Seeing Death Afar

Being my inquisitive self, I had to learn more about my uncle's condition. I really didn't have it in me to ask the nurse on Friday while visiting. So, I came home and today asked my friend Josh, a nurse working on his master's. I figured he'd know, and tell me the truth. As I asked, I occasionally saw shadows cross his face that confirmed my worst fears. It affected his speech area. Shadow. It was a series of mini-strokes. Shadow. No, he can't swallow anymore. Shadow.

The truth is hard, but it's easier than a lie. Hope is necessary, even sometimes in futile situations. When it comes to dealing with human mortality, though, false hope is just too painful for me. I need to begin to grieve the loss of my uncle, the closest thing to a grandfather I've ever been able to have. I need to cry, I need to remember. I need to begin the process of letting go of his physical presence on this earth.

I never know how to do this well. I've had three grandmothers die, as well as numerous great-aunts and -uncles, but I still don't know how to deal with this. For the time being, I need to read. My uncle reminds me of all that I love about my family's heritage and farm and life together. He reminds me of the older men of Port William. I need to read about the death of Mat Feltner, and experience again the agony of Danny Branch as he watched his father Burley Coulter pass. I need to find understanding, and in their stories begin to heal.

As for what will happen next, my uncle's sons would rather see him come home and die with the family on the farm, rather than be hooked up to machines for the next few years in a nursing home. I understand the requirements of being a doctor and utilizing medical technology and care, but I also understand the need for people to be human, to experience a more organic death that involves home and family, as it has for so long.