J, no> wrote:
> http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/0...o-say-goodbye/
> May 5, 2008, 3:53 pm
> A Lesson on How to Say Goodbye
Responses to the article
23 comments so far...
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1.
May 5th, 2008 4:39 pm
My husband also got a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, but in Oct. 2006.
His was inoperable, but at NY Presbyterian Hospital, oncology always focuses
on reducing the size of the tumor in the hopes of future surgery. So the
treatment was very aggressive.
Richard was always an athlete, lifting weights from age 14, a natural
swimmer and local master’s champion in racewalking. In the last 3 years, he
took up Tai Chi again, getting a great deal of calm from the daily practice.
His fight lasted 15 months, 9-12 months longer than predicted at
Memorial Sloan Kettering, where we felt shunted aside because the surgeon we
saw couldn’t do surgery. He managed well until he started a special type of
radiation, called tomotherapy. All kinds of complications took place, but he
had the same grace as Dr. Pausch.
He was most worried about me and our 20 year old daughter. He had a sad
drawn-out ending, lasting 31 days without food, because when he went back into
the hospital retching, the doctors felt he had 24-48 hours. Once his pain was
stablized, he just hung on, wishing he could go and put us out of our misery
watching him die.
The pain was awful for him. The loss is awful for us. We will learn to
live without him, but we will never heal from this wound, this loss.
— Posted by Susan
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2.
May 6th,
2008
1:23 am
Susan, thank you for your sincere and candid comment. I am 30 and my mom
recently was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My wife, dad, and other family
and friends are rallying around my mom and us and providing much appreciated
support.
It is difficult and my mom is too young — only 61 — but we count our
blessings for what we’ve had and enjoyed and remain positive and are grateful
for the time we have left.
Posting your comment was an act of generosity and kindness. Thank you
for sharing and I wish you and your daughter well.
— Posted by thank-you Susan
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3.
May 6th,
2008
1:47 am
as a counselor i work with loss, grief and fear and all that comes with
it. At times the depth and strength of it almost over whelms, with it emotions
and feeling of inadequacy are not far behind. At other times it brings peace
and a deep sense of honour for life and with it comes so peace. However, I
continue to wonder, what it is and how is it, that I can best serve and be of
help to this person and their journey.
It also never ceases to amaze me the enduring strength that people have
with in… We truly are amazing creatures….trust, faith and hope, all offer
potential peace… We all need it…
— Posted by Grayem
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4.
May 6th,
2008
6:27 am
There really is no easy way to say goodbye. My partner was diagnosed
with metastatic lung cancer and liver failure seven weeks ago. Five days
later, he was gone, no longer able to breathe on his own. We had no time to
really say goodbye or go on those long walks and do final things. We had to
get through those five long days, while he was writhing in agony (even with
opioids) and unable to sleep. I tried my best to say goodbye and so did he,
but it was just not enough. So now I know how a heart truly can be broken, and
how someone can feel so devastated than no amount of consoling takes away the
pain.
Goodbye? Heck, I’d have settled for another day. It wasn’t meant to
happen, I guess.
— Posted by Michael
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5.
May 6th,
2008
8:51 am
We had a one-year notice that my mother was going to die from liver
cancer. I can’t even begin to describe how it feels to know in advance when
someone is going to die. In the case of my mother, she outlived her doctor’s
prognosis by several months. The thing was, she went on living the remainder
of her life here as she always did. Nothing special. No Hollywood “Bucket
List” or any of that crap. No, she continued to see her friends, get her hair
styled, spent time with her family, went out to dinner with everyone, read the
papers, cooked, etc., until she couldn’t do any of these things anymore.
Toward the end, when she was drifting in and out of consciousness in her
own bed at home, I spent a lot of time with her, talking with her. They say
that your sense of hearing is one of the last things to go. I didn’t know that
then. I just kept telling her how much I love her, that if I could ever be
half the mother she was, it would be quite the achievement. One day, while
telling her how much her children love her, she opened her eyes and smiled.
I’ll never forget what she said: “Then I’ll be okay, wouldn’t I?”
To die with dignity is extremely important. I wish that for everyone.
But it wasn’t until I witnessed my mother’s own passing that I learned what it
meant to die with grace. Even at the end of her life, she never stopped being
a mother. She never stopped teaching her children.
— Posted by Linda Hsia Elmstrom
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6.
May 6th,
2008
9:15 am
Saying good bye is possible despite your loved one appearing to be in a
coma due to the rages of cancer. My husband watched his younger brother slowly
die from cancer in 2006, only to lose his “battle” in August of 2007. Ed was
62, his brother, 56. Ed was “treated” at Sloan, and like Sue’s spouse,
“shunted aside” when all hope was lost and the cancer began to spread. He
lived to meet his two granddaughters, yet I cry the most when I think of how
he will not be here to be their “Granddude”. However, he will be! For he
shared his love of life, knowledge, wonder and awe with our three sons, who
will carry on those aspects of truly living a life.
Ed was beginning to have difficulty with speaking, sad that he couldn’t
remember his granddaughter’s names. We practiced and put their names under
their pictures on the dresser. Our sons were planning a visit last summer, but
the day before, Ed took ill and died 14 hours later! Oh, he was doing pretty
well the days before, and I was shocked and frightened, truthfully unprepared
to have him die so soon…yet he was ready.
We did say goodbye, as I told him it was okay to die. We had the most
wonderful non-verbal parting as he seemingly was in a “coma” state, unable to
speak or open his eyes. Yet, he slowly raised his hand to my shoulder as a
sign he understood what I had just uttered. An hour after our son, his wife
and their infant daughter came to his side, Ed left us. I believe he knew I
was not alone, and, months later, surrounded by the gardens he so lovingly
planted
and koi pond he designed and created, I cry for our loss, but rejoice in
the memories of his life well lived! It’s all about balance.
— Posted by Margaret
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7.
May 6th,
2008
9:29 am
It is interesting to see the different perspectives. I have two. My
mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 16, and lived about nine
months. It was agonizing, and she died in the room across from me after we
were able to say goodbye to her. My father died instantly while holding my
hand (at age 19) in a Houston airport. It is my honest opinion that my
father’s death was much more of a nightmare because I had no time to say
goodbye nor did I have any warning. I agree that dignity is by far the most
important thing as I watch my surrogate mother struggle with multiple myeloma,
something that almost killed her last year, but that she is still around
living with after having had her second bone marrow transplant. Best wishes to
all of you.
— Posted by Canary
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8.
May 6th,
2008
10:53 am
Thanks for your post, Canary. I too experienced both perspectives with
my parents. Dad was the healthy one who died suddenly of a massive heart
attack. When I had to officially ID his body in the ER, all I could say was
“Damn it Daddy, we weren’t finished!” For the next sad 4 years, I cared for
Mom who had dementia and multiple medical problems. It was a long goodbye, and
I had to fight doctors and the assisted living home for her right to die,
despite her living will and my power of attorney for health care. She endured
all the interferences with a measure of grace. She kept repeating “that’s
enough” toward the end. But at least Mom and I got to say goodbye. I wish
Daddy and I could have done that. But on the other hand, sudden death in the
middle of health is the death I wish for everyone that I love.
— Posted by Daphna
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9.
May 6th,
2008
11:08 am
…. I lost my beloved husband by the end of 06 so suddenly that we did
not hve time to say goodby.Can you imagine that on a sunday we went to the gym
and the next tuesday he was in the hospital never to come back.We did not even
knew a thing about polmonar fibrosis and if you would have told him he would
have said”are you kidding?”.He jocked with the nurses and was in good spirit
hoping to come home in a few days.But when we got the call at three in the
mornig by his specialist to come right away I had the hardest of
feelings.Later he looked at me with his wonderful green eyes and said”Martha,I
dont want to become an invalid”and that was it for us.He lived another 10 days
intubated and at the end each of his daughters held his hand and prayed
sitting by his side.Yes.life goes on but it will never be the same and I miss
him terrible every moment.
— Posted by martha k
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May 6th,
2008
11:43 am
I met this man in May at a place where he worked and I volunteered every
morning before going to my swing shift job; shortly after I started there, we
had lunch the days I was there, and fell for each other at the end of June. It
was so sweet. He told me about his health problem, but I had no idea of how
big a problem it was, because he looked and acted so hearty. Yet his boss
warned me that he was on his last legs, which I couldn’t understand or
believe; he seemed so healthy, and his laugh was enormous, and he loved me so
much — I can still feel his enormous love and the safety of his arms this
decade and a half later. That mid-September I had a strange premonitive
feeling one cold pink unseasonably winter sunset that there was a big death
coming. Through October and November, he laughed loudly about how he wasn’t
leaving anything for anyone, and he had excruciating pain in his sleep, but I
had no idea of what was happening and was scared, too scared to talk about it.
I guess he was cruising right towards his death in the beginnings of the best
relationship of his life. He collapsed during the first week of December — I
found him in his local hospital after he didn’t call me when he said he would
— and spent the rest of his life in a drug-induced coma while they tried to
get his body functions under their control, and died on Christmas eve. I don’t
know what I remember most about it; every aspect of that relationship was a
high spike of great except the hospital experience. I’d go to his room every
day and try not to cry while I begged him not to die. I still haven’t had a
relationship that comes close.
— Posted by juliana
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11.
May 6th,
2008
11:50 am
I left out the last part, sorry. When he kept getting weaker and weaker,
I did tell him it was okay to go, okay to let go, okay to die. But I was
wrenchingly sad. It was a new and good relationship. Now I see it as his
finally having had a good relationship, and my having had that one good one
(so far). It was awful, though. I salute all of those loved ones who are
valiant in the face of death. It’s really hard to do that when what it is
about for us who are left is just a huge loss.
— Posted by juliana
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12.
May 6th,
2008
12:06 pm
After my husband received the cancer diagnosis and made decisions of
surgery and no treatment - we talked about how to live and love. We did just
that. We both had many childhood dreams that we realized. It didn’t matter
what neither of us questioned the other we just went on a huge adventure to
live life in such a way that the dreams would come to us. He lived until the
very end. He had one dream that stayed a dream but he was alright with that.
His last days were spent in giving his time to his family and loving us. We
all begin to die when we are born he’d say and I just get to live a lot more
while I’m still here. So after he recovered from surgery we took all the
grandkids to Disney World - he wanted to ride rides and see it through their
eyes. And all these words put a smile on my face - he’s been gone three years
- but he lived forever.
— Posted by Bonnie M
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13.
May 6th,
2008
12:14 pm
My dear husband, Dan, died ten years ago tomorrow, awaiting a heart
transplant that never came. Sometimes it seems like only 10 months ago. We had
30 great and not so great years together, but we had each other at the end. I
ask you to talk about organ donation and end of life decisions with your loved
ones and carry out their wishes. It makes it a lot easier on you on the worst
day of life.
— Posted by Barb
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14.
May 6th,
2008
12:48 pm
In 1990, my grandfather had a stroke while I was visiting my
grandparents. All I could think about as they wheeled him into the ambulance
was that I’d been upset at him the night before and hadn’t said I loved him
when he went to bed. He recovered and we had another eight months to say
goodbye, but I never again left him without making sure I’d told him I loved
him.
A few years later, I lost a friend suddenly to suicide. I’d run into him
a few weeks earlier and had been meaning to call him ‘one of these days’ but
never got around to it. The things left unsaid there haunted me for years.
Now, I make it my practice to ensure that I remind people as often as
possible that I care about them and am glad that they are part of my life.
When my best friend was killed in a car accident in 2004, it was a small
comfort to me that our last online exchange had been, “Hey, you know I’m here
for you if you need me” and “I know, and it makes it easier for me to know
you’re out there.”
My stepfather was diagnosed with abdominal cancer in 1999. It’s been a
long, slow fight against the disease since then, and we’re entering the last
year or two now, I think. My mother’s been preparing herself for his death,
working out what she’s going to do. I’ve been preparing myself for how I’m
going to support my mother, because I’m ‘the strong daughter’ who’s been the
default grief counselor for friends and family for the last five years or so.
I can work through the shock and pain of the sudden losses, the heart
attacks and suicides, and I can cope with the long decline of my stepfather’s
cancer and make sure I say my goodbyes properly, but the one I had the hardest
time coping with was my best friend’s death. She lingered eight weeks,
unresponsive, in a coma. The silent two-month agony of hope and apprehension
isn’t something I ever want to wish on anyone.
— Posted by Rowan
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15.
May 6th,
2008
1:14 pm
does anyone ever get to really get to say all they want when they say
goodbye?
sure you can say that you said everything you wanted to or such but
let’s be honest usually if you had the opportunity to you would have asked for
more time if the person was still comfortable and cognizant.
this article is the equivalent of trying to give advice to someone on
how to “answer the question of why we are all here”.
there is no right or wrong answer, and nobody really has a clue in the
end. we only come up with justifications for what we feel is right.
and that is ok.
good luck and remember its never easy or fun to say goodbye when you
care for someone or something.
— Posted by jay
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16.
May 6th,
2008
1:33 pm
I lost both my parents at a relatively young age. My father went quickly
when I was 11 and my mother died more slowly when I was 18. Unfortunately I
really didn’t say goodbye to either one of them due to circumstances beyond my
control. Although my mother lived longer, she was silenced by brain cancer
almost immediately after her diagnosis. My father had a massive coronary at 35
and my last memory of him consists of a stretcher and an ambulance with me
standing by wondering what was going on. To this day some 40 years later, I
still have dreams of my parents coming back to retrieve “something” they left
behind. ME?
— Posted by Suzi
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17.
May 6th,
2008
3:21 pm
My mother died her own way (she had lived with cancer for 30 years). She
told my father to move out, she put me on a plane, she made sure my youngest
sister was off to college. Then she passed away without anyone having the time
to do anything. It wasn’t her style for sappy endings. She made sure everyone
was off living their life. No, none of us had the bedside death scene, but I
remember her as she was and I respect that she did this as she wanted. I think
there are other ways to handle this and if someone doesn’t want and can’t
handle the goodbyes, that’s legitimate, too.
— Posted by KE
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18.
May 6th,
2008
4:04 pm
My beloved grandmother was diagnosed with congestive heart failure not
long after her 100th birthday. I left my job in another state and took her
from the hospital to do in-home hospice care. It was her wish to die at home
and I felt I had to honor that wish, rather than allow her to be placed in a
nursing home.
In the month I had with her before she died; she told me many tales of
her life that I had never heard before. She talked about her teen years and
how she had loved to dance. She talked about all the young men who chased her;
and the men she chose to later marry. She outlived her last husband by 35
years and outlived all but 4 of her 11 children.
Before she slipped into a coma, I videotaped her singing one of her
favorite songs, “A Cottage For Sale”. Later, I gave copies of the video to her
surviving children. It was hard for them to watch; but I cherish it. And I
cherish the time I had to spend with her. We didn’t really say goodbye - - it
was more like “see you on the other side”.
Immediately after her death, I kept leaping out of bed thinking that I
heard her calling my name; as she had when she was dying in a hospital bed at
home. A few months later, I dreamed that she came to me and assured me that
she was doing fine. I felt great relief that her suffering was over. Now when
I dream of her, she is laughing, singing and dancing. It reminds me that I
should do the same while I can.
— Posted by KS
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19.
May 6th,
2008
4:09 pm
I am a terminal cancer patient (stage 4 metastatic neuroendocrine
cancer). It’s usually a slow-growing cancer, with many palliative procedures
to slow down the growth of the tumors, but the bottom line is that it is
incurable unless accidentally found before it metastasizes — rare, as it gives
no symptoms until it has done so.
Someday it will kill me (I’ve already outlived my original prognosis by
a factor of 3+) unless something else gets me first. Until then, I try to
continue living my life as if this Sword of Damocles were not hanging over my
head, and most days, I succeed. I get up, eat breakfast, go to work, talk and
laugh with friends and family, vacation, walk the dog…you get it. All the
“normal stuff”. But the knowledge that I carry a Beast Within — that wants to
kill me — is still always present. It never entirely goes away, always
hovering in the background, most apparently when I make future plans (and I
do) with the faint whisper, “Will I really be able/well enough/still around to
do that?” I make the plans anyway. I figure I dislike the alternative of
simply crawling into a cave waiting to die — that’s no fun!
I’m not posting to try to win sympathy, but rather to ask - from the
front lines - those with dying loved ones to do two things:
First, please treat the loved one exactly as you always did. It
acknowledges who they are - still - and lets them be real with you as well.
Second, when they tell you that this is a ‘bad day’, believe them. Treat
them as if they had the flu or something; make some allowances for their
fragility that day, but matter-of-factly, as if you expect that tomorrow they
may feel better - as they may!
And, oh, yes, a third thing: if/when they do ask for help, please
recognize that in many ways, this is the most difficult thing of all for them
to do. In asking, they are acknowledging their diminishing abilities. This
hurts. To the extent that you can, please give that help easily, generously,
without hovering or making a big deal about it. You have no idea how much this
will be appreciated!
I count myself as extremely fortunate to have family and friends who do
these things for me and I am grateful to them each day for doing so.
And thank you for reading this.
— Posted by dancing-on-the-road
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20.
May 6th,
2008
4:13 pm
My only son was killed at age 19. A soph in college he at all times
tried to please me. Thirty years later I still have people come up and tell me
how they miss him and what he ment to them. I noticed none of the above
mentioned Our GOD, who knew of his death from his birth. God gave us one the
greatest days as his last day that you can imagine. A very important part of
dying is that you have nothing else to do but die. You can make sure if you
start now with those you love.
— Posted by Joe
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21.
May 6th,
2008
4:19 pm
I lost my grandmother one month ago.
She was diagnosis of endometrial cancer 17 months ago when she was 65
years old.
First she did a surgery to remove the tumor but it didn’t work.
After she did chemotherapy for 6 months and it didn’t work too because
the cancer cells had moved to the lungs.
On the last month when she was alive she staid on hospital for 15 days
with serious problems to breath because only one lung was function with only
20%.
Even today after 1 month I still can not understand what happened to her
because she was a very active person and she was talking well with us until
the last 3 days when she got unconscious.
If I could came back on time I wouldn’t have let her do the chemotherapy
and I would have taken her to travel to live life in spite of suffering all of
those months!
Bruna C
— Posted by Bruna C
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22.
May 6th,
2008
5:48 pm
I too have lost both my Mom and my Dad. My Dad died before three of his
grandchildren were born. His mind was strong as his physical life was drained
away by cancer. My mom’s mind ebbed away in dementia while her body lingered.
Both losses are poignant even years later. Yet…they are still part of me every
single day in so many ways. My Dad is with me in all the ways I am like him.
My mom’s legacy of affirming others continues in my own nature. What a miracle
we have been given to be such an integral part of each other! The best
goodbye, whether spoken then or missed in suddenness - is to cherish their
memories and live the best life that we can in whatever time is now yet
allotted to us. Psalm 139 says that all of our days were numbered before there
was even one of them. We can all experience the same gift Randy was given in
the blessing of learning he was dying early. As he said, we all die. Let’s try
to live as though it could be tomorrow and pray for the grace to do it well.
Jesus gave us the formula - “Do unto others as you would have them do unto
you…” That is a choice we have to make every minute of every day over and over
again for the whole span of the number of our days. Let’s run our race well
and leave a heritage like Randy is leaving - an embrace of the great gift of
life - whatever hand we are dealt… May God bless and comfort all of you as you
remember and celebrate your loved ones. I celebrate mine and am oh so thankful
for every moment we had together - even the broken ones. Blessings!
— Posted by Grateful in Texas
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23.
May 6th,
2008
7:32 pm
I lost my step-mother to pancreatic cancer 5 years ago and I lost my
father 6 months ago to leukemia. I too can only hope that I can die with the
grace that both of them showed. Jean, my step-mom, only lived 5 month after
she was diaginosed. In that short time, I watch her plan her service and tell
every loved one & friend how much she loved them and how they where so special
to her life. My daughter was expecting her first child at this time and Jean
told her that she wished that she had been able to stay for the birth of her
new first grand-daugther but that she would be watching from above. She was as
amazing in life as she was in her dying. My father fought the good fight for
14 months. I can recall almost everyday of that battle as he lived next door
to me. We knew he would need some help when his time grew near so when the
house went up for sale, he bought it. And the first thing he did was remodel
the house. He said this was going tobe the house he would spend the rest of
his life in and he wanted it to be perfect. He spent as much time as he could
with friends and family, taking small trips and even managed an Alaska cruise
before he was no longer able to leave his home. I know that I will miss the
morning coffee on my patio this summer, as was our habit during the summer
months when the sun was shining. But most of all I will miss that spirit that
kept him always looking forward to tomorrow, always tomorrow. His missed his
76th birthday by two hours and 14 minutes, but I’ll bet he had a great party
when he finally when home.
— Posted by Debbi
A Lesson on How to Say Goodbye 
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