Jacob's Ladder

I recently was very touched by a Letter to the Editor in our newspaper.  The writer was responding to the “right to die” debate that has been re-ignited in Canada in the past few weeks. A recent ruling in one of our provincial courts struck down parts of Canada’s law banning “doctor-assisted deaths”.

The letter-writer was dismayed about the ruling, and described her husband’s death as a time of sorrow, but also a time of tenderness and great love.  Here’s an excerpt from the letter:

“The last year of my husband's life was the most meaningful year of our entire marriage and I considered it a great privilege to be able to care for him. When you know someone is going to pass from this life to the next, love is intensified and each word, look and touch becomes a treasure that will stay with the one, and travel to eternity with the other. I would not have changed one minute of his lingering from the prognosis of three months to his death one full year later. And neither would he. Even as he lost consciousness, he fought to remain with me; in death, as in life, he gave me everything he could. What we fail to understand is that pain and suffering born for love become joy and peace beyond all measure.”

Her words reminded me of my own mother’s last few years.  Mom died on November 27, 2010, and her last years with us were tainted by the challenges and suffering of Alzheimer’s disease.  It was not an easy time, for her or for us.  But as I reflect back on those years, my Mom became the epicentre of our affection, and that experience spilled over and filled our lives with affection for others.  The nursing home staff became our new family members.  Neighbours became treasured sources of support.  Good friends became our lifeline, giving us courage to go on. Relationships with extended family deepened profoundly.

My Dad and my siblings and I were so focused on loving Mom and caring for her that we couldn’t help but be affected emotionally and spiritually.  We all grew in important ways – learning to express our feelings more openly, to hug each other more frequently, to thank God for each new day more wholeheartedly, to forgive trivial hurts more quickly. And when Mom’s life was drawing to a close, each moment burned brightly, because each moment became very precious. 

I have some incredible memories from the week before Mom’s death, when none of us could bear to leave her side: memories like standing with my family around her bedside, holding hands and saying the Lord’s Prayer together through our tears.  Listening with fervent thankfulness and joy to a visiting chaplain as he serenaded my mom at her bedside with a lovely rendition of “Amazing Grace” in his lilting tenor voice.  Being soothed in ways beyond words by the music therapist who brought her harp into Mom’s room and played for us until her fingers hurt.  Eating cookies that the overworked nursing home staff would bake at home and bring to work for us.  Sitting around Mom’s bed for hours with my Dad and my siblings, taking turns stroking her hands while sharing funny stories from our childhood days and laughing until our faces hurt. 

The most sacred moments in life are sometimes the hardest. In grief, we can clearly see the things that make life most beautiful and most meaningful.  It’s very difficult to explain, but what I learned from my Mom’s last weeks was that the little moments of joy that we experience in seasons of sorrow can be the most intense of any we’ll ever experience. I read somewhere that Jewish scholars teach that the ladder Jacob saw in his dream represents the fortunes of life – good and bad, up and down. Some angels were ascending the ladder, while others were descending. Both the ascending angels and the descending angels are sacred. Our lives are made sacred by moments of intense joy, and also by moments of unbearable grief. 

Sometimes they are the same moments, on the same ladder.