Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part Two

Not a watched pot. Just potted watches.

“A watched pot never boils,” but sometimes they do. “And patients never die while someone sits vigil.” Well, that’s most often the case. But sometimes they do.

This morning, I found myself watching a pot come to a boil, then reflected on a patient who died during a very brief time alone (that’s Part One, which you’ll find below). But that was only after finding myself again in the midst of mourning the loss of a friend who most certainly did not die alone.

It has now been twenty-eight years since I was called to serve The Fort Jones Community Church. There’s a lot to say about my tenure there, but on my mind this morning, watching the pot slowly build up steam, was the Elder who wasn’t an Elder, yet. He served as an Elder would in every way but one. He just wasn’t “official,” initially. He was not allowed to attend Elders’ meetings, nor was he allowed to be called an Elder through the official channels of recognition in that congregation of that denomination at that particular time.

Watched pot, and pot-watcher.

He’d been a one-man woman for as long as anyone knew. But there had been an earlier marriage during the earliest part of his military service. The combined damage of that relationship, later experiences in Vietnam, and especially the inexorable deterioration and multiple diseases that accompany severe radiation exposure (he served on spotter planes above detonations on Enewetak Atoll), left him very mindful of his limitations, and the wisdom of simply serving wherever Christ called you, no matter what others may call you.

His advice, counsel, questions, and reproof of a then-twenty-four year old pastor in a redevelopment church was perhaps the single largest factor to my continuing in ministry there. His continued input and reminders over the subsequent years contributed significantly to my continuing in ministry…at all. For more than half my life, he called me his pastor, and he was my Elder and, I claim proudly, my friend.

The above barely does justice to him, but in this limited space, perhaps it offers some explanation for my reaction when I received a call from his wife some time ago.

After lengthy battles with the variety of damages his early experiences had imposed upon him, “He’s taken a turn for the worse,” she said. She wanted to know what my schedule looked like over the next week or so. She wanted to know where to find me when it was time for “his pastor” to help arrange the funeral for my Elder, my friend. That warning call came on a Saturday. Of course, I had duties the following morning. So, despite her concern that I might end up making two trips in the same week (and that in the time it took to drive there, he could be gone), I agreed that we would make the five-hour trip only after calling to confirm that he was still there to be visited.

We arrived that Sunday evening. He was still there. Using talents I’d developed in working with ALS, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, and brain injury patients, I was able to enjoy a lengthy conversation with my Elder, my friend. He was weak, bed-ridden, but still able to reprove his pastor with good humor, even when I had to ask him to repeat with greater enunciation a particular gibe in my direction.

The next morning, we stopped by their home to visit briefly before heading back for the week’s responsibilities, knowing that my agenda and schedule were likely to be interrupted by news of his death. As we stood around his bed, though, his hand in my left, his wife’s in my right, and my wife completing the chain between husband and wife by grasping his big toe through the bed sheet, I prayed for my Elder, my friend—and I felt the unmistakable slackening in his grip, followed by the sigh I had heard from others many times before.

It momentarily threw me. I had never had someone die in the midst of prayer before. But knowing that he desired no “heroic measures,” I simply concluded my prayer (though probably more abruptly than I would have otherwise). At that point, his wife, retired from her nursing career, and I, an experienced Hospice chaplain, went into technician mode: things to check, calls to make, a pathway to clear. And then the long wait for contact from law enforcement (in some counties even a death on Hospice care requires the same attention as any other “unattended” death), their arrival, the arrival of the mortuary service and their departure with the body of my Elder, my friend. And then, the long drive home, trying to regain my bearings.

Somewhere along the twisting roads of the Northern California mountains, heading inland from my friends’ seaside home, I came to a realization. Nobody ever really dies alone. Granted, not all die surrounded by friends and family in the midst of a time of prayer. I trust that it was a blessing to my Elder, my friend, as the last words he heard on this earth were the prayers of his pastor. But as much as Jesus was with us in that moment, Christ is here, today, with every one of us.

Why, then, does it seem like so many choose to let go of the last threads of this life when all their fellow-humans have left the room? Maybe a lot of us just wait…until there aren’t so many interruptions to our conversation with Him.

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part One

“A watched pot never boils…and patients never die while someone sits vigil.” There are exceptions, though. This morning, just to prove to myself what I’d seen, I watched a pot come to a boil. But still, the adage is well-founded. It’s not something I would do very often.

The fact is, patients do most frequently die when alone. Some will hold on for that one last special visit. Some seem to remain long enough to hear the conclusion of a particularly interesting conversation. But it is in the little breaks in a vigil, when everyone leaves the bedside to see the new grandbaby, or the primary caregiver needs just one quick cigarette, or when a loved one comes away to the desk to escort the next shift’s visitor to the room…

Saturday, 2:00 p.m. – I was the one to find that he’d gone. The long-term care facility’s nurse had directed me to the room and said she’d be along in just a moment. She’d been sitting, reading to him, watching his breathing grow slower over the past half hour.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m. – Some of the family had gathered at our favorite breakfast place. On our way out – “Would you mind stopping by to check on Dad? He’s not doing too well, and I know he’d love to see you.” I promised I would go after the funeral. After all, the request was made by a son just hours before his mother’s funeral. His mother and father had long-since divorced and remarried others. I’d buried the step-father some months earlier. So, that afternoon, I left the widow’s funeral for the local long-term care facility where I entered her ex-husband’s room to find that he’d died.

Saturday, 3:00 p.m. – Because I’ve trained for, served extensively at, and taught others in making an appropriate death notification, I was asked (and it seemed only right for me) to handle this one. I made a couple of phone calls to determine where the family had gathered before dispersing to their distant homes. As I drove to the hotel restaurant at which they’d gathered, I prayed that I would be able to gather the four men in order to break the news all at once. But the potential of one being in his hotel room, another in the bar, one at a table in the restaurant, and perhaps the fourth standing outside saying goodbye to friends or relatives…I imagined they might make assumptions about the purpose for my visit. I was prepared for a less-than-optimal situation.

But when I walked in, the four brothers were standing together, engaged in conversation with one another, with everyone else in rapt discussions around various tables, seemingly oblivious to my presence. The second youngest saw me, welcomed me, and asked if I had stopped off to see his dad. With just the four brothers, I was able to explain that I’d stopped by, that the nurse directed me to his current room, but when I spoke to him he was unresponsive and, in fact, I had called the nurse into the room to confirm my suspicions. “She did, and apparently in the couple of minutes he was alone, he had died.” (I try to, and train others to break the process down into seven gradually leading elements. Given the circumstances, I was very glad to come up with even six steps.)

Shortly thereafter I found myself in the center of the hotel bar, joined hand-in-hand with a circle of thirty-some family and friends, praying with them. Having gathered to mourn and reminisce together, a new grief, anticipated but still shocking in its timing, was introduced. One of the daughters-in-law asked afterward, “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” We were in good humor at that point, so I responded, “You mean, have I ever done a mother’s funeral, then left to visit the father, her ex-husband, been the one to find the body, come to the post-funeral family dinner and break the news of the second death to the family? No, I’m not sure that’s ever happened to anyone before.”

But this morning, I stood in my kitchen and watched a pot come to a boil. It’s not something I would do very often. But I’ll tell you why in part two.

The Gracious Bereaved: Why sincerity in our hearts trumps the stupidity of our words

In its early stages: Cute.

My friend explained it this way. The visitor had nearly exhausted her. Pancreatic cancer left her with significantly less stamina than the hour-long visit had required, even though the conversation was primarily a monologue as the visitor related a litany of her own difficulties in the areas of health, relationships, and finances. “At least she knew not to ask, ‘How are you?’” my friend said.

But when I offered my regrets that she had been subjected to all that, my dying friend stunned me. “It was nice to have someone come to visit me.”

In light of that, and some comments on the last two posts, let me reiterate a point or two. First, those things on the list of what not to say? They’re things that have really been said. (I’ve said some myself.) I share them frequently, to dispell your fear of saying the wrong thing. You will, of course. But that no matter how badly you stumble, others have said far worse…and survived.

As it progresses: Awkward.

A second restatement, from the first of these three posts, is that questions (Other than, “How are you?”) are better than statements. But even questions are often unnecessary. The bereaved and dying are often longing for someone to sit quietly and listen. Let them know you’re really there (and not looking for the first opportunity to run from the room), prompt them with a question or two if necessary, and listen. “Bearing silent witness to their suffering,” said a friend, “is sometimes all you can do. But it’s often everything they need.” To simply know that someone knows something of our pain can mean more than all the words of all the philosophers, theologians, and Helen Steiner Rice wannabees combined.

Understand, though, that one of the elements of grief is Anger. There are times when the outrage of disease, disability, and imminent death results in lashing out at even those closest to us, even our primary caregivers. Even in those moments, however, the importance of presence still overcomes ridiculously inept statements. And that’s not just because the bereaved and dying are desperate for company.

Ultimately: Incurable.

I was the one in the hospital bed. Widespread systems failures from an unknown cause left me attached to (and invaded by) most of the kinds of tubes and wires owned by Castleview Hospital in Price, Utah. I was conscious, and not terribly glad to be. No one from the congregation I served came to visit. My ministry supervisor, though, had called to assure me that the district office was praying for me. Still, I was feeling a bit desperate for company. But when a local ministry colleague arrived, he didn’t speak at first, clearly aghast at the sight. His eventual question was “How are you?” I managed not to respond verbally. (And it wouldn’t have been “Fine, and you?”)

But I was glad he came to visit. Admittedly, I was desperate for someone who was there to see me, rather than merely the charts, monitors, and reports in which my life had become enmeshed. So, despite incredulity at his question, I realized that I’d asked the same question just as inappropriately. I vowed there and then to try to stop.

And so the list was born. It’s up to “Fifty Things Not To Say to the Bereaved.” There will be more. I will keep showing up, listening, asking questions as necessary, and occasionally opening my mouth only to shock myself at how the sincerity of my heart can result in such stupidity in my words.

I hope not to presume too much upon it, but I do thank God for the graciousness of the bereaved. So far, none of them have thrown me out. And so I go, and listen, and ask questions as necessary, and pray that you find the courage to do the same.

Fifty Things Not To Say to the Bereaved

As I mentioned in my prior post, I’ve been compiling this list for some time. Others have written on the same theme, and you may have more to add to it. (I’d be grateful if you’d share, please.) I also know, from seminars and seminary classes I’ve taught, that not all of these are immediately clear to everyone. So, if you have questions or concerns about why a particular saying is on the list, please comment and I’ll try to explain concisely enough to fit into the space allowed. (And if you want a little more information on why I find this so important, the previous post, “Silence Is Rarely Golden, but the Alternative Is Often Mercurial,” is found here: http://deathpastor.blogspot.com/2013/08/silence-is-rarely-golden-but.html.)

Here’s what not to say:

1.       #1 – Nothing. (As in, don’t just say nothing.)

2.       Close Second – I know how you feel.

3.       How are you doing? (Unless you are sure you have the time to hear the answer.)

4.       It’s for the best. (Or, “It’s probably for the best.”)

5.       At least you still have…(your other children/your health/your youth/your other parent).

6.       Don’t forget you have others who need you. (esp., “Don’t forget your other children need you.”)

7.       You’ll meet someone else eventually.

8.       They wouldn’t want you to be sad/crying/depressed/angry/alone/etc.

9.       It’s not your fault.

10.    They’re in a better place.

11.    It was just their time to go.

12.    You’re strong enough to deal with this.

13.    You can put this behind you and get on with your life.

14.    God needed them in heaven.

15.    How long did the doctor say you have?

16.    Are you feeling any better yet?

17.    They’ll always be with you in your heart.

18.    I’m sorry I brought it up.

19.    You’re still young; you can (have another child/get remarried/etc.).

20.    Cheer up.

21.    It was God’s will.

22.    You’ll get over this.

23.    You were only a little-bit pregnant, right? It’s not like you lost a CHILD.

24.    It was/wasn’t meant to be.

25.    Look at how much you have to be thankful for.

26.    You’ll want to have someone around for awhile.

27.    They’re much happier now.

28.    Nothing will change the love you had for each other.

29.    God had another plan.

30.    I’ve had a similar experience…

31.    I can’t imagine what would have made them commit suicide.

32.    They had a full life.

33.    It’s time you started to move on with your life.

34.    Something good always comes out of tragedy.

35.    They’re no longer suffering.

36.    Call me if there’s anything you need.

37.    You know, the scripture teaches…

38.    You had a good long marriage/life with them.

39.    There, but for the grace of God, go I.

40.    Don’t cry/say that/feel that way.

41.    You couldn’t have known.

42.    Let’s change the subject.

43.    Everything happens for a reason.

44.    This, too, shall pass.

45.    We’ll always be here for you.

46.    Be glad he was _____, and not ______. (“5 mos, not 5 years,” “85 and not 45,” etc.)

47.    You should be glad they went quickly. (Or, “You should be glad they had time to put things in order.”)

48.    Any comparisons with anyone else’s losses.

49.    “You’ll be the youngest person we’ve ever had in long-term care.”

50.    To a teacher whose due-date would have been near the beginning of the school year, had she not miscarried: “At least this way you can plan the timing better next time.” (The teacher’s response: “After three miscarriages, I’ll take a baby on whatever schedule I can get one.”)

Silence Is Rarely Golden, but the Alternative Is Often Mercurial

Loading mercury with a pitchfork
   your truck is almost full. The neighbors
   take a certain pride in you. They
        stand around watching.

-Richard Brautigan

Mercury is difficult to handle (especially with a pitchfork, as Richard Brautigan understood), and dangerous as well. The potential for damage to yourself or others recommends we avoid it if at all possible.

That’s how many of us feel about talking to the bereaved. And so we opt for silence. I hope to change that.

A good friend, socially-adept, mutually acquainted with a couple enduring incredible distress, explained again last week that he had not called or visited them. “I don’t know what I would say,” was his well-reasoned motivation. Others have felt the need to say something, anything, and with unfortunate results. Those facing great difficulties, especially bereavement (“having experienced a significant loss, usually through the death of a loved one”), hear some truly amazing things.

If our words might be damaging, then silence should be the safer choice…except that it’s deadly. The echo of the past often deafens those in grief and mourning, disabling them from hearing a balance of the valued relationship and the reality of its loss. It helps to speak aloud past memories, along with today’s grief. But if all their friends are more fearful of speaking than they are of silence, they sit alone, searching for signs of continuity in their lives.

For a moment, imagine yourself speaking to a friend who has experienced a significant loss—and as you realize that you don’t know what you might say, consider also that silence is among the least effective alternatives. “But I might say the wrong thing.” Yes. That’s very true. In fact, those who are sure they know “the right thing to say” are often oblivious to how wrong they are. So, I would like to offer you two tools I find helpful.

Since one of the most helpful activities of mourning is reminiscence, the first tool is to simply go and listen. Simple questions are most helpful in starting the process. I serve many bereaved individuals and families. Most of them I am meeting for the very first time in the midst of one of their least-social moments. I ask, “What should I know about your circumstances that would help me serve you best?” For closer friends, I have asked, “What have you found yourself thinking about?” or “What are you feeling today?” (Remember, “How are you feeling?” suggests they tell us, “Fine, thanks.”) It doesn’t take much to start the conversation.

Second, though, since even when we’re committed to asking simple questions and then simply listening, there are so many things that sound so right…until we actually say them. I have found it helpful to catalog “The Wrong Things to Say.” So, if it helps motivate you to go and listen, then I’ll gladly share that list with you, so that you at least have a map of as much of the mine-field of well-intentioned platitudes as I’ve discovered so far. (I just learned a new one last Friday. It’s a beaut! You’ll find it at the end of the list I'll be posting next.)

‘Til then, I remain…

Your servant for Jesus’ sake (II Corinthians 4:5),

Wm. Darius Myers, Death Pastor

Death Is a Bad Idea

The effort to form words audibly and intelligibly was beyond her strength. Mobility had long-since been arrested by her degenerative neurological condition As a Hospice chaplain, I had served others faced with her diagnosis and prognosis. As her pastor, too, I was in a position to remind others that while she could barely speak, and might appear to have been lost to dementia, “her ears are still connected, and she’s still processing. Go and talk to her, read to her, and remember: that’s still her in there.”

Encouraging others to maintain their relationships with her was especially important to me. I had been blessed to watch the care she previously provided to her sister over a period of years. But the sister’s disease process was as nearly opposite as could be. In one case, a mind trapped in a body was slowly, but finally cut off completely from demonstrating itself to surrounding friends and family. In the other, her sister’s robust physical health meant that she survived long after the last of the fleeting moments of apparent awareness, ultimately leaving a body intact and functioning long after any control, response, or even, as near as we know, thought within it. 

Even when death is sudden and swift, it is almost universally preceded by disease, dysfunction, and/or disability. The world and the bodies in which we live are damaged physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, environmentally, and especially spiritually. In fact, it is the spiritual dimension that experiences the greatest trauma in considering any death. But when death comes far too early in life (the second-grader who fell from the tree she’d climbed so many times before, or the toddler left unattended just long enough to find his way to the creek), or at inopportune moments (coinciding with holidays or family celebrations, or on the brink of major life milestones)? Or when it befalls in such cruel irony as with the sisters above? It prompts questions that most often presume death to be a natural part of the created order. But I would question that assumption. In fact, I have questioned it. I have questioned it biblically and theologically (though these should be identical, they are not, due to the same damages described above), psychologically and sociologically, from the perspectives of biology and anthropology, and in most other ways you could name. I have struggled with why death was ever created in the first place, and have come to this conclusion. It was not. When I ask, “Why, God? How could you call paradise the world in which you included death?” And I believe the answer He gives is, “I didn’t.” I have pressed Him on this matter. I pressed to the point that I believe He clarified the so-called “creation” of death, saying, “I didn’t. You did.”

The Life-giver warned that even in paradise, the very garden of creation, that there was one, and only one, fragility. He gave humankind everything. He put it under our dominion. But we wanted to see what else there was. When you have everything, the only way to get something else is to break some of what you’ve been given. And so, we then had most of what we’d been given, plus the pieces of what we’d broken. That brokenness includes mortality.

“In the day that you eat from it, you will surely die,” He said. (Genesis 2:17)

Some have imagined that since Adam and Eve did not immediately collapse and expire at the moment of their first bite of that fruit, that there must be some other kind of death that is meant, and that physical death must have been a part of the original creation. Anyone who has lived long enough senses their own mortality, recognizes the gradual disabling of life, the dysfunction that will not be restored, and the reality of having to say, “There’s another thing I won’t ever do again.” There is little imagination required to sense, then, what the original humans must have felt in that moment when mortality gripped them.

Death has been, is, and will always be a terribly bad idea. It carries with it, even in its most romanticized settings, a stench that repulses us from contemplating it. Our denial is natural, since death is not. But while it is an infernal invention, it also continues to consume us. And whether traumatically abrupt, or interminably protracted, it remains to be reckoned as a part of life—mine, yours, and everyone we know.

But mortality, the fact of being a “human dying” as much as a “human being,” is not permanent. And so, neither is death. Most of us understand that there is something after this life. I believe that the Christian scripture gives hints about “the afterlife’s” nature, but declines concrete imagery. When Jesus’ disciples ask, “How can we know how to get there when we don’t even know where You’re going?” Jesus replies, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one come to the Father except through me.” This implies exclusivity, certainly. But in answer to the disciples’ immediate concerns, Jesus is telling them: “You don’t need a road map. When the time comes, I will be your guide.” (John 14:1-6) When the disciple who recorded that conversation writes again later, he notes that we don’t know what it is that we will be like. But he seems satisfied to understand that “we will be like Him, for we will see Him as He is.” (I John 3:1-3) What happens after this life is far more vague than I would like. But I am even less content with what is too very clear:

You, and I, and everyone we know: each one of us is going to die. (At some point I should explain how it is that I see the rapture as a form of death, so that I don’t feel neglectful for omitting “should the Lord tarry” from every iteration of this statement.) This demands that we take seriously the life we lead in this very moment. It also demands that we take seriously our need of the guide Jesus offers to be, and to live accordingly. Here’s one more reason why:

If all you ever allow yourself to experience of life is this degraded and deteriorating mess we’ve made of it, then I can’t imagine anything more tragic. The longings you and I feel to “fix it,” to bring redemption, restoration and renewal to the world around us, to the relationships we have, and to the socio-politico-economic structures and systems in which we depend upon one another…these longings are noble aspirations and should most definitely be pursued, even though we recognize that they will never be perfected. The damage to humanity and our environment is in many ways reversible, but ultimately incurable. We exchanged utopia for the fantasy of autonomy, and it is not within our autonomous ability to restore it. As much as we may move the mess around, the pile leaves a conspicuous lump under the rug where our denial sweeps it. Still, never allow the impossibility of perfection to dissuade you from the good you are called to do. Though the ultimate restoration and renewal is yet to come, it begins in the hearts of those willing to humbly admit that we need the guidance, assistance, and miraculous intervention of the author, designer, and builder who gave us the utopia in the first place.

If I may, then, given the shortness of your time and mine, and the dire realities of the hour in which many now live (and are dying), I would exhort you: Get with the program. Join the team. Share in the work. Not just because it’s good for you, but because of the good that others need to know, and see, and experience, and, themselves, join in promoting. It’s important to acknowledge the reality of death. It limits the time we have available. But the damage and degradation and deterioration we experience are only indignities if our lives have been indignities. Christ is not merely seeking to guide us to redemption once we’ve died. He wants us involved in reconciliation, restoration, and in spreading that redemption…once we decide to live.

I pray you do so today.

Why “Death Pastor?”

It’s been awhile since I was first asked, “How did you come to decide to specialize in death?” As though it were a career-building decision. Perhaps the best way to explain would be to consider the alternatives I have faced.

As one set of alternatives, some have suggested their own, similar, epithets: “Pastor Death,” or even “Doctor Death” (and that long before I was even enrolled in a doctoral program). Given that “Dr. Death” has referred to both Josef Mengele (for whom concentration camps provided subjects of his scientific research) and Jack Kevorkian (a former physician, convicted murderer, and proponent of physician-assisted suicide), I wanted no confusion over my stance regarding death.

Likewise, others are sometimes confused regarding my overlapping roles as pastor, counselor, educator, and chaplain for several organizations, not least of which is Mayers Memorial Hospital District/Intermountain Hospice. Imagine yourself waking up one morning in the hospital, waiting patiently for the doctor to come and explain what they’ve learned from your test results. But after the nurses and the dietary staff and the others who wander in and out of your room, my face appears at your doorway…with a name tag beneath it: Hospice Chaplain. Your first thoughts might reasonably jump to some grave conclusions. I’m usually there because a family or friend has asked me to check in on a patient. And I do take off the tag if it’s not a Hospice patient I’m seeing. But a good portion of the relatively small population in our area recognize me as Hospice Chaplain, nametag or not. So, the confusion is understandable.

As for the consequence of being known as Death Pastor, the other set of alternatives is of far greater motivation to me. As with all the other pastors I know, there was no training prior to entering ministry (and there is still precious little in Bible colleges and seminaries) on what to do when you receive that first call as a pastor, “Could you come right away? The family asked us to call their pastor. They only have a short-time left.” The first time I was called to minister to a family after the death of a loved one, the only relevant resource on my shelves simply scripted the orders of service for several types of funerals with the only variable being “Insert Deceased’s Name Here.” Whether in their bereavement (having experienced a significant loss) or the process of dying, I determined early on that those I was called to serve deserved better care than I had been trained to give.

In the intervening years, through divine appointments and open doors of opportunity for serving a variety of individuals and families, I have not only sought out training, but have developed training through seminars, workshops, and now through seminary courses designed to equip pastors and other servants how, why, where, when, and what to do for the bereaved and the dying. Most congregations do fine without any specialists on their staff. The majority of American churches are served by solo pastors (or less than solo, in the case of multi-vocational and circuit-riding pastors). Some churches may be privileged to add a Youth Pastor, and/or a Children’s Pastor, and/or a Seniors Pastor, and/or an Executive Pastor, or any number of others with an ever more narrowing ministry focus. Despite the fact that, should the Lord tarry, 100% of the members of the average congregation will die¸ however, I would argue that no congregation really needs to hire a Death Pastor.

But every pastor needs to have an understanding of “Thanatology” (the study of death, dying, bereavement, grief, and mourning), and to know what to say and do when they receive those calls. All that I’ve experienced, studied, researched, and applied, I want to share with those who can provide immediate, hands-on, face-to-face, life-on-life care for the bereaved and dying (and that’s all of us, really) in their communities. So, you can call me Death Pastor.