*Note: Jeff had a marked interest in WWII history. This title is both a nod to that and a hyperbolic metaphor for the personal devastation one feels when deciding to remove life support from a loved one. It is not intended as a perfect metaphor or to in any way disrespect any actual D-Day occurrences.
Six years ago, I was awakened by a phone call at five-thirty in the morning. While unwelcome, this call was not unexpected. Jeff’s kidneys had begun to shut down throughout the early morning hours, and the nurse instructed me to call any family members who wanted to say good-bye. There was no rush she said, but of course, today would be Decision Day. A different kind of D-Day.
As I hung up the phone, I began to shiver and my teeth chattered in fear, disbelief, anxiety—a number of emotions all swirling together to create one of the worst moments of my entire life. So, this was really happening. I sat down and prayed. I said, “God, I can’t do this. Please help me. I can’t do this.”
By the end of that day, I would be a widow and my beautiful daughters would be fatherless. It seemed so wrong! Their dad loved them so much! He loved me so much! He loved Jesus so much!
Jesus calmed the storm of my emotions that morning. I was able to calmly tell Emmy, who was only six, that her daddy would most likely go to be with Jesus that day and ask her if she wanted to go with me to the hospital to say good-bye. She declined to go.
About fifteen of our closest friends and family gathered into that ICU room by mid-morning. I felt compelled to read scriptures to Jeff. As they came to my mind, I read them. We sang worship songs. The day held all the contrast of the first page of Dickens’s famous novel. It was the most appalling and the most beautiful of days. It was the scent of death and the fragrance of life. It was gut-wrenching grief and worshipful rejoicing. It was the devastating knowledge of right-now and the hope-filled promise of what is to come.
We had amazing support from the nurses that day (as well as every other day we were there). There was no rush, no requests that we stop singing, no pushing me to get things moving.
In the late afternoon, two things happened. The doctor urged me to begin thinking about a time to begin the process of letting go and removing the ventilator. Then I received a call from Jeff’s boss and close friend, COL Mike Abell, informing me that Jeff had just been awarded the prestigious Legion of Merit award for lifetime service in the Army.
At 5:00, we began the final good-bye. As we did so, we continued to worship the God who gives and takes away. This remains the most devastating and the most breath-taking moment of my existence.
“All flesh is grass,
And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
Because the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of the Lord stands forever.” (Isaiah 40:6b-8 NKJV)