AMWW#69: A GOOD DEATH
by Abe Munder, the Wheeled Wonder
(AbeMunder@aol.com)

When I was a child, I developed a fear of cemeteries.  It wasn't a knee-jerk
phobia about death or spooks.  Rather, driving past local cemeteries that
stretched on and on, packed with more markers than I could count in my
nightmares, I worried about individuals simply vanishing from the world.  It
wasn't the dying that horrified me, but more that people could be forgotten as
if they've never lived at all.

This, from an American schoolkid filled with righteous indignation over a
handful of fallen countrymen at the Boston Massacre 200 years earlier.  Fifteen
years later he would gain a real education in perspective by studying Russian
history, where thousands and millions of faceless peasants were wiped away in
endless series of cataclysms.  So perhaps my fear was childish, but it persists
to some extent today.

That child decided the way to preserve one's memory is not to have a name
chiseled on a slab in a field of stones, but instead to have the person's name
and nature documented in print.  In this way, on some book somewhere, a part of
their essence is recorded, awaiting a live touch and living mind.  I resolved
then to write about every person I loved.

Here is a soul who needs to be written.  

Michele Casson, a Vancouver woman not yet 40, died from cancer after Christmas.
We are all unique, and she certainly was.  I knew her only through her deeply
personal writings on the Internet and a few letters.  She teemed with wit and
ideas, and epitomized grace: while she plainly stated and held to her
convictions, she didn't lash out at those who disagreed.  In short, she was the
kind of person we all want in our lives, to emulate, to show us how it's done.

She published "A Good Death" on July 14, 2003.  She passed away six months
later.  Her spirit and insight are apparent here.  Peace, Michele, and well
done.

A Good Death (note: names are changed)

My mom died Saturday night.  Some of you will know that she had cancer of the
bile duct.

Mom was diagnosed last January, and essentially ignored the message that she
had a terminal cancer that would likely kill her within six months.  Just a
month prior to her death she'd returned home from a three week cruise.  Before
her cruise Mom had traveled to Winnipeg to visit with her two brothers.  And
both before and after her cruise she made frequent trips to Victoria, to see
her friends there.

On Monday Mom was fine.  Her back hurt, and we were waiting for some test
results.  In our hearts we knew it was the cancer in some form causing the
pain, but hoped that the pain was caused by metastasis to her back, which could
quickly be eased by radiation.  While we waited for the test results, Mom was
made comfortable with some medication that made her sleepy, but she was still
functional on Monday; she did a couple of loads of laundry, and watched a video
with Jimmy (Sharon and Ron's son).

As the week wore on, Mom was sleeping a lot, but was still responsive and would
leave her bedroom for cups of coffee and chats with her children (me and
Sharon) and her grandkids.  Friday morning she was fine.  By Friday at 2 p.m.,
we couldn't rouse her; she couldn't reply coherently.  We took her to the
hospital around 5 p.m.  At this point, she couldn't talk at all.

The test results showed us that Mom's liver was grossly enlarged (the cause of
her pain) and that her liver and kidneys were shutting down.  Mom's doctor said
that it was time to let her go, that there was nothing we could do, medically,
that would improve her situation.

One of us sat with Mom Friday night until 1 a.m. Saturday.  None of us could
rouse her, and I grieved, thinking that she would die when there was so much I
wanted and needed to say to her.

But with Saturday came the most blessed gift.  Sharon brought Emily and Jimmy
to the hospital early in the morning to say goodbye, and Mom was able to weakly
squeeze their hands when they told her how much they loved her.

I arrived about 8 a.m., and as Sharon and I held her hands, we told Mom how
much we loved her, how she had been the best mom in the world.  We told her how
much we would miss her, and with each grief-stricken statement, Mom would
squeeze our hands.  With remarkable strength.  She tried to talk, tried to sit
up, to see us better, but couldn't.

As the afternoon wore on, Mom's responsiveness slipped away.  But I will always
be so grateful for those hours we were given to say what needed to be said.

As her consciousness diminished, Mom's breathing changed.  By 4 p.m., it was
wet-sounding, and the nurse confirmed that fluid was collecting in her chest.
It was hard to listen to Mom breathe.  To hear that wet, rattly noise.

Sharon and I went home for a few hours--she to help her son get ready for a
sleep-away camp, me to grab some sleep.  While I continued to nap, Sharon
returned to the hospital at 6 p.m.  I followed about 8 o'clock.

By this point Mom's breathing was very raspy and wet.  Honestly, it sounded
like she was drowning in fluid, though she had no difficulty breathing.  It was
so hard, sitting on her bed, holding her hand, and listening to that sound.

But about 8:30 p.m., Mom's breathing changed.  Suddenly that wet rattle was
gone, replaced by a softer, shallower sound.  As we sat with Mom, holding her
hands, stroking her face, her breathing became slower with each breath.  Sharon
said to me, "I think this is it.  It's happening.  Mom is dying."

While we waited for a nurse, Mom breathed two or three more times.  As her
shrunken chest rose and fell, we told her that it was okay to rest, that
Sharon, Ron and I would take good care of each other, that we loved her, and
were so proud to be her children.

Finally, the pause between breaths didn't end.  I discovered that I was
breathing along with Mom, and that I was holding my breath, waiting for Mom's
chest to rise again.  But she was still.  It was a strange moment of
stillness--part of me wanted so much for that stillness to end, to hear that
soft inhalation one more time, while the better part of me knew that it was
time.  Time for Mom to die.

The nurse came to Mom's bedside.  Checked and failed to find a heartbeat.  Or a
pulse.  Mom was dead.

Though I can't imagine my life without my mother, I know that she had a good
death, enveloped in the love of her family, free of suffering.  And Sharon and
I were spared the nightmare of slowly watching her slip away.

The funeral and burial are on Thursday.

Mom didn't have the chance to find a burial plot--didn't really want to look
for one.  Part of her didn't believe she had cancer and was going to die.  Five
days before her death she informed a nurse that "supposedly I have cancer."

However, a few months ago she asked if we could be buried together.  Side by
side.  And I said yes, happy with the idea.

So today I was able to choose my own gravesite.  The cemetery is very pretty;
it's small and intimate.  Mom and I will be buried close to some trees that are
hundreds of years old.  Some of the statues and grave markers are more than one
hundred years old, so hopefully visitors will find it an interesting place to
wander around.  And it's a city-owned cemetery, so the price was very low, much
better than buying a plot at a corporate gravesite.

Mom is dead.  Those words sound so strange, so off-key, even though I've
anticipated her death for months.  I'm dreading the moment that the busywork of
funeral arrangements ends, and I'm left to grieve for her.

Michele

-- $8,000: WHO DA MAN! --

Kansas City uberfrau Vanita Dexter and her husband Rick have raised $8,000
supporting their Training To End Stroke marathons on January 18.  If you
haven't been following this one, Dexter herself suffered back-to-back strokes
less than a year ago.  Now she is taking donations to have names added to the
running jersey she will be wearing during her 26.2 mile run.  Stroke is the
third leading killer in the U.S.  If you would like to donate on behalf of
someone you know who has been affected by stroke, hurry visit

https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=25692&lis=1&su
pId=7210250

Run, Vanita and Rick!

-- DONATED POWER BATH-LIFT AND JAY GEL SEAT AVAILABLE --

Available free: upright powered bath-lift that swivels in and out of a shower;
Jay gel seat for scooter or wheelchair; walker; commode.  Please inquire at
AbeMunder@aol.com

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