A toasty fire cackles in the wood stove this morning, the house is full of small sounds of lovely people, and tears gently bathe my cheeks and settle into my beard.

Jeannie died almost 15 months ago. I miss her terribly every day. Mostly in the morning, when I drink my coffee. It’s just so hard to understand the huge hole in my heart and my life left behind by Jeannie’s death.

And I’m blessed. Daughter Annie and her partner Chris and her son John moved in with me at the end of August. Probably for a year, until Chris gets assigned a place to do his residency as part of his training to be a family physician. Annie resigned from her job in a dental office as of November and in January will return to school full-time. John is in grade 4, nine years old, and I share the basement in this little bungalow. He suggested we make the basement bathroom into a “boy’s bathroom” by removing all vestiges of “girl stuff” from when Annie lived at home.

Back yard birding

I’m back at work, part-time. A changed person. With a different perspective on meaning. And work. Also, at age 64, I have a new outlook on how I want to spend my remaining years. I’m healthy and hope to be able to have time to go through all the eight gates of wisdom described in the book by Angeles Arrien. The first gate, the Silver Gate, is about new experiences. Wonder what that looks like?

Jeannie’s legacy lives on in all our lives. Songs help me understand what we lost and how her love lives on. Bruce Cockburn explains part of what happens to survivors when he sings:
Each one lost is everyone’s loss you see
Each one lost is a vital part of you and me
Willie Nelson does too:
Life goes on and on
And when it’s gone
It lives in someone new

And so I experience life and love in new and unexpected ways. My family moving back in with me was a surprise, but it’s a good fit for the stage of life we are experiencing. Love really does continue to live on, undaunted. Babies have been born, some I’ve gotten a chance to hold. There’s nothing like a babe in arms to help heal a wounded heart.

A book I’m reading by Elizabeth Lesser explains how the tough stuff that happens to us can help us grow. Broken Open is full of stories about how transitions and tragedies and difficult times can all be a gift too. Not that any of us look forward to sadness. And each time I experience the death of someone close to me I return to the book of Job. It’s a great read – an inquiry into how people think about life’s setbacks and try to wrestle with meaning. Right and wrong. Why things happen.

But we can’t know it all. That’s the territory of the almighty. I can rest in the wisdom of Ecclesiastes that there is a season for everything. That life goes on. That love springs up. Eternal.

The final gate of wisdom, according to Angeles Arrien, is the Gold Gate. I watched Jeannie struggle and then come to peace with this passage in ways both graceful and poignant. The Gold Gate invites me to practice non-attachment, accept the death of my physical body, and turn to the numinous or mysterious light. We can do this at any time in life, of course, and yet there are many opportunities open to me in the other gates. There’s a lovely arc to the opportunities afforded while passing through these gates – from doing to being. The second half of life can indeed be a great adventure.

I continue to grieve. And heal. And live. Sadness and happiness. Hugs and sorrow. I’m blessed. Part of the family of life. Loved by so many and so well. Thank you.

Jeannie wrote me a letter to read after she died, and it closed with this thought: “I am wholly blessed to be your partner, David. And I can barely express how glad I am that you have continued to choose me to be your partner. Together, often imperfectly, we have explored our vulnerability, joy and true healing.”

Being Mortal, a book by Atul Gawande, helped Jeannie and me develop a level of comfort talking about end of life topics. About death. Written by a surgeon, it expertly explores end of life topics. Not just the final days, but how we age, how we prepare ourselves and our families and friends for our death.

Jeannie died 9 months ago – on August 16, 2020. I continue to experience the great sorrow of her passing, and the great joys of having had her in my life. Our daughter Annie and grandson John are going through this process too, and we continue to support each other. You also hold us in many ways – thank you.

“One has to decide whether one’s fears or one’s hopes are what should matter most.” Atul Gawande is clear. Being human provides us choices. We can be autonomous. That does not mean selfish. Autonomy means being the author of our story – without undue influence by others. Jeannie did this well!

Tuesday night, 7 to 9 pm – Alberta time, May 11, 2012, I am leading a discussion of this book on Zoom. It is part of a monthly Exploring Elderhood group at Hillhurst United Church.

Join the Zoom gathering
 https://us02web.zoom.us/j/4955126289

If you can’t join us, please ask me for the pdf of the slides and my speaker notes of the PowerPoint presentation – daafinch@gmail.com is my address.

Thank you, each and every one of you, for your love for Jeannie and for me and Annie and John. We feel your tender loving support in so many ways. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Hugs and more hugs,

David

            Sun floods in, illuminating flowers. And the couch where we sat, facing each other, and talked for hours. Jeannie died six months ago today – August 16, 2020.

            Our daughter Annie turned 33 last Friday so we caked her, a small party that included her partner Chris and her son John, now eight. Chris had a birthday in January and I turned 64 last December. John learned to whistle in September.

            So life goes on.

            We miss Jeannie so much. Grief is sneaky, punching when least expected and in places that hurt more than can be imagined. The sorrow and mourning keep evolving and friends who have been through this cautiously mention that it gets harder before the healing happens. And the second year can be even more difficult. Okay…

            “We are giving a vast number of people a model of how to do this this dying thing well,” Jeannie wrote in a letter to me she had me open after her death. We hoped the transparent way we walked through the 26 months from her diagnosis until death was more “a good example” than “a horrible warning.”

            Our death adverse culture, where disease and dying have been turned over to professionals, does little to teach us how to prepare for the end of life. We learned a lot. Be good medical consumers and work as a team – I was Jeannie’s secretary at all her medical appointments. Discuss Goals of Care – and complete the forms to make this legal. Make sure the dying person clearly states their goals for the end of life. And yes, you can change these goals as often as required. Find peer support – we found two groups; the Living With Cancer Program at the Sage Counseling Centre and The Brain Tumour Support Group at Wellspring – both in Calgary. Use the wisdom of others; people and audio and video programs as well as books. We read many books, and three stand out:

Being Mortal by Atul Gawande

The Five Invitations: Discovering what death can teach us about living fully, by Frank Ostaseski

The Second Half of Life – Opening the Eight Gates of Wisdom by Angeles Arrien

            There are many ways to do this “dying thing” well.

            I’m now trying to do this “living thing” well, as a widower – I prefer the term bachelor. When Jeannie was pregnant with Annie back in 1987 a friend told me “life as you know it has ceased to exist” and it certainly was true for a couple having our first child. My life with Jeannie “has ceased to exist” and the implications continue to reveal themselves in ways both overwhelming and small. Many adjustments.

            Work projects are calling me back to my vocation. Covid19 continues to make my life alone more isolated. And yet the warmish winter has been kind. John sleeps over every Friday night and I’m building a wooden sea kayak from a kit. The paperwork involved with wrapping up Jeannie’s life continues. And on warm Friday afternoons we sometimes have a fire pit roaring in the sunny front yard here at 518 – 13^th Avenue NE in Calgary. Bring a chair and a drink!

            Writing about the last three years has been part of my therapy. If you want to read more about how Jeannie and I lived with the brain cancer that took her life, please reply to this post or email me and ask for my essay, Master Thief: How One Family Kept in Touch with a GBM Patient to the End.

            “I am wholly blessed to be your partner, David,” Jeannie wrote in her final letter to me. “And I can barely express how glad I am that you have continued to choose me to be your partner. Together, often imperfectly, we have explored our vulnerability, joy and true healing.” I’m so glad she chose me as her partner. I am wholly blessed too.

            Thank you for loving and caring for Jeannie and me and our family.

All the best hugs,

David

PS – Pub nights will start up again after Covid19. And we are planning a musical blowout when people are allowed to sing together to celebrate Jeannie’s love of joyful sounds.

Jeannie’s funeral was Monday, August 24, 2020, at Hillhurst United Church and here’s the video of the event: https://youtu.be/f0Hh-bIfXIc

Words cannot begin to describe the passion, beauty and love that poured out from the small group – due to Covid restrictions – that gathered to hear stories of Jeannie’s life and listen to music Jeannie loved. Though the congregation was not allowed to sing along, during the final song – I’ll Fly Away – we spontaneously clapped and stomped our feet on the wood floors of the lovely other church as we wholeheartedly rejoiced in the wonder that was Jeannie. Oh, oh, oh.

Hugs, so many, many hugs,

David, for Annie and John and Chris and Dom and Erin

            Friend, lover, mother, daughter, sister, grandma, auntie and elder in her many communities, Jeanne Vernette Anderson Finch died peacefully at home on Sunday morning, August 16, 2020.

            Glioblastoma multiforme took her from us, the brain cancer appearing in a test in June of 2018. Medical science extended her life about two years. And her quality of life remained good through the “extra time” she treasured as her truncated retirement and enjoyed with many family members and friends.

            Jeannie chose to die at home, under the excellent medical care of her family physician Dr. Frances Vettergreen and oncologist Dr. Paula de Robles at the Tom Baker Cancer Centre and other skilled medical staff in oncology. Nurse Robin Lyons coached and supported Annie and David in her role as Palliative Home Care Coordinator at Alberta Health Services in Calgary and allowed Jeannie to die peacefully in her music room, surrounded by art and books and musical instruments, birds visiting her at a feeder near her hospital bed.

            Born Jeanne Vernette Anderson (her father John Vernon really wanted a son after three daughters) to John Vernon and Beda Minnie Anderson at Buffalo, Minnesota on July 20 1955, she was the daughter of evangelical missionaries. Jeannie spent her childhood in Venezuela. As a legacy of those early years, she spoke Spanish. Her father “Bud” was a passionate Old Testament scholar and inculcated in her a philosopher’s ability to probe the deepest questions about the human experience. Her love of adventure continued through her life. She eventually earned a degree in Sociology after moving to Canada in 1979, where she became a proud Canadian.

            Living with cancer and living with dying are difficult. But the cadre of friends who became a family for Jeannie and David at the Living With Cancer Program at the Sage Centre in Calgary supported her in ways physical, mental, spiritual and musical, not to mention with humour and compassion and hugs. More hugs. And even more hugs. “They are like shooting stars,” she said on June 30, 2020, “some brighter than others, some with longer tails, all blazing and beautiful in the dark night of dying.” 

            Passions a many filled Jeannie’s life, among them a zeal for lifelong learning. Calgary Learns, her employer at the time of her brain cancer diagnosis, set up the Jeannie’s Fund (just type in Jeannie’s Fund for the link) to provide support for professional development for teachers of lifelong learners. Nothing would please Jeannie more than a donation to this fund, into which she invested tens of thousands of dollars.

            Jeannie’s end of life – her “extra time” – was just like the first 63 years of her life; loving family and friends, enjoying skiing and paddling and biking, singing a wide range of music, curating Christmas and Easter feasts for more than a dozen at our home, doting on daughter Annie and grandson John and her husband of almost 42 years, David.

            As a survivor of breast cancer in 2002, she was not bitter or resentful to find out about the terminal brain cancer that took her from us in the lovely  summer of 2020. “Why not me?” she asked when she got breast cancer, and again in 2020. Disease and old age take us all. Normal. Instead she considered herself lucky to be able to rock her way through a craniotomy – “like getting kicked in the head by a horse” – and chemo and radiation. Two lovely holidays with her sisters Shari and Joni in PEI and Victoria accentuated the gift of her extra years, as well as more time with David and Annie and John.

            Faithful to the end to the integrity of experiencing the lived reality, she worked hard with decreasing cognitive abilities to pass on her responsibilities to others and to do her best to rest in her final days with the limited and failing energy that is often the experience of dying of brain cancer. Jeannie lived a full life. Do likewise.

David Finch

Peacefully, with Annie and David holding her hands, Jeannie died Sunday morning, August 16, 2020 at home. Jeannie died a “good death” as was her wish, where she wanted, how she wanted and with the people she wanted to be at her side.

We are devastated. The world is not the same. Oh Jeannie…

It was a “good death” for Annie and me too, supported by health care professionals and family and friends. We thank you all.

A small family service is planned and will be recorded and made available online. Watch this space for information on how to view this video.

Hugs and many more hugs,

David

Last night Jeannie
Tinkled the bear bell
Requesting water.
In the afternoon
She and Bruce Cockburn sang
All The Diamonds In The World.
Morning OJ
Thrilled her earlier.
And mostly
Jeannie sleeps
Bathed in Numinous Light.

Hugs, David

Jeannie is still with us, her body waiting for the full effects of the brain cancer to end her life. Days at our home are very quiet. She still wakes enough for short visits or talks. But mostly she sleeps.

In late 2019 and early 2020 Jeannie penciled a few prose poems in the daily log we keep of medications and changes in her condition. She gave me permission to publish them, as gifts to us all.

 

Sunday December 29, 2019

The sun is golden on your face

Your eyes ocean jewels with twin black pinpricks

Don’t cry, it will be light a while longer

God, you are beautiful.

 

Tuesday December 31, 2019

I belong here yet, even as I belong to you

And need to spread the gospel of belonging to my family and friends

Oh such rest I find in belonging!

 

Sunday January 4, 2020

(after a stroke put her in the hospital overnight)

I invite you to peer over the lip of your cascading losses

Welcome the uncertainty

   And notice how you love the sharp clean air up here.

Dangle you arm into the cold water

   To write words on a stone.

I will weep with you.

 

Tuesday January 7, 2020

I am rooted

   In your love,

I am bathed

   In your grace.

 

Friday January 10, 2020

You are spiritually face-blind, dearheart.

I’ll come get you, bring you to my side.

The crowd is confusing, I know

It doesn’t matter who they are

Stay at my side

I’ll explain how to find me, how to find my own here.

 

Monday January 13, 2020

There you are!

I’m glad you heard my voice.

I love you and miss you when you are not by my side.

We have much companioning to do.

 

Hugs, David

 

(Jeannie is now in her final days. Annie has, as she put it, “accidentally” written a blog post. Her text is below, and is, at her request, not accompanied by any images)

It was never a fight. The first time my mom had cancer she didn’t like to think of her body as a battleground. Instead, she told me she thought of herself as a garden. The glory of winning a battle is nothing compared to the beauty of any garden. She didn’t fight; she took care of herself, tended her health, and sought to restore balance. This time has been different. This time we knew there was only one outcome. This time the goal was to make the most of the time we had, to enjoy each other and our lives, to be good and gracious and engaged. Hope was different this time. We had total control over the outcome. We accepted our task of living, and yet it hurts so much now that she has reached her goal. Now she is done with living. She is no longer interested in what can be in this life. First her mind, and now her body has stopped doing what she wants, stopped allowing her to live the way she wants to live. And so she is done with life, not given up, not conceded defeat, but she has achieved her goal of living her life to the fullest. And this change is so painful to see because for me it was a fight. I wanted her to win, to get better, to stay. So I am called to practice letting go. Letting go not of her, not of my love or my hope, but letting go of my idea the there is victory to be had. No one wins this game. We all die in the end. The only thing we have is the meaning we create together by living and loving. And it hurts. Not but, always and. She has not lost, now she is complete. My mother has completed her life.

We think we can control our bodies because they rely on our volitional selves to meet basic needs, but this is not control. Throughout the last two years, my mom has remarked that her body didn’t get the memo that she was dying, and it still wanted to move, to walk, to get tired out, to eat and drink and talk for hours. Her body wanted all the same things it had thrived on before. But her capacity decreased. She could still walk and talk for hours, but the recovery time stretched to days. She could garden and mow the lawn, but that would be it for the week. And now, as she has completed her life, her body doesn’t know. She sleeps most of the time and loves to eat and drink. She is a completed person in a body that won’t let her go. This state is temporary. She changes so much each day, even by the hour, that I know this won’t last long. I don’t know what will come next, and soon her body will die. And always I will know that she is complete.

Annie

Jeannie turned 65 so we caked her on Sunday. She loved the attention and the food. The palliative docs are balancing her meds to keep her calm. Still loves her rum and lattes and life.

Always a joker, one night as I kissed her when I was going out shopping she said to our daughter Annie, lying in bed with her, “Your kisses are really different from Dad’s!” Annie laughed and said, “That was Dad. My kisses are not as prickly…”

Some of you might think we are carefully guarding you from the tough parts of this journey to death’s door, but really, this process is mostly gentle. Boring at times – we get lots of reading done and have enforced quiet time. Funny too. Occasionally frustrating and of course there are tears. We have lots of hours to reflect on the important things in life. Like relationships. Kindness. Touch. And of course, love.

We’ve read many books, Jeannie and I, and we recommend one in particular for anyone preparing to face death. Or walk to its door with another. Dr. Kathryn Mannix, a palliative physician who has witnessed thousands of deaths, pulled together a collection of stories in With the End in Mind: Dying, Death, and Wisdom in an Age of Denial. Her perspective is amazing.

And so we cherish these moments with Jeannie as a family. Thank you for your love and support as we walk with Jeannie.

Hugs, and still more hugs, David

Jeannie is more comfortable now, as the end gets closer. More drugs are helping her with the unusual mental activity as the brain cancer does its damage.   

For the most part, Jeannie sleeps. She visits with family members and a couple of close friends when she is awake, but that is only a few hours each day. Juggling medications is part of life at our home now.  

Though getting weaker, she is eating heartily, enjoying meat and vegetables and brownies – and rum. Her body is still working well enough that she can often get up and walk to the bathroom and that makes her feel accomplished.   

Please know she talks about you all as a group, and mentions people by name too. You are all very special to her. I hope you find courage in her walk to death’s door. As the saying goes, “If you can’t be a good example then you’ll just have to be a horrible warning!” Jeannie is a good example, and so are each of you.

Hugs, David and the family

In much the same way that some families self-isolate after the birth of a child, our family is encompassing Jeannie with a cloak of compassion and love – the very definition of palliative care. So we don’t have much to share this week.

            But we can tell you that several months ago – and regularly since – Jeannie and Annie and I have read this poem. We have it taped up beside a window in the kitchen, another copy in the lovely room we have set up as a hospice. Jeannie continues to say that it accurately represents her reality. Though composed to explain the experience of a person with Alzheimer’s disease, it perfectly fits Jeannie’s loss of cognitive function as she moves into a more mystical reality.

Hugs, David, for us all

Do Not Ask Me to Remember

Do not ask me to remember,

Don’t try to make me understand,

Let me rest and know you’re with me,

Kiss my cheek and hold my hand.

I’m confused beyond your concept,

I am sad and sick and lost.

All I know is that I need you

To be with me at all cost.

Do not lose your patience with me,

Do not scold or curse or cry.

I can’t help the way I’m acting,

Can’t be different though I try.

Just remember that I need you,

That the best of me is gone,

Please don’t fail to stand beside me,

Love me ’til my life is done.

– Owen Darnell

            “Tell me again about the Gold Gate,” she said this morning.

            Cultural anthropologist Angeles Arrien wrote about the common passages people experience around the globe. Of the eight gates of wisdom, embracing death is the final gate.

            Non-attachment, accepting the death of my human body, and turning to the numinous light are the Gold Gate.

            We had been reading the Arrien book before the events of Thursday showed that Jeannie is nearing the end. After the initial confusion, Jeannie started tutoring us in her care as she passes through the Gold Gate.

            Non-attachment is difficult of course, but she trusts Annie and me and a palliative team to care for her needs. Her new vocabulary includes a “medical drink” of ice cream and root beer. Or rum and ice. She says “surprise” every time she sees her freshly squeezed morning orange juice. And when she says “overtop” she wants her sheets or blanket or comforter neatly arranged over her.

            She talks about the death of her physical body and accepts it. Her decreasing capacities, inability to walk more than a few steps at a time, more confusion, loss of strength. She sighs and cries, sometime laughs about the losses too. And hugs us often.

            The “numinous” light thrills her. She knows she is moving into the mystery and awe of a mysterious spiritual light, even saying she could feel it on the couch with the sun shining on her. Through tears she asked me if I am a “stay with me” or a person who will be with her to the end. Yes, I am her companion to the end. As is Annie.

            It’s all anyone wants. To be touched and loved and have a “stay with me” to the end. The Gold Gate.

Hugs, David

            “Tell all those people,” she said this morning from the hospital bed in the music room in our home, “that we had a chair set out for them for a visit. But that’s all not going to happen now.”

            Jeannie’s condition changed on Thursday the 25^th of June. Quiet in the morning, she’d asked for extra sedative to help her rest. After her nap she got quite dizzy in the bathtub. Garbled speech. Confusion. She did not recognize any of us.

            Last night after I helped her eat her favourite dessert – root beer and ice cream float – she looked at me and said, “You are flirty, flirty, flirty!” Though she did not know who I was she pursed her lips and demanded a kiss.

            This morning she knew our names. What a relief. But the confusion continues. She’s most lucid just after a sleep, but talks almost non-stop. Our confusion seems silly to her at times.

            This morning she told me to write this blog, today. To tell you not to worry.

            “I don’t think it matters that they will get information that’s grief laden,” she said, then breaking into a smile she continued, “it’s okay…. They will be stepping away,” from the grief, she said through broken thoughts.

            You will have each other. Grief will diminish.

            But for now, just hold onto the idea that there is a chair or two – three if someone wants to sit on the commode – in Jeannie’s hospice space here in our home. Visits are over, of course, but she wants you to know she is thinking of you. Loving each and every one of you. In her way.

            Listen to the song Love by Joni Mitchell if you want to know what she listens to three times in a row as she falls off into a nap or evening sleep.

            Love

David, for Jeannie and Annie too

Show up and be present

Pay attention to what has heart and meaning

Tell the truth without blame or judgment

Be open to the outcome

Angeles Arrien, Anthropologist, 1940-2014

         Two years ago I signed a Personal Directive, just before my brain surgery. It gave responsibility to David, when making personal decisions on my behalf at the end of my life, to use his best judgement as to what he believes may result in the best quality of life for me.

         We are at that stage now.

         These days, I’m saying goodbye at another layer down. And it’s hard.

         For my whole life I have closely guarded my power and control, my safety and security and my need for affection and esteem. Here are some thoughts as I contemplate stepping away from these areas we all consider essential to life.

         Stepping back from power and control releases me from worry. The hand-off may seem awkward and things may fall through the cracks but they are no longer mine. As a veteran home-body and nest-builder, the hardest piece to pry my sticky fingers off of is the household portfolio. But these last several months my brain has struggled with executive function—making and carrying out plans. As it all becomes harder to do, my overwhelm mounts.

         Feeling safe and secure still involves some responsibility on my part. No one will be happy if I take a header down the stairs or wander away from the property unassisted. Thankfully I still seem to enjoy some sober judgement but I need constant monitoring.

         I am blessed with enormous affection and esteem from David and Annie. They love me, touch me, read to me, laugh and cry with me. This allows me to rest in their decisions. David created a manifesto of sorts titled Permissions and Limitations. It lists nine helpful encouragements. The first three are “Want what you want”, “Dreams are good” and “You are not crazy” (my current favourite). The list ends with “Julian of Norwich’s “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”.

         So. That’s life in our little corner of Calgary. Again, so many have graciously stepped up. Friends supporting us in so many ways with prayers, kindnesses and notes of encouragement. I am truly gob-smacked by your care and commitment. All I can say is Wow! Wow! Wow!

Air hugs all around – I know, so unsatisfying as hugs…

Jeannie

            Jeannie’s still making her nests, as she calls them, puttering around the flower beds. Tidying the lawn and keeping the grass free of pesky dandelions. Making things just so. It’s her way of feeling comfortable. At home. At rest.

            She’s also napping more. Winnowing down her time on FaceTime as all activities just take so much more energy. And writing love letters to a select few family members and friends. Jeannie’s life is narrowing.

            As Jeannie’s primary caregiver I’m getting more weary. It’s been two years since the cancer diagnosis. The kids – what we call Annie and her partner Chris – took over Jeannie’s care on the weekend for 48 hours. It was almost enough.

            I slept. Took naps. Visited friends. Napped. Wrote in my journal. Napped. Did some reading. The respite from constant caregiving was a relief.

            When I got home Jeannie was so glad to see me. But I’d been gone too long. As much as the kids did all they could to provide for her care, they are not quite the same as Jeannie’s sweetie.

            How do I do it? Good question. And most caregivers I ask say they didn’t do it very well. I suck at parts of the role – excel at others.

            Why do I do it? Many partners leave cancer patients. Terminal illness is hard on relationships. Running away is always attractive. The grief is unrelenting. Escape beckons. A third of all caregivers die before the patient.

            Other caregivers tell me they stayed the course due to commitment, marriage vows, duty. Many other reasons. 

            For me, none of these ring quite true. I understand them. Appreciate them. They are part of why I hang in as Jeannie’s caregiver. But they are not enough. And even though she’s also my best friend, that alone is not enough either.

            This is just the hand I’ve been dealt. Nothing less. Nothing more. I’m not a saint. Don’t get it all right. I am constantly being called to do more and be more than I ever thought I could accomplish. The work is exhausting.

            Jeannie wonders how attentive a caregiver she would be if our roles were reversed. I know she would do things her way. Different things would fall between the cracks. That she too would accept the hand she was dealt.

            My encouragement to you today is that you will do a good job as a caregiver too. Many of you already are caregivers. Accept the hand. Learn from others. Take advantage of the great medical and social programs available to help us as we approach death’s door. Lean on me.

            You are not alone.

Hugs from us all,

David

            A white board runs Jeannie’s life now. And timers on her iPhone, and little batches of pills. It’s a process of adapting, continually, to a new normal.

            “Sorry for the mind loop,” she says with regret when she asks a question I just answered a few minutes ago. “Maybe you can give me a sticky note with the answer on it so I don’t ask again?” It’s no less frustrating for her than for her caregivers.

            Time is short. We don’t know how much longer until Jeannie dies, and the hours she has each day are limited and decreasing. Morning is usually best. From about 7 until 11 her brain is as sharp as it will be that day. She gets things done off her white board – and erases them, always a great pleasure. And arranges FaceTime visits with her sisters and best friend from childhood, LuAnn. A retired chaplain in the US Navy, LuAnn did a socially distanced sharing of the sacraments with us on FaceTime recently. What a dear, dear friend. What a tender gift of love in the middle of Covid19 and wrapping up a life, and living with dying more and more each day.

            I read to Jeannie each night as she falls asleep. One of her favourite authors is Chris Duff, a long distance kayaker. We’ve read all his published books, and he even graciously allowed us the chance to read his unpublished book about his recent adventure on the Atlantic. Leave-taking happens often in his books, given that he meets so many interesting people in his travels.

            Kind of like life. “Ties to the point of departure are cast off,” he writes on page 21 of On Celtic Tides. Jeannie chose this passage for the blog this week. “The handshake of a friend or stranger is loosened as reluctantly as the line tied to the dock. The boat drifts from the land and the wind or tide hastens the months of planning. Solo suddenly means exactly what it says.”

            Jeannie is experiencing this part of life solo. Drifting away. And with you as her witness. Thank you for your love and care and communications. It all means so much more than you can ever know.

Hugs and more hugs,

David and Jeannie

            Jeannie’s dangerous dream came true! She got out on the water on the weekend with John in his new craft. A kayak. Built from a kit of plywood parts. SONIC by name. Very fast.

            The hour-long drive to The Pond was hard on Jeannie. Her head just can’t take the jostling, her brain gets shaken, and she arrived exhausted. Luckily she fell asleep quickly.

            When John arrived he wanted to paddle. “Come on Grandma, let’s go paddling,” he said none too quietly while jumping on her. Down jacket. Down pants. Down sleeping bag. Hat and scarf. Staying warm at all costs.

            “I’ll shed some layers in case I fall in,” Jeannie said. As a paddler with decades of experience the chances of a dip were slim. Gum boots – John was wearing his – made getting in and out of the flooded pond easier.

            And they’re off! “What a pretty boat you have John. I like how it matches your paddle blades,” Jeannie said. One of her many endearing ways of supporting John is to narrate his life. Reflect back to him what he’s doing. Engaging him in ideas. Telling him of her love.

            “So Grandma, where do you want to go?” John asked. “I’ll follow you,” her reply. So they paddled to the far side, got out of their boats and stomped around in the outflow where the waters flow off into the Red Deer River.

            John may be a professional guide one day. But first he needs to learn not to forget his client. While re-launching, Jeannie’s little cedar strip canoe got caught broadside to the current at the outlet. Makes for a tippy boat. Oops. A little water over the gunwale soon turns into a lot of water.

            Grandpa waved John back to rescue Grandma, who was by now standing up in knee-deep water and muck, trying to extricate her boots. “I thought she was right behind me,” John replied as he scurried back to help dump the little canoe.

            A large canoe helped get everyone back to the cabin. Dry clothes, a cup of soup, tales of the rescue. “I’m not cold,” Jeannie insisted. But after the appetizers she was back in her down, nestled into her bed, eating hot food served on demand.

            It was hard, really difficult, to say “Goodbye” to The Pond. It’s been a friend, a sanctuary, and special place of retreat to us for nearly 40 years. Gracious friend Richard Harding allows us access. And we return the favour by doing chores.

            We could have stayed home last weekend.

            And yet, we counted the costs of the energy required to live out this dangerous dream. We knew we’d get exhausted. Hoped we would not fight too much. Chose a precious experience in the middle of the process of dying.

            “Come on Grandma,” grandson John says over and over. Calling. Again and again. “What a pretty life we have,” Jeannie replies in so many ways. Gifts all.

With so many hugs, David and Jeannie

         Not much to report this week. And yet, there is more news than you might think. Living with dying can be pretty boring – ask anyone who has done it – and yet we are enjoying our time together. Sacred time.

         We have three things to tell you.

         Rest is so important. Just how important often becomes apparent after the collapse. When exhaustion overwhelms. Trying to do too much, not getting enough sleep and naps when required, and thinking too much is overwhelming.

         Being kind is so important. We’ve always known this, but as Jeannie’s ability to be rational declines we need to cut each other more and more slack! She calls it uber-kindness. We encourage you to try it. Today.

         And so, we end up saying sorry a lot. Not as an apology, but more as a mantra. Sorry that what I said was confusing. Sorry that I just asked you the same question for the third time in half an hour. Sorry this is all so hard. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Through tears and smiles, sorry.

         Jeannie has a faint hope, a dangerous dream. During this process John and I have been building him a new watercraft, a kayak. It’s nearly completed and we are rushing to get it finished. With luck, good weather, energy for Jeannie and a lot of care and compassion for each other, we might launch the kayak at The Pond. We’ve been blessed with access to a beautiful bit on water on a wild piece of land to the northwest of Cochrane. Maybe we will post photos of John in his kayak – he’s named it SONIC – and Jeannie in a canoe, out playing on the water in the next edition of the blog.

         Or maybe we will just stay home, stay still, rest, be kind to each other and rejoice in all the wonders that are included in this particular version of living with dying.

         We love you all. Enjoy reading your comments. And welcome anything you want to write us. Love you so much.

David and Jeannie

I am the caregiven
That’s my role
David is the lead 
Even John is tender
A caregiver in our team

Brain swelling creates
Waves of overwhelm
A nice sipping rum helps
Two bottles please*

Micah 6:8 lists
Caregiver principles
Do justice
Love kindness
And walk humbly
With the Mystery

Justice is important
Helping the helpless 
The way they want

My heart is cracked wide open
I want to be
More available for my family
A great focussing
On following my heart

Walk humbly
With the mystery 

Follow the verbs
Do justice
Love kindness
Walk humbly

We are always
In community

So much love, Jeannie

*Not a request for rum from you, the reader! This prose poem reflects Jeannie’s comments about caregiving in this last week.

Keeping in contact with our many friends is important to Jeannie and David. So we’ve moved the Jeannie’s Medical Meanderings blog to David’s business website instead of starting all over again with a new website.

There’s an earworm running a loop in my head, a love song to all that I adore in the world and am saying goodbye to. Check it out on Youtube: Getting to Know You, cue up James Taylor’s cover of the famous The King and I tune. I hold all of you in the embrace of its lyrics. I can’t tell you how much the song helps at this stage. I sing it (in my head) to every tree, every baby, every friend.

On the medical front, I’m noticing new but subtle changes each day, like a new dizziness this morning. Everything is shifting. Fluid speech escapes me much of the day and it takes a lot out of me to participate in conversations. I need to save the remaining capacity for family and oldest friends. Please know, it’s really hard to have to shut that door. I covet your messages of encouragement though, so please know I read every last treasured one. I’ll try to repay you with updates like these. Thank God I can still read and write. I may even be able to squeeze out a few replies when the fates align.

Getting to know you
Getting to feel free and easy
When I am with you
Getting to know what to say

Haven’t you noticed
Suddenly I’m bright and breezy?
Because of all the beautiful and new
Things I’m learning about you

Day by day

Three more slim books to check out, all by physician/scientists who write beautifully and with uncommon insight: 

– When Breath Becomes Air – Paul Kalanithi. (Also check out his widow Lucy Kalanithi’s TED Talk: What makes living worthwhile in the face of death.)

– Gratitude by Oliver Sacks. I think of this as an atheist’s final love poem to life and the earth.

– Being Mortal: Medicine and what matters in the end – Atul Gawande. This one is a great conversation-shaper for talking with your loved ones about what you think you might want when faced with serious illness and medical decisions. David and I found Gawande’s treatise for this book in a The New Yorker article and took it to discuss on a 2010 holiday in the Northwest Territories. So glad we did.

Still more air hugs, Jeannie.