When Death is Slow to Come

Finding Gratitude in the Midst of Pain

The other day I read the story of when Jesus healed the shriveled arm of a man. I’m sure there are lots of good lessons to take from the story, I just can’t remember them. All I could think was, “Someone I love has a shriveled arm. Can Jesus heal it?” Actually, it’s not even where I’d start. It’s on a list of ailments with which my father-in-law has been stricken as he slowly descends towards death. It’s been five and a half years.

“Something’s wrong with Uncle Ronnie.” Came the mid-morning call from Joe, his godson. “I think he might be having a stroke.”

He was.

We watched as he lost some muscle control in his face. We listened as his speech began to slur. Later that evening, as he had a second stroke in his hospital bed, we watched him lose the ability to control his right arm and hand, the one he wrote with.

We watched him struggle to recover an ability to walk, or at least shuffle from one place to another.

We listened to him stutter, stammer, and curse due to the effects of aphasia, a cruel condition where a person knows what they want to say, but due to a brain injury, they can’t make their mouth form the right words or sounds.

We watched as he struggled to tell us of abdominal pain. We thought his knee hurt. When the medical staff finally determined it was his gall bladder, they removed it. It was necrotic to the point where it was clear this wasn’t a new issue. Likely, it had been festering for years.

Years.

We watched as he had another stroke in the hospital during recovery and lost all the progress he’d made with his walking and talking.

We watched as he struggled through rehab again, barely recovering the ability to get from the couch to the bathroom.

Then, one day when after he’d gotten himself to the bathroom, he fell. We helped him up. Then, for a week we watched him struggle around the house until he couldn’t walk anymore due to more pain he had trouble – once again – explaining to us.

We took him to the doctor and looked mortified as they told us he had a broken hip.

We’d watched as he hobbled around for a week on a broken hip due to the fall in the bathroom. We couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible for adding to his discomfort.

I watched as they prepared him for hip surgery and we discussed the Do Not Resuscitate order, his wife finally and reluctantly signing it for him. I listened as he managed to say the words, “Oh, God, please take me.”

We watched as he awoke from the surgery. God hadn’t taken him.

We listened as the doctors explained he needed surgery again because something didn’t work right in the first hip replacement.

We watched as he came home from rehab with no hope of walking again, his muscles mostly gone. His will to work at it, completely gone.

We watched the plea in his eyes as he indicated he needed assistance with using the restroom. Now, we brought the restroom to him. We moved as fast as we could so he wouldn’t have to experience the embarrassment and shame of an accident.

We watched with tears in our eyes as he cried out in pain due to the swelling of his lower legs, a sure sign of congestive heart failure.

We were sure he was going. We sat next to him and sang songs with him. Mom held his hand and cried. His grand-daughter rubbed his legs to help with the pain.

He asked for water. Then for the TV remote control. He wasn’t going to die that day either.

We watched as Mom, his wife, began to come to terms with the idea he will never be well again.

Finally. But also, we understood her denial.

We. Still. Watch.

I’m in year 28 of my marriage to his daughter. She’s an only child, the miracle child who arrived after ten years of failed attempts at pregnancy. I’ve known for years that she’d need me to be with her when her father died. In some ways, I’ve been preparing for this for the near-three decades of our marriage.

But I didn’t expect to watch him digress towards death. I thought it would be something quick. He had triple-bypass surgery in his early 50’s. I assumed it would be a heart attack. I didn’t think we’d watch him lose one thing after another, slowly. You might have heard people say that the process of dying is exactly the opposite process of what a baby experiences as they grow. “They” were right. It would strike as uncanny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking to witness.

This isn’t easy.

I have a friend whose grandmother died of a sudden heart attack around Thanksgiving one year. It was quick and unexpected. But she was in her 80’s and the family was already gathered together. It was almost as if she’d planned it.

Then just over two years later her husband, a beloved preacher, went to a prayer breakfast where he gave the closing prayer. After the event he got in the passenger seat of a friend’s car for the ride home and had a heart attack on the way home. There was a lot of grieving when he passed, but there wasn’t much suffering. It was as if he did what he loved and then declared, “Peace, out!”

I was grateful their family didn’t have to watch them suffer. Maybe even envious.

But then I see the stories on Facebook. It’s the stories of friends whose children are fighting cancer. It’s the other friends who have lost children to cancer. It’s the friends who have cancer themselves who are fighting in hopes of living long enough to see their children married, perhaps hold a grandchild.

Or it’s this story about a baby left parentless when momma is killed by a drunk driver. As the author¹ lays out the pain of a tragic, early death, I’m reminded…

…there is no easy way to watch someone die. Perhaps what my family is experiencing is as natural as it gets. Maybe what we’re experiencing is the way it’s supposed to be.

Or more likely, maybe there isn’t a way it’s supposed to be. There’s only what happens.

So, I look at my father-in-law’s shriveled arm and stop wondering what life would be like if he could use it again, or walk again, or mostly – yes! If only he could talk again! I stop wondering, and I begin to remember.

I remember when it was him caring for me. I remember the way he called and cared for my children and wife when they were ill. “Make them some chicken noodle soup…” he’d instruct.

I remember the day he told me, “As long as I have a penny, you have a penny.”

I remember the looks of frustration, confusion, and all-around bewilderment as I his son-in-law didn’t do the things I should have been doing or did things he wouldn’t have dreamed. I remember the advice. I remember the love.

So. Much. Love.

And I smile.

Last week I bumped his foot in a way that jostled his still-sore-and-never-really-fixed hip. “God-damn piece of shit…” he mumbled under his breath. Then he looked at me. I smiled at him, glad he could get some words out. He smiled back, realizing what he said.

“Oh, Yeah?” I feigned incredulous.

“Yeah!” He teased back before tilting his head. “I love you.” He said.

“I love you.” He repeated. His rosy cheeks puffed up with the smile just like they might have when he was a seven-year-old-boy. His eyes grew wide, peering at me with intent. He pointed at me with his remaining functional left index finger. “Daddy, I want you to know, I love you.”

Those words he said on purpose. Everyone is “daddy,” but I knew he was talking to me. I Love You is the only phrase he can get out on command.

Of all the phrases he got to keep. It was, I love you.

Ask me if I’m grateful.

We’re moving on 6 years of post-stroke life. It hasn’t been easy.

But it’s been life.

It hasn’t been all of him. But it’s been some. It’s been the important part.

It’s been his heart, and it’s been enough.

I looked him right in the eye.

“I know you do, Dad. I love you, too.”

(If this story resonated with you in any way, consider sharing it with someone who might find it meaningful or comforting.)

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The video above was captured on April 23, 2022. It was the day we said goodbye to his horses. We miss the days when he had even this limited ability to speak.

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The rest of today’s post is for paid subscribers. It’s a story I wrote in the earlier days just after his stroke. It was accepted for publication in Bay to Ocean Journal 2021. At the time I submitted it for publication, I gave it a horrible title. Today I’ve changed it to what you see below. It’s a bit more upbeat, and talks about the things I learned from my father-in-law.

Free subscribers receive 30 days of complimentary paid status. So click subscribe below.

Tall Drinks of Water and Crab Feasts: Life-Lessons from a Father-In-Law

We Yankees have a way of typecasting our southern brethren which, fair or unfair, embodies folks speaking in southern twang while riding horses to the local watering hole. And make no mistake about it, my northern upbringing also instilled a bit of highbrow snobbery. Why wouldn’t it? I grew up in New England, which includes Massachusetts, which includes the Boston area, which includes Cambridge where Harvard University and MIT are located. So of course I’m wicked smaht, right? Intelligence due to proximity is a thing, right? I certainly wish this was the case, as it might make it easier for me to excuse some assumptions I made when I was first introduced to the Eastern Shore of Maryland as a 19-year old.

I cannot recall my exact understanding of the Eastern Shore of Maryland at the time. If pressed for honesty, I’m not even sure I gave any thought to Maryland being a state. (So much for the “intelligence due to proximity” theory.) Outside of having to know Annapolis was the capital of Maryland for my 5th grade US capitals test, I don’t think I ever gave the state much thought. Even so, I knew it was near Virginia which was on the east coast, so the very idea that Maryland had more than one shore was confusing to me. Further, while I understood Virginia to be a southern state, I was entirely unclear as to the geographical and historical status of the state of Maryland. Perhaps you’re with me.

I’d met my girlfriend, Joy, when we were attending college at a small institution on Boston’s South Shore.

In the few month’s we’d been dating I’d come to understand her father as a good ol’ southern boy complete with the aforementioned stereotype. To be fair, I’d been told he loved and had owned Tennessee Walking Horses and was a passionate fan of bluegrass music. I’d also heard the faint tones of what I recognized as a thick accent on the other end of the telephone when he was on the phone with Joy. So, as I drove down for a visit during summer break in 1995, I was making predictions about what the experience would be like, caricatures in full tow.

To be fair, not even geography or history books are much help in identifying where the “south” begins. If it’s the Mason Dixon Line- the line of demarcation for where the union states ended and the confederate states began - then yes, Maryland is a southern state. But try to explain that to someone from Virginia or Tennessee, well, they’ll laugh right off their front porch swing. There’s far too much liberal thought coming out of Maryland for it to be considered a part of the Bible-belt south. But I didn’t know this when I took my first trip to the area nearly 3 decades ago.

I arrived at Joy’s home in the wee-hours when most of the world was already sleeping. I headed to bed on the pull-out couch which was about 2 inches shorter than my 6 foot 4 inch, bean-pole of a frame. I imagined a good ol’ southern boy might describe me as  a “tall drink of water.” My feet hung over the cold, metal frame supporting the 4-inch thick mattress and even as tired as I was from the long drive south - to an area I’d only recently heard of, mind you - I still didn’t sleep well. I was, after all, about to meet the parents of my girlfriend and while I felt confident in myself as a superior northerner, my stereotype of the good ol’ boys included a loaded Smith and Wesson holstered to the hip of every southern belle’s father- my southern belle included. So, when I heard the family start to move about in the morning, I feigned sleep with my tousled-hair head turned from the doorway and forced myself to breathe in a slow, rhythmic manner. I was sawing logs as far as they knew.

I heard whispering outside the guest room door and a barely audible “Dad, NO!” from Joy. As all fathers should, Mr. Willey ignored her protests and I heard the soft jiggle of the doorknob as he turned it slowly so as not to wake me up.

“Well that’s a tall drink of water!”

Bingo.

The rest of the day has been lost to the recesses of my memory bank. Except for the food. I remember dinner that night. We went to a restaurant called The Red Roost where I was treated to a true, down-home, Maryland crab feast. I didn’t even know this was a thing. I’d never eaten crabs, but as a New Englander I was familiar with Lobster Bakes, loved those, and was happy to try a similar form of seafood feast.

A fattening feast it was! Corn dogs, hush puppies, fried shrimp, corn on the cob, okra, and birch beer - a soft drink I’d never heard of. Topping off the experience was live, bluegrass music. No lie. Joy watched with delight as I took it all in, not knowing what to make of her father belting out the lyrics with a twang to make Dolly Parton proud, lips stained orange with Old Bay Seasoning. It was a new experience, and as much as it seemed back-woodsy, I liked it. Food helps make most things bearable. And food is something the south - even this northeasternmost tip - takes seriously.

Joy’s mother started grilling me on my food tastes the next evening as I ate the first meal she ever cooked for me. If you’re wondering, it was chicken and dumplings, perhaps better known as “dumplins’”. At 19-years-old, I liked everything she mentioned. This seemed to please her and I did my best to devour every large portion of everything she placed in front of me. Food is a staple in the Willey household. Guests can expect to be offered food or drink if they linger for any amount of time. If it’s close to a meal time you’ll see mom start setting the table for dinner, always making room for the guest(s) in the room, if they can talk you into staying. Southern hospitality is something to be appreciated.

I was well taken care of during that week, and as my relationship with my girlfriend progressed into marriage, kids, and now a move to Maryland, they continued to spoil me to no end. They are good people. I look up to my father-in-law in ways I don’t look up to anyone else. I’m ashamed to say he probably finds that hard to believe. I’ve not always been good to him.

Here’s the thing - we’re much different, Ron and I. He’s a planner; a list-making achiever. He’s the kind of person who wakes up in the morning with a list of things to do and a schedule on which to do them. He is meticulous about regularly scheduling his car maintenance. Regular house preventative maintenance is the norm for him. He is a world-class worrier and gets all out of sorts if there is traffic between him and his destination. It seems he has a constant “to-do” list that he’s working on. And he just does it. It’s not always done to perfection, but it gets done.

I, on the other hand, am a free spirit. Planning sounds nice, but I’m not likely to stress out over completing some to-do list. I’ll change my oil, but as for cleaning the cars, that’s why God invented rain. I’ll get to the house repairs when I have time to properly adorn my Bob Villa tool belt with instructions to rebuild my Taj Mahal in hand. If there’s traffic which makes me late, oh well. Traffic happens. My to-do list includes one thing- “make a to-do list.” I’ll get around to it soon, I’m sure. As you may imagine, these two personality types clash. To his credit, he’s never blown up at me. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about how I’ve spoken to him. But I saw something a while back that helped me understand him a bit more.

We were watching a family video taken back in the late 70’s when my wife was a small child. The scene opens on the front lawn, strewn with tree branches. Ron had driven his white pick-up truck onto the lawn and was placing the branches into the truck bed, making sure to leave the smaller branches on the ground for his 3-year-old assistant to pick up. There were smiles everywhere. The silent video cut out and began again on the same day with the three of them sitting around the perfectly-set dining room table for lunch. Ron was sitting at the head of the table, shirt off, grinning from ear to ear as he reached for the hands of his wife on his left side and his little girl on the right so they could say grace together before eating. At first it struck me as another redneckish moment. I mean who sits at the perfectly set dining room table without a shirt on? The guy was a sweaty mess. But as I watched, something grabbed my attention. Whoever took the video captured a man in all his glory, enjoying life and the loved ones for whom he worked. All the to-do lists, all the schedules, all the preventative maintenance things I find annoying were his way of being intentional in providing for his family.

I grew up in a Pastor’s home. During my earliest years, the years when you are still taking in everything and just soaking up family practices as facts of life, I seldom saw my father performing “work” in the way you’d see people with regular jobs. He didn’t leave at regular times in the morning and didn’t arrive home at 5:30 PM.  My dad’s work was people visits, hospital visits, sermon preparation, leading meetings, personal crisis intervention. There were so many things for which to-do lists seemed insufficient. Rather than reporting to a boss every day, I learned we leaned on God for direction, sustenance, and financial provisions. At the time, that which was spiritual didn’t seem to fit a world driven by the rigors necessary for tangible achievement. The concepts of daily grind and rat race were foreign to me. Heck, I remember looking at the father of one of my friends in bewilderment when I realized he didn’t have the summer off. Neither did my dad. But a summer filled with church camp, youth camp, and a bit of family vacation sure made it seem so.

So, as an adult when I didn’t go into the ministry, I was ill-prepared for the realities of the 9 - 5. That which I felt was my life’s calling would be made possible by the work of God, not the work of my own hands. I imagine it was difficult for my father-in-law to watch me lack the motivation necessary for career success. And you know what? When I watched that home video that day, and saw the joy on the face of my father-in-law, I suddenly understood why he worried so much, why he made so many lists, and why it was so important to him to accomplish tasks each and every day. His life- and the life of those he loved- depended on it. What I interpreted as a high-stress lifestyle was simply him being intentional about how he lived each and every day. There are, in fact, things which are in our control; God or no God.

I’d like to say when I came to this realization I flipped a switch and became a beacon of efficiency. I did not. But I began to understand my way was not the only way. I came to appreciate attacking life with intentionality is in many ways better than waiting for the universe to provide for me. By taking time to watch someone whose approach to life is different than mine, I found that there are other ways- some might say better ways- to handle a given situation. I’m grateful for my father-in-law. Perhaps I didn’t need the universe to provide what I wanted. I needed the universe to provide who I needed.

1. The poignant piece was written by Kim Foster, someone I hope to be like when I grow up. If I ever meet her, I’m going to tell her.