How to talk with a dying friend

The inevitability of death, mortality, and awareness of the human condition is certainly not part of my daily reflection. That changed with one short text message.

For most of the ’90s Dave and I worked together closely at a large conference center in Washington state. After moving to California in 1998 we lost touch for over 20 years. He was not only a coworker and colleague but a friend. Someone who had shared the arrival of both my children- a man who could be confided in and who laughed heartily at a good joke.

An unexpected text on November 6th would connect us again with the most unwelcomed news. It read in part “James spoke with Dave and he asked if he can have your number. He’s in the hospital and doesn’t have much time”. Of course, my reply was “absolutely”, Dave could contact me anytime.

That evening I mused, “how do you talk with a friend who’s dying? Will I say something wrong, insensitive, or simply inappropriate?” The next afternoon having just sat down after completing some yard work my phone rang. The Caller ID displayed a familiar name. After the first few minutes of chatting the previous day’s apprehensions quickly faded. 

An hour and a half later I hung up realizing something both ironic and yet uniquely human as to how those who fall ill and their family and friends may confront impending or certain death. First, there’s the humor and lots of it. Most of our conversation was spent laughing recalling a few of our more hilarious shared adventures. I teased him good-naturedly as I would any other of my fellow buddies. And while the sadness of his certain death hovered in the back of my mind it didn’t dominate or overshadow our conversation.

Despite his dire circumstances Dave easily found solace in humor and laughter. A little dispensing of sarcasm here, a dash of teasing there, and an occasional nod to mortality itself made those 90 minutes feel as if they were but a fleeting moment.

Over the subsequent seven weeks, we caught up on the goings-on of two decades passed by while I sent him a Google photo album of family, kids, and my daughter’s recent wedding. During one call we discussed the circumstances that led to his admission to the cancer ward of one of Denver’s largest hospitals, and his plan to go into a hospice home in the beautiful state of Tennessee.

A few weeks later, having few living relativeness, Dave ended up staying in a Motel Six until a hospice room opened up that same week. The low-hanging fruit from those conversations was a few corny Tom Bodett ‘we’ll leave the light on for ya’ jokes and a candid discussion of his need for an IV pain management- sooner rather than later.

Dave’s perspective was one the fortunate rarely possess. He was ready to go. He had accepted his fate with serenity, dignity, and faith in someone far greater than himself. He was at peace knowing the ephemeral nature of life- a reality few healthy people grasp. That conversation shakes the complacency from most and imbues one with the appreciation as to just how fragile we are and the preciousness of life itself. We last spoke on December 22nd and traded Christmas greetings by text on the 25th before my family and I left for a week-long holiday.

These fifty-four days of intermittent conversation and reflection coincidently ended with the odious year known as 2020. New Year’s day morning I awoke to find I had a missed call from Tennessee…the caller ID read ‘hospice’. I dialed to learn what my heart and mind already knew. A nurse informed me that Dave had passed away at 9 pm on New Year’s eve. I thanked her and the staff for being angels without wings and caring for my friend as he made his final journey.

In the days that followed, the lessons my friend had unwittingly taught came into focus- one of which was that someone facing certain death seldom wants to be pitied or treated with kid gloves. The other is that our shared experiences are what make us who we are and serve as the foundation of all relationships. That the little moments in life are the most important yet are routinely lost or forgotten. And most importantly, life itself is a gift.

To merely grieve would strike me as distasteful and cheap. However, to miss a friend while treasuring and sharing the lessons he unconsciously exuded strikes home as perhaps the most fitting tribute. One he would appreciate.

Postscript:

As reverse mortgage professionals, we occasionally encounter those who are facing a terminal illness not to mention that several of you reading this have lost friends and family members. What lessons have you drawn from your experience? Does the mindfulness of mortality awaken your passion to help older homeowners enjoy their most precious of years?

As we miss those like Dave perhaps we can honor them with mindfulness, compassion, and a zeal for life.

Shannon Hicks.