"Rejoice with those who rejoice [sharing others' joy], and weep with those who weep [sharing others' grief]."  Romans 12:15 (TAB)

They had declined the chaplain at the time of admission.  It was not unusual for families from this particular denomination to decline hospice spiritual care.  The preference is to receive their pastoral care from their own Pastor, a desire I applaud.

I was leaving a death, heading home, for coffee and doughnuts, and sleep when I got the call.  I pull off the freeway, look up the address and type the numbers into the GPS.  I thank God for whoever invented the GPS as I make the U-turn and head south. 

About 20 minutes away I get the second call from the RN, "Look, the family said you don't have to come.  They don't really want you here and they said they don't need you." 

Interesting, what a thought -- visions of coffee, doughnuts and bed dance in my head -- a death I don't have to attend.  "So, you are going to stay and take care of the paperwork?" I ask already tasting the coffee. 

"What? No, what do you mean?" 

"Well, we stay with the family until the funeral home arrives and get the paperwork completed for the family." I explain, "Are you going to stay until the funeral home gets there?"

"What? No! I had no idea that's what you did." the RN exclaims. 

"Then I'm on my way," I state.  "I'll sit in the car and wait if the family doesn't want me inside but one of us has to stay."  I banish the thought of coffee and take a quick look at the GPS.

I arrive at the patients home and knock on the door.  I am met by the patients son-in-law who escorts me to the dining room.  The RN is at the dining room table completing her portion of the paperwork.  Looking up she greets me introducing me to the patients daughter and son-in-law.  Beyond the dining room I see family members quietly crying.  The RN finishes, gives me the paperwork and fills me in, "The funeral home has been called and is on the way.  They should be here in an hour or so.  Here's the number if you need to call them."  Turning she gives the family her condolences and departs.

I stand uncomfortably at the dining room table.  No one speaks to me, no one looks at me.  Finally the patients son-in-law comes over and suggests I sit down, his wife joins us offering me a cup of coffee.  We talk quietly among ourselves.  I ask open ended questions that will help the family begin the grieving process.  Questions about the patients life, his likes or dislikes, their memories of him, and on and on.  While we are talking I ask about the patients spouse and am told she does not speak English.  The family (daughters, aunts, uncles, grandchildren) gathers.  They hold each other as they cry.  I explain what is going to happen when the funeral home arrives.  At this point the reality of death begins to settle in like snow on a hill it covers their hearts. 

"Many people find it very difficult to see their loved one removed from the home." I say, "I suggest that when they come in the family move to another part of the house, maybe the kitchen, so they won't have to be further upset by seeing him removed."  The son-in-law boasts that he is a member of a health care group and will be fine.  His wife looks queasy.  I affirm the man but remind him not everyone in the family has had his level of experience and remake my suggestion.  Something in what I say or the way I re frame my thought hits him and he agrees that it might be best if they don't see the patient on a gurney, covered and leaving the home.  He moves into the living room and suggests to the recently widowed spouse and her family that they may want to consider not being present at the time of the removal.  Observing, I'm not sure what decision is made if any by the family.  The man returns and we continue our previous conversation.  This is a preamble to the grieving process.  This is the time that grief can become healthy or unhealthy.  This is the beginning of the new normal for this family.  A normal without their loved one with them.

When the funeral home arrives, they introduce themselves to me and I in turn introduce them to the family.  We take care of the minimal bit of paperwork there is left: name, social security number, next of kin, date of birth, doctors name.   I have already explained to the family that the funeral home will contact them later in the day requesting an appointment to go over the details of the funeral service.  I take the funeral directors into the room where the patient is waiting.  They leave to get the gurney and I go out to the family to tell them now would be a good time to have a final prayer, a final good-bye and then go to another part of the house. 

The patients wife and daughters go into kitchen.  The recently widowed stands at the breakfast bar and begins to weep.  For whatever reason, I move into the kitchen and stand next to her daughters who are behind her with their hands on her back, supporting, comforting.  The girls move into the other room to pray as a family for their father but their mother is rooted to this place, her grief holds her captive.  I stand there with my hand at her back, supporting, comforting.  Quietly, she turns into my arms and sobs, heart-breaking, gut wrenching sobs.  I hold her, making soothing noises and lead her to a chair where she sobs into my chest.  I say nothing.  There is nothing to say.  The man she has lived with for over half her life is gone.  I am reminded that she is my age, that it could be me weeping in a strangers arms.  I recognize her pain as my own.  Finally she is spent and clutching my forearms pushes herself from me saying, "thank you, thank you."  I smile, murmur something as her daughters return to comfort their grieving mother, walking to the room to assist the funeral directors.

In the room the son-in-law stands guard at the door as I and the two funeral directors move as quickly, respectfully, and quietly as we can to move the patient onto the gurney and out of the house.  As we leave the house, I again express my condolences to the family, gathering my papers, I go to my car.

On the fifty mile drive home, I realize that this is the quietest death I've been on.  The family didn't really want to interact with me, it was only common courtesy that got me in the door; but if I hadn't have been there. . .well. . .but I was.

Lord, thank you for the reminder that even when we are not wanted, we are able to be a vessel for your love.  Thank you for the reminder that words don't solve every problem or ease every hurt.  Sometimes it's enough to just be there -- in whatever form that may take.  Lord please be with this family as they adjust to their new normal, their new life without their loved one.  Most of all Lord, thank you for letting me be the one who was there.  Amen.