Visit with a dying friend

I was home a few weeks ago and visited a friend in hospital. A couple of years ago he was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. He was a fierce activist and advocate so, of course, he began to promote early screening. 

I didn’t spend a lot of time with him during my lifetime, but he loomed large. He was a social justice advocate, particularly on issues of poverty reduction and labour rights. He and Mom had volunteered together when I was young in a program to teach adults how to read and write. He had an incredible memory for people and felt a deep attachment to anyone he had a conversation with. When he messaged me a few years ago that he had been diagnosed with cancer, I was filled with a deep sadness and gratitude. 

His face lit up when he saw me. His face lit up whenever he saw anybody but it is still a special experience to have. Once I got situated, he jumped right in to asking about me and my life. How are you? Where are you living now? Are you glad you moved home? Do you have a church? 

It was great fun telling him about Harbor. As a lapsed Catholic with a deep spirit, he was intrigued by the deconstruction journey, and the healing that happens when we ask questions, learn to listen to our own intuition, and bear witness to God’s immense love for humanity. Of course, he had done this decades ago. He was so happy to know there are communities where people can go now to find each other, and hoped that this movement would grow around the world. 

He talked about how grateful he is, and, when he learned he was at his end, his goal was to be as generous as he could with the time he had left. He wanted to have visitors and to make succession plans for his many projects. “But,” he said, “I’m a terrible procrastinator.” 

“Well,” I said, giving him a fake stern look, “Being a procrastinator is not going to serve you well right now.” He gave me a look that said, “Cheeky!”, and then we both had a good laugh. But what a wonderful wish at the end of a life--to be generous. I hope I have that much to give. 

As I said, my friend was an incredible advocate. I told him, and it is true, that he is a triumph of a human being. I asked him what he was most proud of. He laughed. “That’s hard.” He then got thoughtful and he said, “Whenever I see someone I know, or knew, and we had worked on something together, we worked on getting people the best that they deserved, and maybe it’s a person who needed that help, and I meet them and I remember that together we made their life better, or we made things better for someone else. That’s when I feel proud.”

For him, the pride wasn’t in the achievement itself (he made many important contributions), or the number of people he helped (too numerous to count) but in the difference it made in one person’s life. 

He was starting to get tired. He had apologised a few times for losing track of what he was saying. I reminded him that pain management was far more important than making sense. He agreed, and he stopped apologising. 

I asked him if he would like me to pray for him, and he said, “Oh yes!” It’s been a few years since I prayed at a bedside, and my prayers have changed a lot since then. I don’t get many requests to pray with someone anymore. But I’ve also learned to trust silence, which is God’s music.

After a moment, I began with gratitude, recalling his, and naming the things about my friend that I would always carry with me. I asked for Love to enter the medical staff and the loved ones who would surround him in the days to come, and I offered a blessing that he would be received with joy into the loving universe of stars that is God. 

It was clunky, and it was real. I have to get used to clunky. I’m done with prayer books. He was done with them a long time ago. 

We said Amen, squeezing hands, tears in our eyes. He told me to come back again. I said I would. We both knew I couldn’t, there just wasn’t enough time, but the desire for another visit was enough.

Two days later, my friend died. The messages and tributes filled my Facebook timeline. When you grieve a person like my friend, who had such an impact on so many people, you join this circle of loved ones you may never have met or never see again, but you are united in your love for a single person. For a few days, you are a family. My friend gave us that. How generous.

Godspeed, my friend. Say hi to Mom for me.