Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (16 page)

G
ETTING
Y
OUR
H
OUSE IN
O
RDER

by Katherine

After I got my master’s degree in counseling, I began volunteering with a cancer support program. I decided to specialize in that area, and today I work in a private oncology outpatient center. My experience with a deathbed vision left me with a mixture of sadness and wonder.

I’m not a religious or spiritual person, but I’ve always felt connected to my patients and understood their struggle. My greatest life lesson, however, came from my grandfather Bob.

When my grandpa came down with pulmonary fibrosis (a lung disease, which, in his case, was terminal), I helped take care of him during the last six weeks of his life. I was a counselor and hadn’t worked in the hospice setting, so this was my first time caring for someone who was actively dying.

I’d never really gotten to know my very devout grandfather. My parents, who were not religious, had been killed in a car accident when I was 24. Since then, I felt like I’d lost touch with my family, but helping my grandmother and her two sisters was my chance to reconnect.

As my grandfather’s health declined, I tried to keep up with his condition so I’d know what to expect. Since I love to read, each time I saw a change in him, I’d look up whatever symptom he was exhibiting in the moment. I also noticed that as he got closer to death, he seemed to withdraw from his loved ones.

My grandmother was taking it really hard, but she didn’t want to talk about her feelings. Then one day, Grandpa kept saying something about “cleaning up the house” and “getting the house in order.” At first, I thought he meant that he wanted me to clean up his room, which was immaculate, so

I gently said, “Grandpa, the floor is clean, and everything is in its place.”

“No, Katherine—that’s not what I mean.”

He didn’t say anything else. Shortly afterward, his doctor told us that he wouldn’t last through the week, but he hung on. I think he must have felt that we needed more time to adjust to his death.

One day, my grandfather started talking about one of his brothers who had already died and said that he was actually standing in the corner of the room. “I’ve got to get this house in order,” my grandpa repeated. I wasn’t sure that cleaning things up and getting the house in order were the same thing, but he kept talking about both of them, saying that he didn’t have a lot of time left.

Grandpa had a hard time sleeping, and we were all exhausted from staying up all night when he was awake. We were worried that he might get up when one of us was napping, so we hired a nurse’s aide named Hilda to help us out.

One evening we were sitting by my grandfather, and he started to once again look in the corner of the room and talk about getting his house in order. Hilda glanced over at me, and I immediately told her, “He does that all the time— talking about getting his house in order and cleaning things up. Don’t worry, we don’t want you to do any housecleaning.”

Looking at me strangely, she replied, “He’s quoting a passage from the Bible.”

“Really?!” I was curious and embarrassed all at once.

“Yes, it’s from the Old Testament. Isaiah the prophet came to Hezekiah and said, ‘The Lord says, set your house in order, for you shall die and not live.’”

“So that’s what he means by getting his house in order.

My grandpa used to be a minister; it makes sense that he’d recite from the Bible.”

“Ministers need to get their houses in order to die just like everyone else. Have you noticed if he’s looked over at one particular spot in the room?” she inquired “Yes, he’s been doing that, too. How did you know?”

“A lot of dying people do this. Do you know what the rest of the Bible passage he was quoting says?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I responded.

“‘Hezekiah turned his face to the wall and prayed to the Lord.’”

“So this is a religious thing?”

“Not necessarily. Watch your grandfather the next time he’s talking about getting his house in order and looking in the corner of the room. I bet that he isn’t really looking at the wall—he’s seeing something beyond.”

“Do some people refer to this when they’re dying because it’s in the Bible, or is it in the Bible because that’s exactly what happens when we die?”

“I don’t think folks do it for any particular reason,” Hilda mused. “It’s just something that happens. People who are dying often see God, Jesus, or even their relatives who have already passed away.”

After Hilda’s explanation, it all seemed so profound. I told my grandfather that I was certain his house was in order. I asked him if I could do anything to help, and he said, “No, honey. I almost have it all done.”

I stayed quiet after that because I sensed that Grandpa was dealing with a world that I couldn’t see or be a part of.

When I told him how much I’d miss him, he replied, “You and the rest of the family will all be okay.”

He then starting talking to his brother, saying, “I know what you’re doing here.” None of us dismissed it (thank goodness for Hilda’s explanation), but some friends who stopped by or other family members were blaming it on the medication he was taking. I knew that wasn’t the case, though.

As my grandfather grew weaker, he spoke less and less often. During his final hours of life, we told him how much we loved him, and shortly before he died, I remarked, “It looks like your house is in order.”

He smiled. I have no doubt that I’d experienced something that’s beyond this world.

D
INNER WITH AN
A
NGEL

by Matt

My brother, Brian, who was only 35 years old, was dying of AIDS at his home.

He had enjoyed a lot of success in his career. A heating, ventilating, and air-conditioning engineer, he’d worked closely with architects in order to design systems that didn’t interfere with a building’s look . . . but that was now in the past. My brother’s condition was quickly deteriorating, and it was an intense time because I knew that he wouldn’t be around much longer.

One night Brian was feeling well enough and asked if we could go out for some Chinese food. His nurse, Gloria, and I knew that getting him there wouldn’t be easy, but we also knew that this could be one of the last times we ever took him anywhere. He could have asked to go anywhere or do anything, but he wanted to go to a restaurant for Chinese food, and we were determined to make it happen.

When we were seated at the restaurant, we ordered a bunch of different dishes so Brian could taste everything. I cut his food up like he was a child and helped him eat. He was pretty weak but loved being out of the house. Then, out of the blue, he began reaching away from the table, as if he were trying to grab something. I feel ashamed to admit that at first I treated him like a distracted little kid, saying, “There’s nothing there—your food is here!” I got up and gently turned him back toward the table, but he immediately turned away again, staring intently at something.

“Brian, what is it? What are you looking at?” I asked.

He was transfixed, but then he had the widest smile on his face. I glanced over to where I thought he was staring but didn’t see anything. What on earth was I missing?

“What is it?!” I repeated.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “She’s in white. I’ve never seen anything so white.”

“Who? Who’s in white?”

“
She
is!”

“There’s no one there, Brian. You’re looking at the wall, and it’s not even a white wall!”

Thankfully, Gloria jumped in, saying, “Wow! Tell us more about her.”

“She’s an angel—a real angel.” I noticed that my brother’s face was suddenly very relaxed, but I was kind of embarrassed by his behavior. Here we were in a restaurant, and he was claiming to see an angel dressed in all white. All I could think was,
Check, please!

Gloria put her hand on mine. “It’s okay,” she said. “These things happen when people are leaving. They see angels and visions. There’s nothing to be afraid of or feel ashamed about. In nursing and in hospice, we see this all the time.”

Brian spent the rest of our dinner staring peacefully at the angel. I looked around periodically, but no one seemed to notice what my brother was doing—or if they did, they didn’t care.

I turned to Gloria and asked, “Do you think dying people might be looking for something at the end of the road, when time is running out? Maybe they don’t know what has happened, but when they hit that wall at the end, they ask if anyone’s there. They want to know where they’re going. Is that why they see visions of angels?”

“I just don’t question it anymore. I used to, but it seems to happen so often—if patients are on medication, off medication, minutes before death, and even a few weeks before death. I’m sorry to break this to you, Matt, but if your brother is seeing angels, he’ll be with them soon. People think that because he has AIDS, he won’t be in heaven, but if she came to him, that’s proof enough for me.”

“I wonder if even the most faithful person in the world questions a vision of Jesus.”

Gloria perked up. “That’s interesting,” she said. “I used to think that someone who was very religious would surely believe in their loved ones seeing a vision of Jesus or an angel, but that’s not always the case.”

After noticing that Brian had turned back to the table and was eating, I continued my chat with Gloria. “I think when people are dying, they have a million feelings going on inside that they don’t know how to identify. There’s just no way to process them all, so they envision something comforting like an angel or a loved one—but I still don’t think he saw something real.”

“I’m done,” Brian said suddenly. “We can go home now— that was wonderful.”

“You’ve always enjoyed your food,” I said lovingly.

“Oh, not the food. I meant the angel was wonderful.”

Just before we all got up, I leaned toward Gloria and whispered, “I’m still a skeptic.”

My brother passed away three days later.

T
HE
L
AST
F
ACE
Y
OU
S
EE

by Patty

For more than 30 years now, I’ve worked in hospice and facilitated a support group for people who have lost their spouses. I mainly teach bereavement classes and workshops.

I’ll never forget how my life was forever changed the day my husband, Jason, died at the age of 25. We lived in a small town in Montana where there was no such thing as support groups for grieving husbands and wives. There, nobody knew what to do or say to a 25-year-old widow with a seven-month-old son. But I was thrust into this world when another car broadsided Jason’s car, killing him instantly.

My story about a vision involves a woman I met when I gave a one-day workshop in Illinois on grief and bereavement. This woman approached me at lunch and showed me a picture of her daughter, Julie, who had died at the age of 12. She was born with multiple disabilities and had endured countless surgeries during her short life. By the time she was nearing death, she was partially paralyzed and spending her days in a wheelchair or in bed. One of her disabilities prevented her from speaking, but she’d learned sign language, so she and her parents could communicate.