Thankfulness, In Perspective

A man decided to die today. He is not, by many standards, a remarkable man. In his 60s, he looks to be in his 80s. He is rough and grizzled from being HIV positive and homeless in San Francisco. He is too weak to speak very clearly, or loudly, or for very long.

He is one of those high-maintenance patients. He is restless, anxious, unable to keep still. Even after the nurses gave him anti-anxiety medication, he kept trying to stand and walk, teetering with his low blood pressure. He was restless not just being in the hospital, but being in his own body as well.

We breathed deeply together. He rejected guided meditation, unable to let his guard down enough to close his eyes or relax. He was a spring, tightly wound and ready to snap if he let go of his vigilance.

Afraid to be alone, he asked me to sit with him for a while. We sat, and I would lean forward to catch his ragged voice wheeze out a few more words. A few times, we prayed. He hoped for courage, that he might overcome the obstacles he needed to overcome. We were vague on the shape of the obstacles, as he could be trying to overcome impediments to his health…or impediments to his death.

He asked me to help him write a letter to his family. It began, “I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.”

It hit me then, a chilly breeze down my spine, how much this man and I have in common. While we are from different places in the world, practice different religions, are different ages, know none of the same people, and will likely never see each other again, I also sat there, unsure of what the eternity of morning would bring. We are all, on some level, unsure. We are all just making guesses, believing our own end so distant that we needn’t think about it too early, or too clearly.

When the man decided to refuse the surgery, the medical staff was unsure of what to do next. Their job is to help others heal. While watching others deteriorate into death is also part of the job, it is not as popular amongst the medical staff.

He talked of chances he wished he’d taken. The opportunities seemed like nothing at the time. It is only with hindsight, when ongoing illness makes the possible becomes impossible, and the unthinkable the daily reality, that such thoughts have a tendency to linger.

I heard a speaker recently talk about forgiveness. He said something to the effect of, “When we can’t forgive, it is not that we have seen too much suffering, it is that we haven’t seen enough." While our hurts and vulnerabilities can feel endlessly distressing, they are often quite minor compared to the hurts and the vulnerabilities of the world. The speaker gave the example of driving in rush hour traffic—it becomes much less stressful and overwhelming when we realize that we’re lucky enough to have a car when millions of people don’t even have food. It is when we put our problems into context that a mountainous obstacle becomes nothing more than a small hill, and a small hill is much easier to climb.

In the moment the man decided to die, it occurred to me how most of my problems are, in comparison, minor inconveniences. So I need to pack up my house and move cross country—I’m horrible at organization and pre-planning in stressful situations, but by the end of September it will be over. So I have student debt from seminary—I’ll get a job and pay it off over time. So I have errands to run, or bills to pay, or phone calls to make. All of the little things on my mind, all the decisions I’ve had to make today, pale in comparison to this man’s decision to die.

“I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.” Life? Death? Sunshine or fog? A phone call from an old friend? A piece of friendly gossip, whispered behind a hand? In what will I be disappointed? In what will I find grace, and thankfulness? What will the morning bring?