Watching Him Go

I arrived home just as the ambulance crew was taking Ken in the house. Our hallway to the bedroom was too narrow for them to swing the gurney around, so one of the attendants had to pick Ken up, like a baby, and carry him to the hospital bed. About the time they got him all settled, the lady from Hospice got there. She came in and did an intake interview to determine what our needs were going to be. I do not remember her name, but I do remember that she was very empathetic and compassionate. She was, herself, a widow of a cancer patient, so she knew first-hand what we were facing.

I don’t remember whether it was that night or the next morning that a Hospice nurse came and started Ken on morphine. It was the liquid form – the kind only used for patients who are dying – and VERY strong. Its effect on Ken was immediate and frightening. He only got a couple of drops under his tongue every several hours, but each time he got a dose, his eyes would sort of roll around in his head and when he tried to talk, it sounded as if he had a mouth full of marbles. I now understand how some people believe that the morphine “killed” their loved ones. Ken certainly behaved differently after he started taking it. Mostly, though, it made him sleep.

Specific details about the rest of that week are difficult to recall. I know I spent most every minute in the bedroom with Ken, so he could see me whenever he woke up. I stayed on the foot of my bed most of the time, laying beside his hospital bed and holding his hand. My Mama was taking care of Jesse and Benjamin, so I could stay with Ken as much as I wanted. Unfortunately, once again those sweet boys were pushed to the side while I took care of their Daddy. It pains me now to realize that at that point, Jesse and Benjamin probably needed me more than Ken did. I pray that one day they will be able to understand and forgive me for not being with them more.

Even though Ken slept most of the time, he did have moments of complete clarity. They were fleeting, but when they occurred, he was absolutely lucid. He would usually “wake up”, tell one of us that he loved us, and then drift back into the morphine fog. I believe that God allowed those moments as gifts that we could tuck back and treasure in the dark days to come.

On that Friday (it was November 12, 2004), Ken’s dad came over. He said that he would sit with Ken so I could try to relax in the living room for a little while. I don’t know why I agreed, but I did. I had barely gotten settled when Ken’s dad came into the living room and said, “I think you had better come here...Ken’s eyes ain’t right”. I ran in and called Ken’s name. He opened his eyes, but there was absolutely no focus there. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. I ran to the phone and called the Hospice nurse and our pastor, Keith, and asked them both to come. Then I went in and prayed by Ken’s bed. It was one of those wordless prayers – groanings so deep that no one but God could understand. I believed that in that moment, I was witnessing my sweet husband’s final breaths.

God evidently had other plans. By the time Keith and the nurse arrived, Ken had relaxed some and was sleeping. His heart was pounding so hard that it shook the mattress. I asked the nurse if it would be soon. She nodded her head. But the evening stretched into night and there was no change. It was after midnight when Keith and the nurse left, both promising to be back first thing in the morning.

Ken’s heart was still pounding furiously. I knew it couldn’t continue like that much longer, but for some reason, Ken kept hanging on. I remembered some of the Hospice materials I read said that sometimes the dying person needed to hear their loved ones say that it was “okay to go”. So, even though my heart and soul were both screaming “Don’t go!!!”, I leaned over Ken and said, “Baby, if this is too hard for you, you can go. It’s okay for you to go.” At that moment, Ken opened his eyes, completely lucid and said, “I am not going anywhere!” Then he went back to sleep.

Ken had steadily declined since they sent us home with Hospice on Monday. He couldn’t walk or sit up without help and was in so much pain. The morphine we gave him made him so fuzzy; it was hard for him to talk. He got really bad Friday night. I called Keith and Ken’s mom called everybody else. Before I knew it, we had a whole house of Lunsfords. Ken made it through the night, but it was obvious that he was getting weaker with every passing minute.

The next morning, the Lunsfords all came over again, and my family too. I spent the day laying beside Ken on the bed, holding his hand and telling him that I love him. Sometimes he was able to respond, sometimes not. I made sure someone was holding his other hand all the time. I told people to talk to him. Ken drifted in and out. Once, he leaned over and kissed me. Another time he told me he loved me. Every time he saw Jesse he would say, “I love you forever and ever”. It was so precious, it broke my heart. One time, Ken looked surprised and said, “Look at all of these people. Someone must be dying… Oh! I must be the one dying – I have cancer!”. Another time, when his niece was holding his other hand, Ken said, “Help—her”. I asked if he wanted me to help her with something. He shook his head, pointed at his niece, then at me and said, “You—help her—she’s going to need it. It will be hard for her.” Precious man. Worrying about me to the very end.

Ken’s heart had been pounding non-stop since Friday night. It pounded so hard that it shook the mattress on his bed. When it finally started weakening, I called the boys into the room. I told them that Daddy was going to heaven and they needed to say good-bye. They told him good-bye and Ken stopped breathing a couple of minutes later. I wanted my heart to stop too. He took his last breath on Saturday, November 13, 2004, at 1:42 in the afternoon.

Ken was surrounded by family and friends when Jesus called him home. That’s the way it should be. So many people loved him. (Melinda’s Journal, November 20, 2004)