Will you Keep Watch with me?

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.” - C.S. Lewis.

The past few days have been the toughest and yet super sacred. As a Catholic writer and blogger, I need to find language to articulate the range of emotions that I have been feeling. There is a deeper communion than just the shock that death brings, or the longing in our heart to share our experience, it is the profound place where we journey with someone to the end.

Parked at the side of my father's hospital bed, we shared this time of both deep suffering and immense peace.
The headaches gained from endless tears and lack of sleep. My body physically drained from sleeping in hospital chairs, jumping awake at the irregular sounds of his breathing or the entrance of a nurse. My heart so broken for all the memories that would not be had, and yet rejoicing over the ones my mind recounted. Watching and holding my mom while her heart breaks. The waves of grief crash down as moments of laughter over memories turn into tears. Clinging to my siblings as each of us mourns so deeply. Our outward cries seem to echo the pain that resides deep within our hearts.

I couldn't believe after battling years of Dementia, we were finally at the end of my dad's earthly journey.

On Monday, October 7th my father had a tragic accident that resulted in cardiac arrest and brain injury. On Friday October 11th at 11:30am, he took his last breath surrounded by his wife of 50 years and his four children. It was truly heartbreaking.
Multiple times over the past years of his dementia, I have sat at the hospital bedside of my father fearing this very inevitable time. In many ways it seemed that my heart had been allowed to grieve more for my father's death than I had already wanted.

The thing about mental illness like Dementia is that it steals the person whom you love from you. They become trapped in their own world where you are unknown to them. You soon learn that trying to remind them who you are is more damaging to their fragile minds than allowing them the freedom to just not know or remember. Unless, you can pivot and become someone that they are just comfortable with. A few years into our Dementia journey, I realized that my dad may never see me as his daughter. However, I could be this funny lady that he shared beers with, and laughed with, and talked to over facetime. I welcomed days when he remembered who I really was and seemed annoyed that I would act like he didn't. All those days of calling him "Papa Smurf" and asking him what he was "up to" were now coming to an end and yet I wasn't ready to let them go.
At one point, I cried out in prayer while I walked the hospital hallways. “Lord….why?” I just didn't even have words to continue that prayer. As I focused on the tremendous pain that poured from my heart, looking for answers, I heard the words so clearly:

“Will you not keep watch with me?”

Repeating those words to myself, I was reminded of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane and the immense suffering that he underwent. Jesus wanted his disciples to share in that time with him. Jesus’s desire was to have his friends with him in his time of suffering. He states:

“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”- Matthew 26: 38

The greatest gift that we can offer someone who is suffering is the gift of our presence in their pain. The Lord was asking me to painfully do the same with my dad. Could I dismiss my own hurt and pain to be present with him in his last moments?
When we love someone, we often put their needs before our own. I had often prayed for a peaceful death for my parents.
As painful as it was, I watched his chest rise and fall. I counted the breaths as they became quicker and quicker, and then slowed as his body couldn’t sustain this pace. I watched his brow furrow several times as the pain seemed to settle in, and yet there was no connection between his body and his mind. The sorrow was something I had never experienced before. It was gut wrenching. So many times I felt myself wanting to step away, and remove myself from this painful experience, but where the Lord is, there is grace.

One of the lessons that the Holy Spirit had been teaching me over the past year is to be truly present wherever I am. The Lord had often reminded me to "be where your feet are planted" both physically, and mentally. It's so easy to have our minds filled with anxiety or worry about the needs and concerns of tomorrow or events days off in the distance. However, in allowing our minds to wander, we miss the beauty of the present and all that it offers. We sacrifice the grace that is being offered to us in those moments. We miss the small things that can remind us of the presence of the Lord. We fail to allow ourselves to be in full communion with His work. As my eyes burned with irritation from endless tissues, I heard a knock at the door as a new tech had come in to check on my dad. I watched as her eyes found the brown scapular that my sister had taken from around her own neck, and placed on him. She looked over at me and I watched as she pulled her own scapular out from under her scrubs. In the middle of the night in the dark, she quietly said "I will pray for him all day" and I found grace there in the quiet.

As the days continued, we welcomed any opportunity to surround my dad in prayer. Grabbing our rosaries, we each joined in leading our own decade, my brother holding on to the shoulders of my mom for support. Each Hail Mary spoken through the painful tears and choking back of emotion. Each of us pleading for grace for our dad, and mercy in his passing. As we prayed the rosary, I placed my hand in his, wanting to cling to any part of him. Wishing that just one more time, I could feel his strength as he squeezed tight. The tears fell and it was a moment that I will always cherish.

On that last night, As my brother and I stayed up taking shifts to be with him, I was overwhelmed with the vulnerability of death. The sacred place where we leave everything behind and blessed are those who get to be present at that time. Staring at his body which no longer had life within it, I was overwhelmed by how empty it now seemed. The reality of how the soul animates the body became such a profound truth for me at that moment. As I stared at this man who I had loved my whole life, I could visibly see his lack of presence. His essence gone. Only his body remained. It was at that moment that experienced a "peace that surpasses all understanding". Philippians 4:7

When death is imminent, you forget all the pain and the hurt, and you cling to what truly matters: forgiveness and love. I was happy to offer him both at the end. My relationship with my dad was not always what I needed. There were many times when I felt that he didn't or couldn't love me like I wanted. However, the Lord has been showing me over the years of Dementia that my father would never be able to offer me forgiveness or share his story with me. I wouldn't learn about his own struggles or be moved to compassion by deep conversations as adults. My heavenly father sought out my heart and showed me that He alone could restore the hurt that I felt from my dad. I didn't need my dad's forgiveness, my Heavenly Father had already brought the healing and restoration that I needed.
The truth remained: My dad was loved by the Lord. At the moment of his death, I pray that he was met with the Lord’s mercy and compassion.
Keeping watch with someone was a sacred experience and a gift I could offer my dad as his daughter.

Rest in peace, Dad. I love you.