Today was a day like any other.  It had to be because our son would not have known any different and so, as on so many days throughout his life, I put on my brave face and carried on as normal.  At lunchtime he caught me though, carefully peering into my face and rubbed my arm as I surreptitiously wiped away a tear.

“It’s ok baby, mummy is just a bit sad today.”

“Sad.  Yes.” He replied.

And we carried on.  As we always do.  As we always have done.  As we always will do.

But today wasn’t a day like another, not really, because today marks six months since you took your last breath and left this world forever.  Six months since I sat beside you, alone in a locked down hospice, wearing PPE and held your hand.  Six months since I listened to the dreadful rattle of liquid in your lungs and longer….and longer….and longer gaps between your laboured breaths.  

Six months since, alone in that room, I slowly put my priest’s stole around my neck and opened my “green book” (as those in the trade call it).  Six months since I offered you the Last Rites…for the second time.  Two days previously, I had done them while you were still semi-conscious, albeit with your eyes closed and unable to speak and when I offered The Reconciliation on your behalf…

Almighty God, our Heavenly Father

we have sinned against you 

through our own fault

in thought and word and deed 

and in what we have left undone…

 

…tears leaked out from underneath your closed eyelids as you tried to squeeze my hand.

 

By the ministry of reconciliation

entrusted by Christ to his Church,

receive his pardon and peace

To stand before him in his strength alone…

 

…And the muscles in your face visibly relaxed.  You breathed out a soft, sighing breath and the tiniest of changes settled into your facial expression, it wasn’t really a smile – you couldn’t anymore – but it was enough.

 

May almighty God have mercy on you

forgive you your sins

and bring you to everlasting life…

 

Two days later, I repeated those words.  This time there was no response.  You were too far gone…or perhaps too close.  My throat closed around the words and my voice reduced to a broken whisper.

 

Eternal God, grant to your servant

your peace beyond understanding.

Give us faith, the comfort of your presence,

and the words to say to one another and to you…

 

Six months ago today, I wept.  I stood in that hospice room, alone with you, family and friends far away in various lockdown locations, and I wept.  I wept for you; I wept for our children who could only say goodbye on a video call, I wept for your sister having just lost your parents three and sixteen months ago respectively, I wept for myself and the future we had hoped for.  I wept and I prayed…

 

Out of the depths I cry to you

Lord hear my voice…

 

Gently, I anointed you with oil and as my tears dropped onto your still and silent arms, I whispered…

 

In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ

I lay my hands on you Chris,

May the Lord in his love and mercy uphold you

by the grace and power of the Holy Spirit

May he deliver you from all evil

Give you light and peace

And bring you to everlasting life.

 

I wept. 

And I prayed…

 

As you are outwardly anointed with this holy oil

So may our Heavenly Father grant you the inward anointing of the Holy Spirit

Of his great mercy, may he forgive you your sins

And release you from suffering…

 

I listened to the silence in between those laboured breaths and I counted.  Was this the last?  Would they return?  The silence crushed me.  And then, the liquid rattle began again and you breathed.

 

May the Lord Jesus protect you 

And lead you to eternal life.

 

Each moment was a year, each breath an eternity.  I waited and you breathed.  And lapsed into silence.  And breathed again.  I held your hand and placed my own over your heart, my tears splashing onto them.  And I prayed…

 

Chris, go forth from this world

in the love of God the Father who created you

in the mercy of Jesus Christ who redeemed you

in the power of the Holy Spirit who strengthens you

May the heavenly host sustain you

and the company of heaven enfold you

in communion with all the faithful

May you dwell this day in peace…

 

Six months ago today, I wept.  I thought of the good times and the bad, the arguments had faded away, along with the small irritations of everyday life, but the memories were close.  I wept for our children and the future they faced without you.  I wept for myself.

 

Holy Lord, almighty and eternal God,

Hear our prayers as we entrust to you Chris

as you summon him out of this world…

 

I wept for being alone.  I wept for being in that place.  I wept for the dreams we’d had of a new life in t’north.  I wept.

 

Gracious God,

nothing in death or life

nothing in the world as it is

nothing in the world as it shall be

nothing in all creation

can separate us from your love…

 

And there was silence.  I counted.  I wondered, “is this it? Is it over?” 

There was silence.

Then you breathed again.

My own air released in a rush I hadn’t realised I was holding, as the silence was punctuated once more.

 

Now Lord, you let your servant go in peace

your word has been fulfilled…

 

Six months ago, I stood beside your bed and your silent, unmoving form, distorted by the dreadful illness that had claimed your life.  Legs matchstick thin, but face and tummy swollen and distended.  Hands deeply bruised from the injections, but otherwise strangely untouched and familiar.  Your arms, once so strong, now weak and still.  I wept.

 

Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with the saints

Where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing but life everlasting…

 

The room fell silent.  Once more, your breath stilled.  

I waited and I counted.  

Silence enfolded me and rested upon me.  

There were no more breaths.   

Between one moment and the next, you had slipped away and, I hope, run into our Father’s embrace.  

I wept.

 

Jesus, like a mother, you gather your people to you

You are gentle with us, as a mother with her children.

You comfort us in sorrow and bind up our wounds…

 

Six months ago, I pressed the nurse call button and as ever cheerful Leon stepped into your room, I whispered, “He’s gone.”

Ever the professional, Leon quickly closed the curtains, gently touched your hand and whispered that he would be back.  He slipped away and from the corridor I heard, “Is she alright?”  I had heard so many relatives scream in this moment of distress, wailing as their impending grief became reality.  But having prepared for this moment for so long, I sat in silence and held your still warm hand.

 

In this moment of sorrow the Lord is in our midst 

and consoles us with his word…

 

Another nurse came to arrange your body, softly told me what she was doing and why, and then she said she was sorry.  I don’t even remember her name now, but I remember her face and her gentle touch as she arranged your limbs and gently spoke to you to explain what she was doing, calling you by name even though you were beyond needing it.  She gave you dignity, even at the last.  

Leon came back and asked my permission to play a song on his iPhone for us.  Days previously, he said he had been chatting with you about his long dormant saxophone playing and you had asked him to play for you.  He had promised he would and brought in a recording.  Six months ago today, he played it for the second time in your silent room as I wept and he too wiped away tears.  He was one of many who had cared for you faithfully in the most personal and intimate of ways and he grieved the death that we all had known was coming.  

Leon slipped away and the doctor came in to certify your death by checking for a pulse, listening to your heart and checking for respiration.  

There was none.   

The time of death was recorded. 

10:45am

24th of April 2020

 

Into your hands O Lord

we humbly entrust our brother Chris

In this life you embraced him with your tender love

and opened to him the gate of heaven.

 

Ten months earlier, you had made a confession of faith as the bishop sat beside your bed and asked if he would confirm you.  He agreed that he would and in just two days, it was arranged.  No one knew then how long you had left.  Time was of the essence.  You sat in your wheelchair, still then unfamiliar, and clearly confessed your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ before two congregations of those who were technically and spiritually in my care, but during that time, were caring for us.  At the bishop’s request, I reminded you of your baptism and using the shell you had bought for me, I poured water over your bowed head in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  The bishop anointed you with oil, laid his hands on you and prayed for you, for me and for us all.  Ten months from that to the silent form lying in the hospice bed.

 

The old order has passed away

as you welcome him into paradise

where there will be no sorrow

no weeping nor pain

but the fullness of peace and joy with your Son and the Holy Spirit

for ever and ever.

Amen.

 

Six months ago today, I wept.  And I said goodbye.  And your friend Mark, who you had chosen to spend time with you in your final days, rushed to be with us.  We sat one on either side of your bed and each held one of your hands as Mark shared some of his memories of you, the antics you’d both gotten up to at work, your skill and how highly regarded you were by your colleagues, your good nature.  And your very very messy desk.  Mark and I laughed, and we cried and we sat in silence.

 

Finally, after an hour, Mark left and I was alone with you once more.  I packed up your belongings as I had to do because COVID meant that once I had left, I would not be allowed to return.  So even as your body lay in the bed, silent and still, I emptied your things from the room and tried not to think about what I was doing.  

 

I laid my hand on your head once more, kissed your forehead and quietly left the room.  Two doctors were in the corridor outside, wearing gowns, masks, visors, safety glasses and gloves.  It looked so wrong for this, usually kindest of environments.  They quietly asked if I was ok and expressed their condolences.  They apologised that the end had to be this way and I said I understood.  It was only the beginning of 2020 but I understood.  Covid.  

 

Then silently dragging your suitcase behind me, I walked away and left the hospice for the final time, leaving you behind.

 

Most merciful God

Whose wisdom is beyond our understanding

Surround the family of Chris with your love

that they may not be overwhelmed by their loss

but have confidence in your goodness

and strength to meet the days to come

We ask this through Christ our Lord

Amen.

 

Six months ago, I wept.  I said goodbye. And I walked away.