easy for a rabbi who, by virtue of his profession, was used to guiding and consoling others and being at the center of attention. "To lose that persona is a tremendous unmasking, and few people can tolerate it," Laura reflected. "But David had an incredible sense of acceptance and gratitude."
In the spring of 1999, David took a medical turn for worse and went into a coma. Although he had shared tender moments toward the end with his wife of more than 40 years, she wished they had spent more time talking about "things that matter," like his legacy, his wishes for his three grown children, and what was in his heart.
David died just two days shy of his 68th birthday, and his colleague Laura delivered one of the eulogies at his funeral.
Although they had not openly discussed his impending death, David's wife knew, thanks in part to the two chaplains' conversations, that he was at peace.
Consider this . . .
A chaplain can help individuals and families confront their fears, wishes, and expectations about dying.
Don't put off talking about things that matter with your loved ones.