My mom passed away in 2023 after gradually declining from Alzheimer’s, vascular dementia and myelodysplastic syndrome for a couple of years. About a month or two before she passed away, she started talking about how she needed to get the suitcase down from her closet because she had a train to catch. And just a couple days before she died, when she had been barely conscious for maybe a week, all of the sudden she opened her eyes, looked at a fixed point in front of her, and said, “Hi, Dad!” Clear as day, in a calm, confident, hopeful voice. Then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep, as if nothing had happened. Her father had passed away about 20 years earlier, and clearly came to guide her, as he had done in life. I feel so grateful to have been present with her to see that sacred moment.
Jane French, caregiver, Naperville, Ill.
At the end of his life, my dad was blind. Arthritis fused his cervical spine, forcing his head downward. He lost the ability to walk. His kidneys and heart fought each other. He became unresponsive. A week before he died, I paused in the doorway before entering his room to find him engaged in a lively monologue. I touched his arm. He announced, “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my daughter.” I straightened and waved to the empty room. He spoke and looked around with ease. He sat relaxed, crossing, and uncrossing his legs, conversing with his children and long gone co-workers. As he spoke, he made grand gestures. I audibly gasped when he lifted his spindly arms over his head and looked toward the sky while making a point. His movements resembled a man decades younger than 91. After a while, he grew tired and fell back asleep. I will never forget how the mind can overpower the body with such ease.
Keith Walters, retired college professor, Portland, Ore.
Throughout the ’90s, I volunteered at a five-bed, residential AIDS hospice that accepted all who needed care. I spent time with many, many people, most young, many older, living with the knowledge that they would soon die. All the staff and volunteers had stories of residents announcing that they needed to pack for a train or bus that was coming, or that they had been visited by people we could not see but who had been an important part of their lives. With rare exception, these were narratives characterized by a sense of peace and acceptance. We learned to read them as signals that death was near, and it always was. Like Sara Teasdale contemplating the stars, I know that I am honored to bear witness to their stories.