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The vigil of 2 Dec 2021 |
During those last days Ali's bedroom was illuminated by candles, rather than the harsher glare of electric light. And each year since then, on the night of 2-3 December, I keep a candlelight vigil in Ali's bedroom. It is a time for memories, reflection and prayer.
I'm conscious that this blog has said very little about Ali, even though it is now eight years since she died. Please God, by this time next year, an introduction to Ali, describing what was so extraordinary about her will have been published. For now, I will just reproduce what I said about Ali's heroic death in a presentation I gave the year after she died.
Ali died at home on the morning of Tuesday 3 December. She lost her swallow reflex on the Sunday night. So from then, she could no longer take even small drops of liquid to drink; or liquid morphine for pain. She would generally wake up for short periods, with pain coming soon after she was awake.
About 8pm on the Monday night, after being awake for an hour or so, the pain was so extreme she wanted me to call the out-of-hours doctor. It was known that if she called the out-of-hours service, Ali would receive an injection of diamorphine which she duly received and it zonked her out in seconds. Knowing that she hadn’t had liquids for nearly 24 hours, and expecting that the diamorphine would last some time, it seemed to me that Ali might die without waking up again.
I was surprised, then, when Ali woke up at 1am. She could say little – a few words at a time. Often she would respond just 'yes' or 'no' to my questions. It was soon clear that she was in pain.
- Do you have pain? "Yes." - Is it very bad? "Yes." - Do you want me to call the doctor to give you something? "No." I frequently asked her if she wanted me to call the doctor to help with the pain. She always said "no". I would ask: - Are you happy? She always said, and you could read it in her eyes: "Yes!"
Ali once said that our life in the world is like that of an unborn child. In a way ,we are unborn. The unborn child knows only the womb. He or she doesn’t know the marvellous world that lies beyond the womb. The suffering of his mother accompanies the child into the world – and it is traumatic for the child. The world, Ali said, is like a mother’s womb. It is a preparation for what lies beyond. What lies beyond is so much beyond our imagination, just as the world is beyond the imagination of a child in the womb. Just as suffering accompanies our entrance into the world, so it is fitting that it accompanies our exit from the world. We prepare for what lies beyond.
I am convinced that Ali didn’t ask me to call the out-of-hours doctor again, because she knew that if she received another injection of diamorphine she would be zonked out for the rest of her journey into the next world. She didn’t want that. She wasn’t clinging on to life, afraid to let go – the sentence she said more than any other in her last weeks and days was “I want to go home.” She was anticipating her eternal destiny – but she knew she wanted to take with her as much as she could. And what can we take with us? Not material goods – but the treasures of our good actions, our prayers, our suffering, our love.
How precious were those last hours of Ali's life! The good deed she performed then, contributing to the treasures she took with her, was a final lesson to me - and, through me, to you and others - how to die with real dignity and courage. She prayed - expressing sorrow for the things she got wrong in life - and offered up her suffering to God, in loving gratitude for the life she had been given, and for all His love and mercies.
Ali amassed all the treasures she could of good deeds, prayers, suffering and love - while she had the opportunity to do so. And for some silly reason she loved me and wanted to spend as much time as she could with me.
So she didn’t want me to call the doctor to zonk her out. She wanted to be sat upright in the bed – which ensured that she would live longer – and for me to hold her. I encouraged her as best I could. We prayed. Her body gradually wound down in a way I had never experienced before and eventually she lost all ability to communicate.. I believe though that she remained conscious, and could hear the ongoing encouragement and prayers, until the end. Ali died at 8:40 in the morning.
She could have died easily and painlessly, but chose a far happier death of suffering with great love.
As I said [earlier in the talk], I’m a wimp. But I hope I can learn from Ali to be willing to suffer lovingly during life and especially at the end of my life.
Ali was small - four foot something and getting smaller as her spine collapsed. But she walked head and shoulders above us all.
