The night before Liz died, I sat with my arm around her while she wept on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, her voice high and tired, “I just can’t do it anymore.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I murmured into her cropped hair, because what else does one say? “You’ve fought for a long time.” A rare, terminal kidney disease had been claiming my friend’s health for the past year and a half. Lately, when I’d come to clean or visit, I could tell she was failing—and losing hope.
After the tears had subsided and she had sat, tense, through a long spasm of pain, Liz fell asleep while the rest of us visited quietly around her. Tears kept springing to my eyes. I stroked her limp white hand, traced the tiny white flower on her blood-red artificial thumbnail. Memories of my acquaintance with Liz came and went, like fluttering snapshots in my mind, beginning with our first meetings when she came to my door delivering Avon products. She had rejoiced with me and crooned over our three youngest as babies, sat at my table enjoying fresh bread with butter; and more recently, submitted to the debilitations of an accident and a stroke that required her to ask for help to clean her house. Now her body had begun the final succumbing to disease.
I stirred, and adjusted my position. “Do you want to sit beside her for a bit?” I asked my friend Missy.
* * *
A week earlier, I had said to Missy, “I really want to go see Liz again one of these days. I’m praying for God to take her, so I’d better get over there before He does.”
“That’s faith,” Missy said wryly, then added, “Margaret and I were over there on Saturday, and Glenn was talking again about how he’s just not getting at the yard work. I had thought maybe Charles and I could go over and do some mowing, but I’m not sure when we’ll get there.”
“I’d like to think some of us could go over, if we just made it a priority,” I said. “We’ll try.”
I picked up the phone on Monday afternoon. Getting a time planned would make us accountable to fit it into our schedule. After explaining to Glenn what we would like to do, I asked, “Would Wednesday or Thursday suit you better?”
“Wednesday would be great,” he replied without hesitation.
“Okay, we’ll see you on Wednesday then,” I promised. “Is Liz up to saying hi?”
“She’s right here.”
I told Liz what we were planning. “That would be great, dear,” she said, with only a fraction of her usual expression.
“You’re not to set out any treats or stress about it at all,” I reminded her. “We won’t stay long.” She submitted to this and I ended the call. It felt right to have this in place. They both sounded so old and tired.
Wednesday came, heavy with thunderstorms and rain.
“At what point do we cancel our plans for this evening?” I wondered aloud when my son came in for his three o’clock coffee break.
“It’s too wet,” he said. “But did you hear? Elroy was telling Dad that Liz is getting her shot tomorrow.”
I stopped mid-action and stared. “Tomorrow? Is he sure? That’s a whole month earlier than they first said.”
Edward Dale shrugged. “Elroy’s all fired up about it. He says it’s suicide and no two ways about it.”
My thoughts whirled. We knew Liz had signed up for Medical Assistance in Dying, but we had been told the date was August 26. Tomorrow was July 25. Was Elroy mixed up? But he was an old family friend of Glenns; maybe he knew something we didn’t. Maybe they had told us the wrong date by accident—or on purpose. Can you get on a cancelation list and get the shot earlier if you want to? Why hadn’t Glenns told us? Would they yet? No wonder he had not hesitated about the date for us to come—did Elroy know what he was talking about?
Edward and I decided that even if the yard cleaning didn’t happen because of the rain, we would still go to the house for a short visit. Charles and Missy had not yet decided what they would do.
I contacted Missy with the new, unsettling information. She and Charles decided to go with us.
That evening, we filed up the steps of the log home and entered the warm living area. Liz reached from her chair for a hug. “How are you doing?” she asked Missy. Liz had been excited to meet Missy’s new baby, due in September. Missy and I had been taking turns for the past few years to come and clean for Liz and her devoted husband Glenn, or just spend time with her.
Missy knelt in front of Liz. “I’m doing okay.”
“I’m not doing okay.” Liz started to cry. “I’m not going to make it. I’m not going to make it past tomorrow.”
My heart gave a painful jolt. “So it is true,” I whispered, and the tears came. I moved to put my arm around her.
Liz was sobbing now. “I can’t do this anymore. I tried, but I can’t.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, Glenn.”
“It’s okay, Liz,” he said quietly, sounding defeated. We sat in silence for some time, the only sounds more crying and apologizing from Liz. What are words in the face of something so appalling?
Finally Edward held up a songbook. “We’ll sing a few songs for you, okay?”
Calmer now, Liz agreed. She lay back, her eyes closed.
God could take her even now, and override the hideous reality of her choice. I watched her as we sang. Between songs, quiet words drifted. Once, Glenn paused. “Are you with us, Liz?” She did not reply, but yes, another breath lifted her chest ever so slightly.
Surely, this meeting was meant to be. This would be the last time I would see Liz. If I had not yielded to the urging in my spirit, we would have suddenly gotten the news she was gone, without saying good-bye. Parting with those we love always tears at our hearts, but it seemed especially terrible as we considered the morbidity of how we knew she would die.
* * *
On the day Liz died, I wore a new pair of socks from her. I don’t know why it seemed like I should—maybe in memory of her generous soul. I had rarely left her house without some offering from her cupboard or closet. She was proud of herself for minimizing. One of the last times we were there, she had given Missy and me a pack of brand-new socks. I love socks, especially socks that remind me of people I love. And so I wore them, and grieved.
Glenn had promised to let us know when she was gone, and all day I waited for his call, the weight of wondering taking my energy. All day I didn’t hear anything. The hours dragged. The socks from Liz took on the brown of living, and I scrubbed them before I went to bed.
The day after Liz died, I found out that yes, she had gone. At 12:15 pm on the planned date. She had had lots of pain, but had still been coherent enough to verbally confirm that she wanted to go ahead with the shot.
I allowed myself to miss her, to ruminate over the memories of our long acquaintance, and to wonder about her eternal state—especially her eternal state. Where was Liz now? If she had made peace with God, would He condemn her based on that last desperate decision? How much did she really understand about God’s sovereignty, how accountable was she in her despair and pain? Did she understand the fact that she had a choice between darkness and light, even though the disease would claim her at the last?
Finally, I realized that I had to give those unanswerable questions to God. He is the only one with complete depths of understanding. He knows the whole story of Liz’s life, from her tumultuous childhood, to her halcyon teen years, to her long marriage to Glenn, and the reaping of bitter family strain on both sides. God knows all the choices she made, good and bad; He knows when she reached for mercy and when she rejected it.
The spiritual and ethical implications of her choice are not mine to sort. All my praying, justifying, or agonizing will not change where Liz is now. God knows, and that will have to be enough for me. He is a completely fair Judge. While she was here, we did what we could. I have no regrets; for this I am grateful. Her eternal destiny is in God’s hands; for this as well, I am grateful.
I hope Liz is in heaven. She wasn’t afraid to die; she knew where she was going, she told us. I believed that she had made peace to the extent that her spiritual understanding reached.
But I have questions about her end, and they will not be answered here. Sometimes, the tension of uncertainty is the price we pay for loving.
Liz shows us wedding pictures, about a month before she died.
Great perspective on standing by, and caring deeply for a friend, even when feeling disappointment in her decisions. Blessings to you
Thanks for sharing this story Sarah. Sad, heart rending but like you say, not ours to try and sort. Bless you for loving her. ❤️