An Imminent Death

Phone“I want to report an imminent death”, I said, controlling my voice to cover the strain. It still didn’t sound right, in particular to my writer’s ear. How could one report something that hasn’t happened yet when the event itself weighs heavy with finality? All the tenses were wrong, while the verbs, adjectives and nouns made no sense together. And yet, that was just what the hospice nurse had instructed me to say to the funeral home when I called them well in advance of my husband’s death. The point was to be prepared so there would be less stress for me in the moment of ultimate pain and an assurance that there would be no mistakes made by ambulance drivers. Police, fire and city morgue employees would never get involved in what was clearly going to be a horrible experience for everyone in the family; though less so if I had a ‘reservation’ at the funeral home, I was told, so the hospice ambulance could take my husband’s body directly there. Obviously, this was not something that would affect him at that point. Reporting his imminent death was meant to make me feel better when I apparently could possibly feel so much worse.

True to my style of procrastination, I had to practice ‘I want to report an imminent death’ many times on Saturday morning in my head before delivering it on the phone. I made sure that every single household task was identified and tackled before allowing myself to sit down to make the call. I practiced the phrase out loud, to be absolutely sure I could sound calm and professional, an experienced funeral planner with no possibility of hysteria entering into the transaction; all untrue. I would have written the phrase out if it hadn’t been so short. As it was, I couldn’t possibly forget it. A number of errands popped up giving me excuses to shop for food; important missions to discover the ripest organic fruits and most tempting juices, all designed to entice my husband’s appetite back to ‘normal’, which of course it would never be again. It took so long to comb through grocery stores and delicatessens for these gems that the dreaded phone call to the funeral home began to look unlikely for that afternoon, a fact that both delighted and distressed me at the same time. Much like my husband’s illness, the call to the burial chapel was something I abhorred yet needed to embrace.

It was Saturday after all, and probably the funeral home would close early, or maybe they wouldn’t even have anyone on the desk answering phones again until Monday. Then I could be satisfied that I’d tried to reach them but would gratefully wait another day before calling to deliver the message; putting off the inevitable a little while longer, even though, let’s face it, that was truly impossible. I felt that certainty form a knot in my stomach. It was an undeniable reality I’d learned to handle over the past three months of my husband’s illness, so there was truly no reason I couldn’t digest it now. I was going to finish this horrid task just as I’d started it—with a commitment to do the best I possibly could while trying to keep my own head above water. Sacrificing myself during the struggle was not going to benefit anyone, least of all my husband, so I sat up taller at my desk and picked up the phone.

I’d found the number of the funeral home and had it ready in many different formats. It was printed out with a map, and written in my own hand three times on separate scraps of paper, some dog-eared and others pristine. I centered one in front of me and dialed the number on it without hesitation. I’d dangled enough wary toes in the water already and still held back, so I wanted to get the plunge over with at last. A lugubrious voice said hello on the other end and announced the name of the funeral home. It may also have continued to deliver its own name, but the somber tones were lost somewhere in my cheerful prattle bouncing around between us as if I was announcing the start of spring weather. I missed half of the information from the mournful voice because I was talking on top of it. Realizing Mr. ‘Doleful’ was trying to let me speak, I finally slowed down, and delivered that phrase I’d planned so carefully. A perfectly normal discussion followed, and even though Mr. ‘Doleful’ mentioned his lack of availability on days when he had his own chemo-therapy, I kept my wits about me long enough to say what needed saying and do what had to be done.

I had to admit after I’d hung up with Mr. ‘Doleful’, talking had helped.  He didn’t seem to notice anything amiss in my delivery, and asked the appropriate questions to get what he needed to prepare…for my husband’s imminent death. A lot of people have helped me do that in unexpected ways. Less specific than Mr. ‘Doleful’s’ assistance, theirs has nonetheless given me new structure for living culled from the experience of dying. I’ve found that reporting an imminent death is an excellent way to face it.

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7 Responses to An Imminent Death

  1. I love reading your blog, especially these heartfelt and wise posts. Sometimes I struggle with feeling selfish as a writer with a young family, but these posts have remind me how vital it is. I can just see you sitting at your desk with your papers, some pristine, some dogeared, making this phone call. I’ve always admired your honesty, courage and talent, and now more than ever.

  2. Dearest Sidney,
    I am so deeply sorry about Morgan and your whole family. Facing this loss is unimaginable and yet you are facing this with such great courage that comes through in your eloquent and touching writing from your heart and soul.
    I am holding you in my heart..and I love you. Lynn

  3. In spite of all the extreme difficulties you have had to cope with, this must have been the hardest. I am reminded of the man waiting to cross the Grand Canyon on a thin wire; his anxiety showed but it was the commitment to START that must have been the hardest. I am very sad about Morgan, but in some ways what you did was the most difficult. Bless you.

    • For those of us who procrastinate most about sitting down to write, this blog is particularly amazing . Instead of using the terrible circumstances to hide behind, you have turned the worst possible moment into a gift for all who have or will eventually have to wander through the valley of the shadow of death with a beloved..Crisis into opportunity to be vulnerable and at the same time very useful with your beautiful prose. Thank you . Sid

      • Peggy voiced my own feelings in a way much better than I could possibly have done. What you have written here, Sid, is so close to many of us, either in fear of what could or will be, or for those who have experienced a tragic death of a loved one. You are helping so many with your words, and I hope it is also helping you through this very difficult time for you and your boys.

  4. Please continue to write about your experiences during this hard time, if you can. I held my breathe when I read this having gone through it 6 months ago. I could imagine that it might be
    helpful for you to let it out. You writing is truly superb. There are many of us out there who would like to read more on this difficult topic. Please Take Good Care of you too.

  5. Thank you for sharing this with us. You’ve found a way to write a beautiful narrative during this horrible time. Writing is truly a gift for you. Thinking of you and sending love.

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