When her family called me that she had been taken to the hospital doing poorly, I felt I had to get there. She had been close to me since childhood when we lived down the lane from each other. As we were growing up, I had accompanied her family on their vacations and ridden with her parents and sister to Kentucky from Illinois after she was married, when Robin, her first child, was born. I even lived with her and her husband for awhile when her sister and I went to Kentucky after high school to work and earn enough money to drive to California. Our history goes on and on through all the significant life’s events, including being present from distant locations on the day several of her grandchildren were born, and for family weddings and funerals.

Now she was losing her battle with cancer and I felt I must get to her. I flew from Milwaukee to Lynchburg, VA, where Robin is living with her husband and four grown children, the youngest of whom still lived at home. The house is the same wonderful, big house surrounded by a wooded area in which I had spent two of the three Thanksgivings for which I joined Jan’s family at Robin’s, with two of Robin’s other three siblings coming from distant locations. The house was always welcoming and warm with the fellowship of Christian people, blessings and love.

Jan was always spiritually strong and amazingly open and honest with her family about everything. They adored her and she had a wonderful and very close relationship with them all. But her strength was quiet and gentle.

Now she lay in a hospital bed in her final stages of a cancer she had been fighting and miraculously staving off for about five years. But it had metastasized because the doctors hadn’t checked anything but the primary site on her check-ups, telling her she was still cancer-free. When they finally found it had struck in a different location, she was put on chemo, but again they let their guard down enough for it to be considered gone, then it metastisized to a third place, and this time, little could be done. This all happened over a period of five years. At least there were times within it that she led a normal life and got to do some things she wanted to do.

When I walked into the hospital room, she was expecting me because the family told her I would be there. A big smile crossed her face, but she couldn’t speak above the slightest whisper. This was more recent too, because I was told that on Thanksgiving just a few days before my appearance there, she was speaking normally. The day after Thanksgiving, she was taken to the hospital. Now she was too weak and also plagued with mouth sores from the chemo to speak very audibly. I wasn’t sure how much she knew or how much she thought the family knew, so I didn’t want to act like it was my last good-bye, but more like, "I was going to try to make it for Thanksgiving, but it didn’t work out, so I just thought I’d come the week after instead and here I am."
Her hair was short, growing out from her last chemo and I’m told her health had gone down quite dramatically since just the week before when she went to Robin’s for Thanksgiving.

Pictures of her were taken on that holiday and she looked the same in them as she always had, except that she had to be taken up the few steps in a wheel chair. She hadn’t felt well enough to eat, but by golly, she wanted to be there and she was. 

Our visit now wasn't a chatty time like all of our other visits throughout life had been, when we sat for hours and got caught up. Not only could she barely talk, but I knew she probably wasn't up for listening much either. Not only that, even despite that she was very tired and slept a lot,  it just didn't seem appropriate. Nothing else was of any significance against and except this. It was more a time to just be  in each other's presence. I think we both knew that and that was okay.

She had reached a point now, where TV and music were too much stimulus in her room and she preferred quiet. Her adult children living locally had scheduled each other to be with her around the clock, even sleeping on a couch made into a bed in her private room. No visitors were allowed because it was too much for her to feel she had to entertain. I’m so glad and privileged they made me an exception.

Her children had told her they knew she was strong, but if she wanted to let go and not fight anymore, it would be okay. She seemed to understand that.

On Saturday she mostly slept in the five hours I was alone in her room with her and I wasn’t sure if she knew that we were aware of the seriousness of her condition, so what little I said to her wasn’t of tremendously important nature. She did tell me after a good deal of effort, that I couldn’t leave her; not to even take a few steps away from her because people there were mean to her.

The hospital staff had been wonderful to her, and she was with a family member around the clock, but she had had a hallucination about a man coming into her room with a gun trying to kill her. The family knew then that they couldn’t leave her alone, as she was comforted then, that the bad guy couldn’t get her with a family member there. She had also seen spider webs on the wall that weren’t there.

I wanted her to know I was there for her, and to sit on the couch across the floor was not in her range of sight without turning her head,  so I opted for a more portable wooden chair near her bedside where I was visible to her. Even turning her head was not possible for her at that point. She didn’t seem to sleep that day (she had just slept all night) but every couple minutes, she opened her eyes to see if she could see me in her peripheral vision.

Sunday morning the doctor came in and told one of her daughters that there was nothing more that could be done and they were basically giving her hospice care in the hospital. He asked if she wanted him to tell her that. The daughter said yes, so the doctor knelt by her bed, took her hand and basically repeated everything, then asked her if she understood that. She said yes. After he left, she cried out that she had to see Robin, because she had lied to her eldest daughter about her condition, saying the daughter didn’t know.

Of course they all knew, but Jan hadn’t told the family everything about her condition in the beginning, not wanting to worry them, and now she felt she had to prepare them. That daughter came immediately when called, and Jan managed to whisper all on her heart.

As before, Jan was assured that whenever she felt like letting go, it was okay, as the family understood, because they didn’t want her to suffer.

When I got there later that afternoon, I sat on her bed now too, and spoke from the heart, the words that I was afraid to say before, feeling she didn't know we knew. Now, even though I knew it would be recognized as the final good-bye, I told her that I loved her, what a good friend she had been all my life, and how I appreciated her. I said I knew she was getting ready to go on a journey, and when she did, to please find my mom and tell her hello for me, then also give her parents my greetings. I said when I get up there, I hoped I could live right down the lane from her like we used to, but I knew that this time, it would be paved in gold. She nodded and smiled.

I told her again that I loved her, hugged her then got back up from sitting at her side on her bed and walked to stand at the end of it, where I rubbed her feet. She had loved that over the past couple days; it relaxed  and comforted her. It seemed like a dumb and insignificant way to end such a meaningful conversation, but I wanted to maintain some contact with her and knew she couldn’t talk much, but I didn't want to simply walk away. About ten minutes later, she held her forearm up, resting her elbow on the pillow, and it looked like she was beckoning me, so I went to her and leaned down where she could reach me. In her extreme weakened state, she  hugged me so tightly and long that I was surprised at her strength. I felt it must be coming from her determination and sense of urgency. She said, "I love you Sandy. I think about you all the time and pray for you too."

I said, ‘I love you too and you’ve been one of my favorite topics of prayer." We held each other for quite a few moments, until I felt her grip loosen on my back. She was very weak and I dared not cry because I didn’t want her to feel badly about leaving, as that was her one major fear about abandoning her loved ones that made her try so hard to hold on.

It was very difficult to remain stoic, but I just kept thinking how I had to hold on so as not to upset her for seeing me upset. But I’m so glad we can rest in the assurance of God’s promises because of what Jesus did on the cross. Otherwise, what comfort would there be? What comfort does a non-Christian have?

She slept most of the five hours I was with her that day. She had been given pain meds and when she did awaken briefly to have her vitals checked, I told her this wasn‘t the end of our relationship, it was just an interruption. She nodded understanding and we told each other we love each other again.

I wasn’t sure quite how I would get through that one last good-bye that I knew we would both recognize to be the very final one. I was relieved that she was asleep when her son came to take me away the last time. I was also very thankful that we had been able to say our final good-byes because despite her family's vigilance, they let me share in what was certain to be her final days and hours, but even more grateful that we will see each other again in a far different place.

A couple weeks later, much longer than anyone thought she could hold on, I got the word. When Robin had to leave Jan's room, she only did so with the assurance that the next family member was in the hospital parking lot. They passed each other on foot there, so Jan had only been unattended by a family member for moments, but in the presence of an attending nurse, Jan saw it as an opportunity to slip away when no loved one was present--to get while the gettin' was good. We are thankful we all said our good-byes, and that we will have a reunion in God's glory, as He promised those who accept His salvation. Then we will all be together again!