Marriage Skits for Laughter and Learning
produced
by
Nancy Landrum
The Gift of Knowing
© 1998 Nancy Landrum
In November 1993, my son, Steven, asked me to go with him to the doctor because he thought he had pneumonia. After a long day with more questions than answers, we were finally told that he was suffering from congestive heart failure due to 15 years of drug addiction. He was not expected to live through that first night, but survived. Five days later he moved back home. With a restricted diet and fists full of pills, he lived with us for 2 ½ challenging years. Gradually the damage to his heart worsened until medication was little help. A heart transplant was out of the question because of his history of drug use.
Between January and May of 1996, he was hospitalized several times when only intravenously given diuretics could reduce the fluid collecting in his lungs and around his heart. We talked more and more openly about his impending death. On two unusually quiet afternoons in the hospital, we said all the things we had left to say to each other, including words of love and appreciation, understanding and forgiveness. We recalled favorite memories, and shared our hope in a future together. Steve finally sat forward and said, "There's one thing I know for sure. We won't be able to do this much longer!" as he hugged me tightly.
I hugged him back, and added, "We'll just be interrupted for a little while."
He'd had enough of hospitals. I supported his desire to die at home. In spite of his weakness, he would visit friends, and sometimes walk his dog, River, in the nearby hills. Since the original diagnosis, one of my secret terrors was that he would die alone, and perhaps, not even be found for awhile. But he had so few pleasures left, and he craved being outside, so I never told him of my fear, and didn't try to restrict his movements.
On Mother's Day his condition was noticeably worse. He hadn't been able to digest food very well for several weeks and was often nauseous. The latest ultrasound showed his heart to be about 3 ½ times the size of a normal adult heart. His legs and arms were always cold, and the heart rhythms were often erratic.
All of his life, the family had gathered at Grandma's for major holidays. I assured Steve he didn't have to, but he wanted to go. As he was showering and shaving, I thought about all the family gatherings through the years when he either hadn't shown up, or had come late, hanging around the fringes of the group because of his shame over what he was doing to his life. The past several months, as he accepted that he was dying, many things had been healing in Steve. He'd made peace with several people close to him, including my husband, Jim, whom I'd married several years after Steve's father died. He and his brother, Pete, had a long, private talk before Peter left for boot camp in February. Along with times of disbelief of what was actually happening to him, and the physical sickness, there were also times of great peace and acceptance. Even the belligerent questioning of God had ceased. Best of all, he had forgiven himself for what he had done to his life. Dignity and self-respect were in his bearing now. His decision to join the extended family for Mother's Day seemed a very purposeful one.
The moment we walked in the door, everyone took one look at his jaundiced skin and knew his time was very short. He got comfortable, propping up his swollen feet on an ottoman. The only way I know to describe what I witnessed that afternoon was that Steve opened his inner heart wide, allowing the great loving of his family to come in, and sending his loving back to them. So much was said that needed no words. It was an afternoon filled with deep peace, the unbearable pain of letting go, and unconditional loving.
Back home, he leaned against the kitchen counter, sighed, and said he was wishing for a downstairs bedroom. He didn't think he could get up the stairs. He grinned as I hooked my fingers in his belt loops and semi-hoisted him up the stairs. While he napped, I borrowed a twin bed, and made our dining room into a bedroom so he could avoid the climb.
That night, after making sure Steve was settled, exchanging long hugs and love you's, I finally ran out of things to distract me from the raging pain in my heart. I went to the bedroom I share with Jim, collapsed against his shoulder and confessed I didn't think I could bear the pain another moment. I sobbed and sobbed while Jim held me, and began praying for me.
It's hard to put into words what happened next. I received a holy, precious gift right from the heart of God into my broken mother's heart. I became aware of a limitless place inside myself, reaching far out into space. Without using words, God conveyed the sure knowledge that Steven was never left alone for even an instant. God communicated to me that there were three Beings with Steven at all times. I began to think, "They must be grieving the way I am grieving." But before the thought was complete, God interrupted and said "Oh, No! They are dancing for joy because Steven's coming Home! Steven's coming Home!"
It was long minutes of crying before I could tell Jim what had just happened. God relieved my fear of Steve dying alone, and also made me know that Steve was going to a place of total forgiveness and joyful reunion. I was comforted and finally slept.
A week later, while pondering this experience again, I received another knowing.
The three Beings, who were constantly with Steve now, were his Grandfather, his Dad, and his dad's brother who had died before Steve was born.
Two days later, on May 22nd, against all boot camp regulations, his brother Peter was given permission to call home. He talked with Steve for several minutes. They looked forward to seeing each other in 2 ½ weeks when Pete would be home again. Next, his Grandma drove up, asking if he felt like going out. Over brunch he reassured her that he was ready to die.
About 3 p.m. I ran some errands, and when I got back at 5:30 p.m., I found Steve on the floor of the kitchen. The paramedics estimated that his heart had finally stopped just a few minutes after I left. He died instantly.
While we were waiting for the mortuary to come, I sat on the floor, holding my firstborn's hand. I couldn't help looking around the kitchen and out the window. I knew Steven and his three Heavenly Escorts were still there, making sure I was all right. The house was full of the presence of them. Jim got a pillow to put behind my back and then sat in a kitchen chair. All of us savored the precious, holy silence......Jim, Steve, Steve's dad, grandfather, uncle and me. Sharing our loving. Sharing the knowing of a Life beyond this life.
The time since Steve's passing has been full of all the things that normal grieving requires; numbness, disbelief, guilt, anger, pain, tears, and acceptance. But through it all, the luminousness and majesty of that precious gift of knowing has sustained me. Steve was not alone. Neither am I.
How to Stay
Married and
Love It!
by
Nancy Landrum
