I heard a fly buzz.

I’ve been in this room before.

I’ve witnessed the cough that rattles against the rib cage of a dying loved one, the lungs which emit it growing ever closer to giving in altogether. I’ve seen the furrowed brow, knit in the confusion of a life passed too quickly and in the pain of feeling it slip away. I’ve seen the gaping mouth, lips dry and cracked, tongue purple and swollen and unable to form words of comfort to the heartbroken family members who stand at the side of the bed. I’ve seen the soul flutter behind glassy eyes like a trapped bird striving to break free of its decaying bonds of flesh.

I’ve heard words spoken as if they would be the last ever heard by that loved one. I’ve seen hands reach out to caress and hold old, withered fingers that grab blindly for some sort of reassurance. I’ve beheld eyes that brim over with love that words can no longer communicate, that perhaps never could be expressed before this point.

Watching someone die is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I count the time I spent with my grandfather before he passed away as one of God’s greatest gifts to me. You learn a lot about a person - and about yourself - when verbal communication is no longer an option, and when the time allotted on this earth to spend with that person could never possibly be enough. And since none of us know exactly what comes next, all you can do as he approaches the great chasm between life and death is to let him know that you’re there with him, and have the grace to let go when he has to continue his journey on his own.

It won‘t be long until Emma’s sister passes away. After ten years of putting off visiting Berthie, Emma finally made a point of getting over to the nursing home. During our first visit, Emma patted her sister’s hand and said in her small voice, “Who am I? Don’t you know me?” Berthie opened her eyes once and said, “That’s Emma, isn’t it?” before falling back into a stupor. After we left that day, she suffered a stroke that took away any ability to speak. Our visits now are silent, punctuated only by expressions of happiness, sadness, or despair that flash across Berthie’s tired face. I know it’s difficult for Emma to have to see her sister this way, especially after she neglected to see her for ten prior years of relatively good health. But I tell her how much it means to Berthie that she’s there now, that she’s a point of immense support for her sister at this time.

It doesn’t make it easier. But there’s so much to be learned from a person’s final days. I just hope that Emma forgives herself in enough time to see that.