A Facebook friend had mentioned cancer and I was sad to hear that it was her mother who was dying of cancer that was no longer in remission. I promised the friend I would call her mother when we went west for a visit, then kept finding reasons (excuses) for not doing so.
Our visit was nearly over when I knew I had to call. Much as I expected, she was resting, groggy, and sounding far older than her 60-some years. I apologized for disturbing her but she rallied and said it was OK. She asked about our trip then we started exchanging news of our children. Our sons had played together and mine had probably spent as much time at her house as ours. Our children now have their own families and we got caught up on how many grandchildren and how old they all were. Then it was on to the neighbors.
We had never been close friends. Our best visits were usually when we ran into each other in the supermarket, but now we gossiped and giggled. She still lived on the street where the children had grown up and she knew all about divorces, marriages, grandchildren, and when the brown house finally got painted. As we talked, she sounded more and more like the neighbor I’d known for so long and less like a dying old woman.
Finally I said to her, “We’ve talked about everybody else. How are you doing?” I figured that was a good open-ended question that gave her the chance to decide how much she wanted to say. I’d just follow her lead. “I’m dying” was her reply. “And I wish it would hurry up and get over with. I’m tired of this.”
Well, I asked.
The first thought in my head was “I guess I would be, too.” So I said it. I don’t remember what else we said, but we talked about dying the same way we’d talked about living. There were problems in the family and she didn’t know how they’d work out, but they weren’t her problems any more, so she wasn’t going to waste energy worrying about them. We didn’t get philosophical about anything. We just talked. She did thank me for having called. She said she’d been so busy dying that it was nice to think about living for a while but now she was tired.
We left town a day or two later and weren’t home long before I heard she’d finished the job of dying.
I hope I never again hesitate to touch base with a friend who is dying. Ignoring the dying does no one any favors. Sometimes they just want to talk about the one last important job they have to do.
Moments in Time 
I know from first hand experience with people in my family that a dying person gets to a certain point and often just says, ‘to hell with it.’ I can’t say I blame them. What fun is it to be sick sick sick with no hope of recovery? You did good, Esther, calling that friend. I like to think I would do the same thing.
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I’m sure you would, Karen. I kind of learned that the hard way. A neat lady in our neighborhood was dying years ago and I was scared, didn’t know what to say. After she died, I realized she’d been going through some terrible times, unrelated to her illness. Maybe if I had taken the time to stop and visit, I could have at least listened to her. I’ve tried not to ignore that opportunity since then.
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This is a poignant reminder to us all, Esther, though I think we have to rely on that “still small voice” to know when it’s right to reach out and not beat ourselves up when we don’t do it. Your reflections, however, will ensure that I never put off calling someone just because I don’t know what to say. If they have much time left on earth, they will remember the fact that you called long after they’ve forgotten exactly what you said.
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Your comment is so true, Elizabeth. I think listening and letting the other person talk is more important than “knowing what to say”. Someone who is grieving for a loved one or for their own impending death, often has plenty to say and no one to say it to.
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