WAITING FOR DEATH

This is a tough blog to write. Reading it may be more than some would like. I get that.

I sit here beside my 62-year old eldest son, David, hoping and praying that each breath may be his last, finally bringing him eternal peace.

It all began about 4 years ago. His dentist suggested doing a biopsy of a nodule in his cheek. It was malignant. A major portion of his lower jaw was removed, followed by hypobaric treatment, radiation and chemotherapy. After that he was well enough to go back to work, to cruise Europe with sister Peggy and to provide a sanctuary in his granny flat for a refugee from Afghanistan.

After months of good and not so good experiences with several medical systems he attempted all options: vegan, non-protein and non-lactose diets, higher, healthier doses of supplements, more radiation more chemo and acupuncture. The final verdict: “There is nothing more medically that can be done.” He and we decided to manage the pain, no more liquids and no more nourishment. Stay at home under hospice care and await death.

So now for some 2 weeks that’s what we do. He is home. His siblings, his friends from here, from Chicago and elsewhere sit with him briefly. We had our family farewell with David himself concluding the session by him saying, “It’s time for us to say The Lord’s Prayer together.”

So I sit by his side. His eyes stare blindly into space. The bandage hides the entire right side of his face which, when I looked at it last, brought back terrible memories of seeing those same features in people whom I saw in Hong Kong dying of leprosy.

As I sit I hum hymns and folk songs. I tell him softly of his youthful escapades with snails, of his wandering the streets of Hong Kong enjoying the wah mueys he bought from street vendors. I recall him at age 12 caring for 3 younger siblings on a transpacific flight while I was attending his mother in a coma up in first class. I recall how his high school friends ridiculed his strict English school politeness – which his teacher admired. I recall for him briefly the challenge of his being a college student body president in the early 70’s.

I come to tears as I recall my initial prejudice and ignorance when he first invited me for a just-the-two-of-us weekend retreat during which he disclosed that he was gay. I remember with gratitude how he bore evangelical witness to the Church, how he repeatedly visited those dying of AIDS for whom he was the only family and friend.

I smile as I recall good family times, especially at Christmas, or at his wonderful vacation home, our trips together or more recently just the two of us sharing a beer at a neighborhood bar. And I remember our shared anger at the prejudice, ignorance, and rejection shown him and gays around the country and world.

Then I force my mind to the father-son bonds which are inseparable. I contemplate all the mysteries of the life to come. And then I stroke his arms once more and whisper loud enough for him to hear in the depths of his soul, “Come sweet sleep. Come sweet peace.”