My dad died last week in a hospice in Gainesville, Florida. In the room with him at his passing were his wife and one of her daughters. Within minutes of his death, my siblings and I, and a few of Dad’s grandchildren, joined them.
Because I have lived sixty-five years, I have sat beside a few deathbeds. Each death has taught me a lesson.
Because I have lived sixty-five years, I have sat beside a few deathbeds. Each death has taught me a lesson.
But it is not these lessons I wish to address here. More on that later, perhaps.
Instead, as I spoke with those who gathered around my dad’s bed and heard some of the things he’d said in the last days of his life, I thought of the last words spoken by others.
One of my fears of dying in a car accident is that I am reasonably certain what my last words—make that word—might be. I won’t print it out here, but visit the lexicon of Anglo-Saxon four letter words and pick the one that rhymes with hit. The thought of this epithet being my last word on earth both depresses and amuses me.
In some cases, the last words uttered by some people are noble. Stonewall Jackson reputedly said, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.” (Robert E. Lee, who supposedly said “Strike the tent,” was like so many of the dying unable to speak at all and probably never uttered these words.)
In other instances, the dying intended their last words to amuse.
When murderer James Rodgers faced a Utah firing squad, he was asked if he had a last request. “Bring me a bullet-proof vest,” Rodgers said.
When asked by a friend if dying was hard, an actor—there are various claims as to his identify—supposedly said, “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
Entering surgery, Gertrude Stein looked at her friend and lover, Alice B. Toklas, and asked, “What is the answer?” When Toklas remained silent, Stein said, “In that case, what is the question?”
Closer to home, my mother’s last words, spoken from a coma minutes before her death, were “What I wish for…what I wish for….” She was clearly answering a question posed by someone not in the room. They are beautiful words, but to my own dying day I shall always wonder what the question was and what my mom might have wished.
My wife’s last words to me, delivered by phone, were “I love you.” She had complained of a headache earlier that morning, and I arrived home that afternoon to find her on the floor, stricken by a brain aneurysm.
If I could pick any words for my own passage, hers would be the ones.
Instead, as I spoke with those who gathered around my dad’s bed and heard some of the things he’d said in the last days of his life, I thought of the last words spoken by others.
One of my fears of dying in a car accident is that I am reasonably certain what my last words—make that word—might be. I won’t print it out here, but visit the lexicon of Anglo-Saxon four letter words and pick the one that rhymes with hit. The thought of this epithet being my last word on earth both depresses and amuses me.
In some cases, the last words uttered by some people are noble. Stonewall Jackson reputedly said, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.” (Robert E. Lee, who supposedly said “Strike the tent,” was like so many of the dying unable to speak at all and probably never uttered these words.)
In other instances, the dying intended their last words to amuse.
When murderer James Rodgers faced a Utah firing squad, he was asked if he had a last request. “Bring me a bullet-proof vest,” Rodgers said.
When asked by a friend if dying was hard, an actor—there are various claims as to his identify—supposedly said, “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
Entering surgery, Gertrude Stein looked at her friend and lover, Alice B. Toklas, and asked, “What is the answer?” When Toklas remained silent, Stein said, “In that case, what is the question?”
Closer to home, my mother’s last words, spoken from a coma minutes before her death, were “What I wish for…what I wish for….” She was clearly answering a question posed by someone not in the room. They are beautiful words, but to my own dying day I shall always wonder what the question was and what my mom might have wished.
My wife’s last words to me, delivered by phone, were “I love you.” She had complained of a headache earlier that morning, and I arrived home that afternoon to find her on the floor, stricken by a brain aneurysm.
If I could pick any words for my own passage, hers would be the ones.
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