House on the Rock

[Disclaimer: my apologies to those who receive this one twice 🙂 I accidentally clicked send instead of schedule.]

Apparently in hospice care, there’s a day known as the rally day. It’s also commonly called the last good day. Mom had had an abundance of good days — far outliving the one-week prognosis they originally gave her a month prior. We spent nearly every single day of that last month by her side. And as I look back, I remember those times to be really, truly joyful. Filled with laughter at her ceaseless wit, reminiscing on the years together, listening to worship music, crying out to Jesus, and imagining what her first days in Heaven would be like. 

Toward the end of October, these good days started to dwindle. They shortened quickly, much like the days of sunlight. Her naps stretched longer, her appetite decreased. On October 31, I had stayed the night at my parents’ house. It felt right to take a couple days off work, seeing as though the end was certainly drawing near. 

There’s something so sobering about truly knowing how numbered someone’s days are. All of our days are numbered, but few of us really live like it. We assume we have seventy years — eighty if we’re strong. But knowing that each conversation with Mom could’ve been my last brought a slowness, an intentionality. It’s funny how the things that seemed so stressful and important — grading final projects, planning perfect lessons, organizing the most fun games at our all-church picnic — were now meaningless in light of spending time by her side. 

Mom woke up early that Halloween morning. I crept into the living room, past my dad who had been sleeping on the couch every night by her side. I could see her arm was flung up in the air in a jubilant wave. There was none of the typical morning lethargy. Her eyes were bright, wide open. Energy exuded through her beautiful smile. My emotions were perfectly split between “it’s gonna be a good day,” and “it’s gonna be the last.” 

We sort of adopted a mantra, though we never said it out loud, that every time Mom had a good day, we’d have one right along with her. If she was joyful and chatty and feeling pain-free, we wouldn’t dwell on the future or cry over broken dreams. We’d have good days. We’d save our tears for the days when she, too, was crying. Weeping with those who wept, of course. But never forgetting to rejoice when she rejoiced. 

So we determined we’d make that day a good one. Vanilla cokes were delivered around 10:30 AM by John Downey, our faithful Coke dealer (Cola, of course!) who traded weeks with the Hess family in dropping off Dari-Licious. So we drank Vanilla cokes. Will Newell, the hospice nurse of the day, stepped outside to help Amanda and I take down Christmas trees from the attic. Again, if it was going to be her last good day, we’d have a good one right along with her. We’d try all the things she loved. I wonder how much better we’d love people if we always lived like they were in their final days.

By 11:30 AM, the Christmas tree was up. Lights surrounded the tall artificial pines, casting a peaceful glow on the face of my resting mother. Nana and Papaw came over that afternoon with a pot roast, rolls, and chocolate silk cake. Grammy brought appetizers. Evening rolled around; Cam, Christen, Joe, and Riley got off work, and we were all huddled together on the couch– just the way Mom liked it.

The rest of the day passed sweetly. Mom rested on and off, smiling at our stories, her eyes seemingly set on the lit-up Christmas tree. Sometimes, if you really stepped into her line of sight, it became evident that she wasn’t looking at the tree at all. She was staring far beyond it. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on something in the distance, a bit far off. Something on her right side. 

It took me back to that part of Psalm 121: “The Lord is a shelter at your right side.” It really seemed like she was seeing the things of God. Something beyond this world. I’m not sure how Heaven works or what those final moments of life must be like, but it’s tempting to think she was catching glimpses of her eternal home. There was such a steady peace about her, lips upturned into the slightest smile. Her days in a cancer-covered body, paralyzed by strokes and seizures, were nearly over. She was going to walk again. Fast. On perfect paths in perfect weather with perfect people in perfect glory. She was going to jump into the arms of Jesus, her Savior, whose nail-scarred hands would hold her, heal her, and welcome her home. She was going to feast with the Lord of the universe where death would be no more. What a future to look toward. What a reason to smile. 

Mom had a good day, so we had one right along with her. She was heading toward better days, so we’d celebrate that as well. This is not to say that we didn’t carry immense grief in those final days. We often slipped outside or into the downstairs bedroom and cried until we couldn’t breathe. But on her good days, we wanted to be good with her. We wanted to celebrate her smile and laugh when she laughed. So in God’s providence, with the Christmas tree up on Halloween, we shared a beautiful, magical last good day.