If this entry seems a bit calloused or avoids the emotional significance of the loss of my uncle this evening, it is because I have my own journal where I write about those matters. I wanted to post here about the experience of being with someone during their final moments of life. In many ways I feel that I am different, as if I can now see Thestrals.
The quick background: my uncle was diagnosed with cancer earlier this year. Things progressed very quickly since then, leading up to a hospitalization a little under a month ago. Three weeks ago it was discovered that the cancer had mastisized, invading 
his spinal cord and brain. He was released to spend his the remainder of his life at home in the care of hospice. For the past three weeks my family has been visiting him on the weekends. I received a call from a cousin yesterday letting me know that my uncle stopped easting and drinking this past Tuesday, and that this weekend would probably the last opportunity I would have to make my final peace with him. I packed my stuff up and joined him for the hour and a half trek out to his place.
My uncle and aunt lived in a cabin in a more remote mountain location. At one time it was a cabin that they rented to vacationers, but after getting rid of their other houses they settled in this one and made it their home. This mountain setting was a great location for much of the family to reunite (I even had an uncle and aunt travel up from Arizona). For most of the weekend the event had a flavor of jubilation as it was good to see everyone untied in one place. We had lots of laughs, good conversation, played games, and had good food as we ate and drank plenty. All the while my uncle’s bed was in the middle of the living room very close by to all of the activity.
Frequently throughout the weekend someone would check on him, talk with him, or hold vigil by his side. Of course, as anyone familiar with the later stages of cancer knows, my uncle was beyond verbal communication and seemed to have little motor control. He moved around in bed restlessly on Saturday, but by Sunday only his chest moved with labored breathing as the rest of his body remained still. Despite his inability to communicate and the knowledge that cancer had invaded his brain, I strongly got the sense that there was a level of awareness and understanding that contradicted what one observed with their eyes. At one point earlier today, I stood to one side of he bed while my aunt stood on the other. She had her hand on his shoulder and was comforting him with small talk, “We’re all her for you. Look, even Alex is here.” Miraculously, his head turned to look at me! My aunt informed me earlier of how much my uncle loved me, and she told me how happy she was that he knew I was here.
We had a wonderful dinner tonight. Good ‘Ol Red is a family favorite wine, which is no 
longer produced. My aunt broke out the final bottle hat she owned to drink with out meal. We toasted to my uncle and even said a prayer together (something that my father’s side of the family does not do). After eating a number of us sat down around my uncle’s bed to chat. One of my aunts (a nurse) noticed that his color had changed drastically within the past half-hour and that his breathing was slowing down. She called the remainder of the family into the room with urgency, announcing that this was our final chance to say good bye. We held hands in a final prayer, then watched and waited. We gave him words of encouragement and farewell, and another of my uncles gave permission of him to pass on, “We’re all here brother. If you see the light, you don’t have to fight it any longer. You can go on to the next world now, we will be with you again some day.” Many of us had our hands on him, and I could feel his pulse slow through the back of his neck. His breathes were few and greatly spaced out. The process was so gradual that I couldn’t pinpoint a threshold moment of transition. Instead, his life trickled away. We decided that that official threshold time would be 6:05 PM, but even after that time there still seems to be a life spark inside taking it’s sweet time to vacate. We still remained, even after we straightened his body into a more comfortable position. Strangely, it wasn’t a sad moment. I think I can best describe it as beautiful. Eerie, and beautiful.
In that time, I thought about the convenience of the timing. I believe that my uncle, a very considerate man, had waited until dinner was finished before leaving this world. Many of us were visiting for only the weekend, and he passed during the time when his wife would have the most support. The weekend was winding down, and as if he intended to punctuate the activities in the same way that gift giving punctuates the Christmas, he left. I mentioned this convenience of timing, and others agreed with me. An aunt of mine that passed away years ago from cancer, my mother pointed out, held on until the very minute of her birthday anniversary. Another aunt who was there today shared the story of her mother who died a few years ago: They waited seven days at her bedside without leaving for a minute. After waiting for seven days in the hospital, they finally returned home to shower and recuperate. They had not been gone for more than a few hours when the nurse called to inform them that their mother passed on. My aunt said that knowing her mother, she intentionally waited for them to leave because she wanted to pass away on her own terms, remaining in control until the end. And I think back to that moment earlier today, when my uncle turned to look at me, and I know that somewhere in his mind cognition was present and he knew that we were there with him.
The evening concluded when the hospice workers can to take my uncle’s body away. His wife had her final moments with him alone, and some of us helped bring him into their vehicle. As we watched the car drive away down the long, tree-lined driveway, the finality of the situation sunk it. This was the time when people cried, when we finally felt alone.
If they don’t feel like sharing, instead of probing deeper, offer to share something about yourself.
