Dying people are living, too

While gathering stories about goodbyes at the end of life, one message keeps reverberating in my head: People who are dying are still living, and we should do everything we can to treat them that way.

Randy Pausch, the computer science professor who delivered the famous "Last Lecture," certainly followed that creed until his death in July. Faced with pancreatic cancer, he squeezed as much out of life as possible, for instance taking his young son swimming with dolphins and enjoying a scuba-diving trip with three close friends. "I'm living like I'm dying," he said. "But at the same time, I'm very much living like I'm still living,"

There are many other terminally ill people who take the same approach -– and who teach their loved ones about cherishing each day. I found several examples in the New York Times health blog "Well," as part of a post called "A Lesson on How to Say Goodbye."

Here are a few stories that resonated with me:

When Linda's mother learned she had liver cancer and roughly one year left, "she went on living the remainder of her life here as she always did. Nothing special. No Hollywood "Bucket List" or any of that crap. No, she continued to see her friends, get her hair styled, spent time with her family, went out to dinner with everyone, read the papers, cooked, etc., until she couldn't do any of these things anymore.
     "Toward the end," Linda wrote in early May, "when she was drifting in and out of consciousness in her own bed at home, I spent a lot of time with her, talking with her. They say that your sense of hearing is one of the last things to go. I didn't know that then. I just kept telling her how much I love her, that if I could ever be half the mother she was, it would be quite the achievement. One day, while telling her how much her children love her, she opened her eyes and smiled. I'll never forget what she said: 'Then I'll be okay, wouldn't I?'
     "To die with dignity is extremely important. I wish that for everyone. But it wasn't until I witnessed my mother's own passing that I learned what it meant to die with grace. Even at the end of her life, she never stopped being a mother. She never stopped teaching her children."

 

"My beloved grandmother was diagnosed with congestive heart failure not long after her 100th birthday," according to KS. "I left my job in another state and took her from the hospital to do in-home hospice care. It was her wish to die at home and I felt I had to honor that wish, rather than allow her to be placed in a nursing home.
      "In the month I had with her before she died; she told me many tales of her life that I had never heard before. She talked about her teen years and how she had loved to dance. She talked about all the young men who chased her; and the men she chose to later marry. She outlived her last husband by 35 years and outlived all but 4 of her 11 children.
      "Before she slipped into a coma, I videotaped her singing one of her favorite songs, "A Cottage for Sale." Later, I gave copies of the video to her surviving children. It was hard for them to watch; but I cherish it. And I cherish the time I had to spend with her. We didn't really say goodbye -- it was more like, "see you on the other side."
      "Immediately after her death, I kept leaping out of bed thinking that I heard her calling my name; as she had when she was dying in a hospital bed at home. A few months later, I dreamed that she came to me and assured me that she was doing fine. I felt great relief that her suffering was over. Now when I dream of her, she is laughing, singing and dancing. It reminds me that I should do the same while I can."

And one more . . .

Dr. Rosy is a family doctor who makes a lot of home visits, often to patients who are dying. "Caring for someone at this time of their life can be an intensely spiritual and moving experience," the doctor wrote. "I teach medical students and often take them with me. Many times they will say to me that we didn't "do" anything for the patient, just sat there. I need to remind them that "just sitting there" and bearing witness to their suffering is important.
     One patient I will never forget was a 61 year old with gastric cancer. I told him -- as I tell many patients -- 'If there is anything you ever wanted to do or anything you need to tell someone, do it now.' He left the hospital, bought a motorcycle and drove across country, calling us when he reached the West coast, triumphant and exhausted."