Steve

Funerals aren’t unusual in the life of a hospice chaplain.  The outcome and terms are understood when the relationship begins.  You love and honor each person in life and death as much as they will allow.   

But, I buried a friend this week and this funeral was very, very different.  It seems that no one can bear to hear about it all at once.  Or is it me that can’t bear to talk about it, all at once?

On Tuesday of this week, Steve, “the man who makes you cry” as my boys called him in the beginning, was laid to rest.  

Our friendship began nearly seven years ago when I walked into Room 304.  I was a new chaplain at my first nursing home assignment.  He smiled, and the rest is history.  

By way of explanation, he gestured toward the Lou Gehrig poster on the wall.  Between one to two visits per week, a stylus and a letter board,  I learned what and who and how long, but never why.  

ALS.  51-years old.  Given four to five years to live - four years ago, and his children were the same ages as mine.  Yes, the more I came to understand, the more I cried. 

I counted a bazillion losses and not a single complaint. Working, driving, bowling, volleyball, gambling, golfing, walking, talking, eating.  A two-story apartment, one-story apartment, handicapped accessible apartment.  Parenting, and all that goes with mobility and living independently, vanished one-by-one-by-one.  

And yet, he was so happy.  He was already “cried out”, accepted that he didn’t understand why him, and had made peace with it all, somehow.

Our friendship continued long after my employment ended, and we took a lot of pictures along the way. Goodbyes were consistent when little else was.  

“I’ll see you next time.”  

“I’ll be here.”

I even had a sign made to hang over his bed, which said that very thing…

 

I always wanted to “be there” for him, but living in a different town with a family and full-time job made that a nice idea, rather than a reality.  

I didn’t know how or when it could be different, until I was walking out of the hospital last week and heard someone call my name.  His sister told me he was in the hospital and not doing well.  I wrongly assumed he was still fighting.  As clear as he had been about his fight to live since I met him, he was equally clear about being done.  

I absolutely understood, and told him it was okay.  I visited again the next day and had what would be our last conversation.  I told him I would get his book published, agreed to do his funeral service, and told him I loved him.  He loved me, too. 

I got daily reports from his sister, waited for the word, and prayed.  But, it just so happened that she needed to take care of some things one morning.  Could I sit with Steve while she was out?  Could I ever.  

Three hours became eight when I asked for just a little while longer.  I just held his hand, watched him breathe, listened to 80s music, and prayed in between.  He never opened his eyes.  The sacred gift of time, nowhere to be, and a comfortable chair were altogether new to and cherished by me in Room 304.  My longest visit, and my last.

Steve died the next day.

Like all who loved him, I was happy for him and sad for me, and wondered how on earth I could do his funeral, as promised.  I looked through years of Facebook Messenger exchanges, read his book, and prayed.  The problem wasn’t what to say, but what to leave out. 

It took care of itself.  

When the time came, I liked that I could see him from where I was sitting and hide behind this when the music was playing…

With only the graveside service remaining, I was beginning to feel some relief and took my place in the funeral procession.  After the lead car, in front of the hearse.  Are you sure?

We were well on our way to the cemetery when I thought to readjust my rearview mirror.  I’m not sure how something so significant can slip your mind, but there it was. 

The hearse carrying my friend that I have only ever and always gone to, was carrying my friend toward me.  The firsts and lasts competed, and collapsed in a pile.  

Our first, last, and only road trip. Together, occupying space and time for the last time, traveling that last little stretch of blacktop.  It was his turn to leave me behind, and it was my turn to say it.

                                                                         "I’ll be here.”

I tried to freeze time the only way I knew how.

After years of wondering what the end would look like, I wonder no more.  He lived twice as long as they said he would.  In that time, he wrote his story by blinking his eyes, one-letter-at-a-time.  His story includes submissions from his friends, including me.  The day after he died, I took a deep breath and plugged his USB into my computer, and learned that he took the time to reply to each friend.  I scrolled past all the others.  What did he have to say to me?!  

He had plenty to say, and I had plenty of tears in reply.

What do you say when a man who can’t talk gets the last word?

I love you, too, Steve.  The honor was all mine.