Death

This Valentine's Day post is dedicated to death.  We seem to be in a season of death in our household and today is the culmination point.

My patient died yesterday morning. I did not know him. I saw him once--during bedside report at shift change.  The next time, I pronounced time of death.  As I took off medical devices and unhooked tubes, I slowed down. I have a different respect for death after having lost those I love. I knew that in a few short minutes, that after I called this patient's family, their lives would be forever different. He was a stranger to me, but I still shed tears alone in the break room.  I struggled to conceal my emotions the remainder of the day, knowing death will soon reach our family.

Last month we received news that my dearest Grandma Vans has terminal cancer. Hospice has been consulted and she is comfortable. She has lived a good and long life.  She has been declining for the past couple of years and her death should not come as a surprise to any of us--but I still find myself heartbroken. I'm trying hard to be thankful, for we have much to be thankful for. We have the gift of time.  We are traveling out to see her next week and will have the opportunity to say good-bye. She is with family who love her to pieces. She is well taken care of. She will not die alone. And she knows she is going to meet her Lord and Savior when her time on Earth is finished.

But I am sad. I am sad for me, for I will miss her dearly. And missing her is not an abstract unknown in the future. Death is not a stranger to me--I know what follows.  I know the pain of loss. Last fall I lost a very dear friend and I miss him. I really miss him, I mean really really miss him.  Which brings us to today's timely post.

Today was Marv's birthday. And somehow, today it feels acceptable to acknowledge how much I miss him. I miss you in a hundred ways--most of all I miss sharing life with you.  I miss the funny pictures. The updates on your projects. I miss your honest advice and opinion. I miss your laugh, the sound of your voice. I miss your tiny waist and walking behind you in the hallway. I miss your mannerisms, hearing about your friends and family. I miss the way you let me problem solve with you. If I am a walking fashion faux pas the rest of your life--I'll recognize it as one more aspect of my life in which I am just "missing Marv."

It is because we have loved well that we experience grief and loss in death. I'll take theses days on the couch, with a box of kleenex and mascara running down my face for all the love and memories.

Happy Birthday MJ.