In the midst of life
Back to Sunday’s Evensong for a moment.
Our closing hymn was “Abide with me,” to the tune Eventide. At least in the Hymnal 1982 version, the third stanza includes these lines:
Where is death’s sting?
Where, grave, thy victory?
The tenor line there just soars, with a joyous E♭4 on the second “Where.” It is one of my favorite moments in hymn-singing.
But it’s always dicey, because those words (adapted, of course, from 1 Corinthians 15) cut to the quick. There’s that time I nearly died, and an experience like that brings home what it means to believe that death has been defeated, that the tomb was, and ever remains, empty. So there’s always a moment at that point in singing stanza three where I don’t know which is going to happen. Am I going to choke up and be unable to sing at all, or will I give that E♭ everything I’ve got?
Sunday night, the E♭ won.
*****
Mom’s health is deteriorating rapidly, I hear from my father and my sister. Things have been bad for the last few weeks, but now they’re beginning to fear that her body is shutting down and she doesn’t have much time left. On Tuesday Dad texts me to let me know that he has taken her to the hospital.
My plan had been to go home to Tampa on Wednesday for a week, taking advantage of a midsemester holiday the following Monday that in effect gave me a six-day weekend. But that plan had already been scuttled: Hurricane Milton would be making landfall on Wednesday, and no one would be getting in or out of the Tampa airport for a while. And anyway, I should obviously go be with my family. I might not have another chance to see Mom. So I booked a flight to Nashville for Wednesday after class. I talk to Marty. I wish I could be with him; he wishes he could be with me. He loves Mom too.
In the meantime there was course prep to do for my big Intro lecture. I was finishing Book II of Aristotle’s Ethics (virtue) and covering the somewhat skimpy selections from Books VIII and IX (friendship) that got included in the Aristotle anthology we’re using. I already had slides for what remained of Book II—stuff I had hoped to get to in the previous lecture but didn’t have time for—but I haven’t actually taught the material on friendship in many years, so that required some work. I’m also trying to write the midterm exam that I’ve promised to make available for a 24-hour period beginning on Thursday evening. It’s going to be a multiple-choice exam, which is great on the back end—it’s robo-graded, with no human effort involved at all—but a huge amount of work on the front end.
My mind is not entirely on my work.
Wednesday morning I hurriedly pack a bag and get ready for class. Instead of my usual suit and tie, I wear normal clothes, since I’m going straight to the airport after my lecture. I’m probably still better dressed than 90% of the male professors in the College of Arts and Sciences—academics are a scruffy bunch—but to me it feels like showing up in my pajamas.
Priorities.
I teach the heck out of Aristotle.
I also let my students know, without making a big production of the details, that I won’t be doing my regular office hours, let alone the extra ones I had promised them for help with the midterm. My TAs—who, let me just say now, have been absolutely stellar through all of this—were adding extra office hours and would make themselves available to anyone who wanted to meet with them, not just students in their own sections.
*****
The texts have been more and more dire. Someone from hospice has been by; the plan is to move Mom to a hospice in Murfreesboro tomorrow, Thursday. Waiting at the airport in DC, I try to plug away at the midterm without any great success. But on the flight I manage to write out some decent questions longhand, and I arrive in Nashville with about a third of the exam written. I’m going to be cutting it close.
I pick up my rental car and drive straight to the hospital in Franklin. The rest of the family is there: my father, my sister and brother-in-law, and my two nieces and one nephew. (Technically, he’s my niece’s husband, but I’ve never thought of him as an in-law. He’s my nephew.) Mom looks ashen. She has been asleep all day, and the doctors have made it clear that she has only a few days at most.
I’m the only one in the family who prays out of a book, but they’re used to it. I pray: “Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort her with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
One great thing about having the whole family there is that we can take turns having our “come-aparts,” as one of my grandmothers used to say. When one of us is sobbing, another is strong. “Bear one another’s burdens,” Paul says.
Eventually, all of us exhausted, we head home for the night.
*****
Thursday morning comes. We are all there in time for the move to hospice. We understand that from here on out the care will be simply to keep Mom comfortable. If she shows signs of pain or agitation, they will give her medication for that; but there is no further thought of any improvement in her condition. I realize that I have never fully understood until just now exactly what hospice care means.
Once we are all at the hospice, I reluctantly go off and find a space where I can finish writing the exam—with a plea to my family that they will let me know instantly if there is a change in Mom’s condition.
It feels a bit heartless to be sitting by myself, thinking up multiple-choice questions about the four causes and first vs second actuality and all that sort of thing, while my Mom is dying and my family is keeping watch. I think if I were teaching a small class, I wouldn’t be so worried about keeping to the schedule; you can be fairly nimble when there are only twenty or thirty students involved. But with 170 students, the cascading effects of a late or non-existent midterm would be an endless hassle. So I persist. And as anyone who has been in a similar situation knows, it’s actually good to have something else to occupy your mind for at least a while.
It’s not heartless. It’s not heroically conscientious. It’s just what needs to be done.
I finish the exam ten minutes before it’s set to become available to the students.
*****
I return to Mom’s room. Family leave from time to time to pick up food or get out for some fresh air, but someone is always there. The indications now are that Mom probably has twenty-four hours at most. My sister and I both want to be there at the end if we possibly can, even though we know that if Mom dies during the night, there will be no heart monitor to alert us, no efforts at resuscitation, just a quiet slipping away that we will discover only in the morning. We still want to be there if we can.
Dad is exhausted. He has been caring for Mom nonstop for weeks, and days at her bedside have taken their toll. He and Mom have been happily married for sixty-four years, and I can’t begin to imagine how he feels. But for now we know he’s tired and needs to rest, so I drive him home and then return to the hospice.
My sister tells me that the nurse has been in to check Mom’s vital signs. Her blood pressure is so low and her pulse so slow that we know she is shutting down. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes is barely perceptible.
With my hand on Mom’s right shoulder, and my sister holding Mom’s left hand, I pray from the book again, the two powerful commendatory prayers from Ministration at the Time of Death:
Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world;
In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you;
In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you;
In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you.
May your rest be this day in peace,
and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.
Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Frankie.
Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold,
a lamb of your own flock,
a sinner of your own redeeming.
Receive her into the arms of your mercy,
into the blessed rest of everlasting peace,
and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.
And the barely perceptible rise and fall of her breathing ceases, and my sister and I know already what the nurse will confirm in a few moments: that the course of our mother’s earthly life has come to a peaceful close.
*****
I’m sure I’ll have more to say about Mom over the next few days. About how, thanks to her, I have never known a time when I didn’t know I was loved unstintingly and unconditionally. About how, thanks to her, I have never known a time when I did not know the Lord Jesus. But that can wait.
This much I can say, though. I can pretty much guarantee you that I won’t be hitting that E♭ next time.