And if you were to ask her, “What do people who are sick and dying talk about?”

She, without hesitation or uncertainty, would tell you, “Mostly, they talk about their families: about their mothers and fathers, their sons and daughters.”

“They talk about the love they felt, and the love they gave.  Often they talk about love they did not receive, or the love they did not know how to offer, the love they withheld, or maybe never felt for the ones they should have loved unconditionally.”

“They talk about how they learned what love is, and what it is not.  And sometimes, when they are actively dying, fluid gurgling in their throats, they reach their hands out to things I cannot see and they call out to their parents:  Mama, Daddy, Mother.”

People talk about their families because that is how we talk about the meaning of our lives. That is how we talk about the big spiritual questions of human existence.

We don’t live our lives in our heads, in theology and theories.  We live our lives in our families: the families we are born into, the families we create and the families we make through the people we choose as friends. This is where we create our lives, this is where we find meaning and this is where our purpose becomes clear.

Family is where we first experience love and where we first give it. It’s probably the first place we’ve been hurt by someone we love, and hopefully the place we learn that love can overcome even the most painful rejection.

This crucible of love is where we start to ask those big spiritual questions, and ultimately where they end.

I have seen such expressions of love: A husband gently washing his wife’s face with a cool washcloth, cupping the back of her bald head in his hand to get to the nape of her neck, because she is too weak to lift it from the pillow; A daughter spooning pudding into the mouth of her mother, a woman who has not recognized her for years; A wife arranging the pillow under the head of her husband’s no-longer-breathing body as she helps the undertaker lift him onto the waiting stretcher.

We don’t learn the meaning of our lives by discussing it.  It’s not to be found in books or lecture halls or even churches or synagogues or mosques. It’s discovered through these actions of love.

If God is love, and we believe that to be true, then we learn about God when we learn about love. The first, and usually the last, classroom of love is the family.

I am amazed at the strength of the human soul.  People who did not know love in their families know that they should have been loved.  They somehow know what was missing, and what they deserved as children and adults.

When the love is imperfect, or a family is destructive, something else can be learned:  forgiveness.  The spiritual work of being human is learning how to love and how to forgive.

We don’t have to use words of theology to talk about God; people who are close to death almost never do. We should learn from those who are dying that the best way to teach our children about God is by loving each other wholly and forgiving each other fully – just as each of us longs to be loved and forgiven by our mothers and fathers, sons and daughters.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes I’ll do it if it will save her.”  As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, “Will I start to die right away?”

Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.

~Author Unknown

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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For another woman, sorting through her father’s things, there were smiles mixed in with the tears. Tucked within pages of his favorite books, included in the paid bills, and even stashed in jacket pockets, he had left notes for his daughter. She found messages such as “I love you more than a father could ever hope to love a child,” and “I’m very proud of you.” She also found lovely poems and the scribbled words to the lullaby he had sung to her as a baby. And, folded in the envelope with his will was a faded photograph taken during World War II. It was of a smiling handsome RAF captain in dress uniform balancing her, then as a toddler, on his shoulders. The notes from her father were both heartwarming and heart wrenching, but she cherishes the remembrances and gifts he left for her all the same.

Another woman came up with a clever way to keep all 200 of her father’s ties—by creating heart-shaped wall hangings from them: “I cherish them because they’re a way to honor both parents, since my mom always picked my dad’s ties. “So it became a way to keep something that’s a part of both of them and give it new life.”

Another adult child pared down her parents’ stuff while they were living… not waiting until they died.

Some people get stuck and say, “We can’t let go of Mom’s [or Dad’s] things. Removing them would make us feel like we’re getting rid of her [or him].”

Remember, there’s no rush. And having an understanding friend or partner helping you, can make the task so much easier. Reward yourself for small accomplishments…maybe go for a walk…or? …

Ideally, the clearing-out process is a healing time for siblings to go through and reminisce. Holding on to particular items that have special meaning or value is a good way to honor a loved one’s memory.

When my Mom died, my siblings and I gave some of her furniture and clothing to the facility where she lived. We also gave items to charity and kept some things for ourselves for sentimental reasons.

Her easy chair, the one that I ‘slept’ in (that was right beside her bed) while I maintained a vigil during her last days, now sits in my family room. Sometimes I just sit in it…and calmness comes over me as I recall listening to the transient relaxation tape that played during Mom’s final days and hours. Even while sitting in it and watching TV or reading, I have to smile…because I feel Mom’s love.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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~LeoTolstoy (09 Sept 1828-20 Nov 1910; Russian novelist/author)

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

We’d been told as much the day before, from another nurse, when Marlene had pointed out that Dad had gone through the death process with his eyes open the whole time…right up to his passing…“But people usually don’t have their eyes open as they are dying,” the nurse had added.

Dad had had his eyes open…but I sensed he didn’t “see” his surroundings near the end.

Mom’s eyes were closed.

Recently I had a chance to talk with a palliative nurse who shared, “I’ve seen about an equal number of people who die eyes open or shut. I would venture to guess it has a lot to do with shock. If the body is going into shock, i.e. moving all its vascular energy to the core, then the eyes will probably stay open due to natural contraction, and the opposite will occur if the body dies without shock.”

Yes, Dad had lost heat in his extremities and was very cold to the touch BEFORE he died…whereas Mom was still very warm when she passed.

I was curious.

I wanted more information.

So I read a New Zealand abstract. It said, out of 100 patients at a Hospice, “The majority (63%) of the patients died with their eyes fully closed, however, 37% had bilateral ptosis at death, with incomplete eye closure.” (Ptosis is also called “drooping eyelid.” And with the death process it is caused by weakness of the muscle responsible for raising the eyelid.)

I continued reading.

“Hepatic encephalopathy appeared to be a pre-mortem risk factor of bilateral ptosis at death.” (Hepatic encephalopathy is a worsening of brain function that occurs when the liver is no longer able to remove toxic substances in the blood.)

So I take it that an eyelid being open or closed does not originate from the mind; it isn’t a conscious decision. It is in fact organic.

And just so you know, for “open eye position” to be registered, the upper eyelid needs to be at least above the pupillary midline i.e. at least 50% of the white of the eye needs to be visible.

So yup, according to that, Dad’s eyes had been open.

“Eyelids control the portal of entry to the principle sensory organ for perceiving the external environment, and are tightly linked to the fundamental processes of the brain itself.”

So I guess Dad had had his eyes open because of declining brain and body function…he certainly couldn’t “see” what was happening around him. Besides, his eyes had had a glazed look.

The abstract continued with, “Total eye closure is usual in sleep, coma and in death.”

So there you have it…or at least until the next study comes along.

And here’s something else that’s interesting: “Incomplete eyelid closure pre-mortem and post-mortem is not uncommon in cancer-related deaths.”

Hmmmm…Dad had had cancer…

“I was wondering if eyes open at death is an indication that the deceased is fearful of the future, presumably because of past behaviors,” someone asked me recently.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “And here’s why…” I continued, citing the details I’d read recently.

So, to all you surviving relatives out there, this is to reassure you that closed eyes at death isn’t necessarily associated with peacefulness and restfulness and opened eyes with discomfort or even fear.

What experience have you had with the dying…did they die with eyes open? Or closed?

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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“Orphaned adults” we are called…even if our parents lived a long life…and it was an expected death associated with “old age”.

Yes, it may have been expected…but with it there is soul searching…and a feeling of being without a rudder…at least for me…and at least right now.

It’s been a couple of months since the death of my second parent and I wasn’t expecting to hear, “Well, when you have your parents’ interment ceremony in July that will be the end of your grieving, eh?! You’ll be able to get on with your life…put everything behind you.”

“Maybe…maybe not,” I was thinking. I’ve been handling the situation “really well” in the eyes of some people—to them that means ‘not getting too emotional’.

I expect there WILL be a degree of closure with the interment…but I can’t say that will be the END of my grief.

In fact, It’s dawning on me that I’m really only STARTING to feel the avalanche of emotions around the death of both my parents. (And with it there’s a tad bit of embarrassment…because of my age…because I’m usually always “so together”…because I’m expected to ‘handle’ things well.)

But I’ll let you in on a secret—I really feel like crap…at least today—I’m having a ‘moment’. And I won’t be dwelling on it. But it’s there. And it’s a reminder that I can still be blindsided by grief.

Maybe the death of my Mom triggered, or reactivated, mourning for my Dad. (Maybe I didn’t fully mourn the first parental death because I became so preoccupied with my surviving parent.)

Or maybe it was the ‘not so nice’ comments about my deceased relative that I heard within the last week…and I felt protective (even though there was truth to what was said).

Before my parents died I couldn’t really comprehend what it would be like living without them (Now I know.)—I hadn’t given it much thought, really…just expected that I would weather it well! After all, I keep hearing, “you have such strength!”

I’m tired. I’m Really tired. And I believe there are a few other issues I need to deal with too. (Maybe I need to think about what I want from my life.)

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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When I am weary from the burdens I’ve borne,
And the path is unclear and I feel so forlorn,
I remember her loving support was always near,
And her advice made the path ahead seem clear.

When I feel there is no one who seems to care,
Or when the heartache seems too hard to bear,
I remember how she always stood by my side,
And would tenderly wipe away the tears I cried.

When there are moments of great joy and pride,
And I wish my Mother was standing at my side,
I remember she saw more than I thought I could be,
And know I owe my triumphs to her belief in me.

When I reminisce about the things she used to say,
And I miss her and think she is so far away,
I remember what she gave lives on through me,
And one day I’ll see her on the shore across the sea.

~Belinda Stotler

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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For several months after her husband of 68 years died in June 2010, she’d displayed a disinterest in life and started to wither away. (She had stopped eating and barely consumed enough liquid to keep her body going—so it appeared she knew what it meant when, after the third time, I told her, “Otto died. He’s in heaven now.”)

Seeing her decline, I prepared myself for the worst.

But then, that September, she rebounded (it was as if she “woke up”) and she plodded on with life.

But I could see the changes.

Things just weren’t the same with her.

She had slowed down. She looked so much older. She was falling out of bed. She became wheelchair bound…and then she declined to the point it became difficult to transfer her into a vehicle.  With help from a hired rehab assistant, Mom did strength-training exercises, some walking and practiced wheelchair-to-car transfers.

So last December when my husband and I took her for an outing to the mall to soak in the wonder of Christmas, pushing her in her wheelchair, cozy blanket wrapped around her legs, giving her plenty of time to touch fabrics and watch children with Santa (who smiled and waved at Mom) and gaze at winter displays while she sipped an orange Julius, I was thrilled we were once again able to take her out…but I had a wee sense that all was not well in her world—her color seemed…well it seemed a bit off…like the color Dad had in the month-and-a-half before he passed away. Yet Mom was happy and smiling and stayed awake for hours…not wanting to miss a thing, I suspect! What a wonderful time we had and I was excited for our next outing!

Even though I had seen the color change in Mom’s skin, I have to say I was still shocked when I got the phone call in Jan…only three-and-a-half weeks later…informing me that she hadn’t eaten for two days and was shaking her head “No” to fluids and food.

It was as if she had already decided…

Palliative meds were ordered…

My four-and-a-half hour drive to her seemed soooo long! I was able to think about the fact this was probably IT…she wasn’t going to recover this time.

So yes, I had done some grieving before Mom passed away…I had known this day was coming.

Even so, it was still a jolt when it happened.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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I miss you terribly Mom.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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I spoke to her soothingly, telling her I was her daughter Melanie, and carefully swabbed her mouth…something she was allowing me to do…she had refused others this act.

And then she took 12 strong sucks of the cool swab, clamping her gums together on it…over and over as I offered it…swallowing water she desperately needed.

I watched in amazement as the beautiful green color come back into her irises—such a remarkable event to watch.

I was startled…and transfixed.

When she made the effort to really look into my eyes…I swear she knew who I was, despite her Alzheimer’s.

Yes, I realized she had put out this extra effort to give me this amazing time with her…and I felt so blessed. My heart swelled, and I knew this would be a lifetime memory…a cherished moment.

With a lot of effort she said, “Hi.”

When I asked if she was in pain, she shook her head and said, “No.”

Earlier I had put on some background music…a transient relaxation tape…and now, while she looked at me, I lovingly massaged Mom’s legs, feet, toes, her head and neck, her hands and fingers…while I talked softly, telling her beautiful memories from my childhood…talking to her about how I loved the times she and her sisters sang in harmony whenever they got together at our house, how I loved Mom’s cooking and baking, fond memories I had of picking cherries with her at Mr. Blackman’s orchard when I was a teenager…and my most favorite memory of all…the time we painted ceramic Christmas ornaments together and chatted about life.

With each memory I went into great visual detail, trying to stimulate every sense…emphasizing colors, tastes, emotions…and singing songs I remembered.

She looked very peaceful and relaxed when I left.

…an angel.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
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