A story of grief – remembering his last breath

*warning* This post deals with death and cancer. If you are triggered by these topics, please proceed with caution.

I go through these periods of writer’s block where I can’t quite figure out what I want to put on the page – partly because what I know I should write means I need to open up my heavy heart a little more than I’d like. I knew the next story I needed to write was of his last breath, but I wasn’t ready to write it.

There’s where we’re at right now, friend. 

It’s been a heavy season but I think it’s time to talk about it.

Wednesday, April 8, 2020, my brother took his last breath.

This is not the first time our family has experienced death and loss, but it is the first time death came along slowly and arduously. And at the very least we expected it, unlike my dad’s passing now several years ago.

Yet even though we expected my brother’s death, none of us were ready for it. I suppose you never are. 

In the last few days of his life, my brother needed 24-hour supervision and care. He needed sometimes to be saved from himself, as you may have experienced if you’ve cared for an elderly relative. My brother wanted so badly to be independent and we wanted so badly to let him, but as cancer took over more and more of his cells it also took over more of his common sense. He bravely battled cancer for over four years and fought courageously till his last breath.

To honor the effort he still made to be happy and funny, we still tried to engage with him in conversations as often as he was conscious enough to have them.  Many of these conversations were short and made little sense, but we will treasure the smiles and laughter they brought forever.

In just a few short days he quickly declined to the point of not being able to talk with us in full conversations. But I think we all have happy memories of sharing together about what he said to each of us when we spent time in his room.

One of the most incredible blessings during this time – believe or not – were the school closures. Caleb and I now worked remotely. The moment we were both free of responsibilities in WA, we drove straight through the night to be with my family in CA. My strong, faithful, thoughtful, caring husband took two four-hour driving shifts in a row after he saw how terribly I needed to sleep and faithfully guided us to our destination.

The strength and support we’re able to give my family during this time is indescribable. 

It is so, so wonderful to be here and to know that we can hug and laugh and cry together just by stepping out of our rooms. I will never cease to be grateful for this time.

Tuesday, April 7, I was on the night shift to care for my brother. I slept on the couch in his room starting at 9:00pm.

My mom came out around the next morning around 2:00am to help with his medicine. Recently he’d been getting so restless that it was difficult for one person to manage his meds and keep him in bed. I sat with her at his bedside for several minutes after that. Around 2:20am, my mom gently encouraged me to head back to bed. She knew that with her son in this condition she wouldn’t be getting very much sleep anyways. I argued at first, but my brain and my heart and my body needed to rest, so off I went.

The few minutes of sleep I got were indeed restful. But at 2:40am my rest was cut short by a simple yet heavy message from my mom.

“He’s gone.”

I rushed to retake my place by his bedside. My mom’s heaving sobs woke up one of my sisters, and after a few minutes I went to wake the rest of the house.

A dear family friend sat with us while we struggled with our new reality. Though he breathed his last breath several minutes prior, Mom called the hospice nurse who officially pronounced him dead.

The funeral home came shortly after that. We said goodbye one last time. Even though we’d known for months this was coming, that last goodbye will never seem long enough. 

Before we knew it the clock read 6:00am.

The day before, a few of us went to get donuts at our favorite place in town. They were out of many favorites but we enjoyed it just the same. On this difficult morning, I remembered the donuts. The shop opens at 5:00am, which meant warm, fresh donuts would be ready and waiting.

We all piled in the rental car – a big suburban Mom borrowed to ease my brother’s comfort when traveling to and from appointments. Everyone knew a fresh donut was certain to provide some relief – however small – from our sadness. We stumbled into bed soon after arriving home. 

At 6:30am it had already been a long day, and sleep came quickly. Thank you Jesus for that.

The hours following were so radically different than the day my dad died. We weren’t with my dad when he took his last breath. We went to say our last goodbye in the hospital instead of waiting at home with his body. It’s so very odd to have had both experiences of death.

The stay-at-home and social distancing mandates made us miss the many hugs people were desperate to give and we were desperate to receive. Our home wasn’t full of our fellow grievers – friends and family who loved my brother and us deeply. We can’t wait until the day these orders lift. We are so sorely overdue for hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.

I don’t remember a lot else from that day except that the house started stirring again around 10:00am. We all started to wake up again on our own and spent many hours collected around the couches talking, watching TV, or just playing on our personal devices. Whatever we were doing we were doing it together (unless someone needed space).

One thing we agreed for sure was that we weren’t making any plans for at least the next three days. I don’t think anyone really knew how to handle their grief, but one thing we knew for sure was that we all needed to make sure we slowed down enough to experience it. 

Death is never easy, even when you know it is coming. Writing the details of this day helps me process what happened – and if you’ve recently experienced the death of someone you love, I encourage you to write about it too. Expressing your emotions through writing is such a rewarding and restorative practice.

I’m proud to have this story on paper. I’m proud and encouraged that what we remember most about my brother’s last few days was not his last breath, but the moments of joy and love that preceded it.

My sister once said that she didn’t feel right using the phrase “lost his battle with cancer”. He didn’t lose, she said. And really, since we believe he finally accepted the grace and truth of Christ in his last few days with us on Earth, on April 8, 2020, he won – and Jesus won too.

So instead, if you talk to us, you might notice we say he “bravely battled cancer for 4 years.” We might say “he fought long and hard till his last days.” But since my sister shared that sweet sentiment, we don’t say he lost the battle with cancer. He fought with everything he had and then some.

I know some of you have been wondering how we’re doing. And I know it’s hard to believe – but we’re okay. We serve a big, big God and he has given us peace. Some days we are sad. Some we are short with each other. Sometimes we spend pointless hours with our electronics to avoid our feelings. 

But all in all, we’re okay. We’re leaning into each other. We give space where space it’s needed. Our needs are met.

Thank you for your love and support and sweet messages of hope and encouragement. Thank you for your prayers as we embrace our new reality.