The Art of Living and Dying

Kendra Weddle, a Scholar-in-Residence at Northaven United Methodist Church in Dallas, TX, has witnessed the profound impact of Faith Presbyterian Hospice on the lives of those dear to her. Compelled by the compassionate care and serene environment provided by the T. Boone Pickens Hospice Center, she shares her experiences to highlight the importance of dignified end-of-life care. Through the stories of her friends Bill and Cody, Kendra reflects on the art of living and dying, hoping to inspire others to embrace the journey with grace and intentionality.

by Kendra Weddle, Scholar-in-Residence, Northaven United Methodist Church, Dallas, TX | Bill was a natural skeptic. Nancy still hears his voice in her head. I see the way he used his right fore-finger and thumb to lift his chin off of his chest in order to be able to look you in the eye as he spoke, a long-lingering side-effect of cancer treatment. We visited him one evening when he had been in the hospital for several days and was feeling discouraged. He was fighting multiple health challenges: a narrowing and non-functioning esophagus, recurring bouts with pneumonia, a weak heart. During our conversation, he was alert and animated; the Bill we knew and loved. Before we left, he told us how much our visit had lifted his spirit. As we made our way home, we, too, felt lighter, convinced our friend would soon recover.

A few days later, when his doctor delivered the news that his overall health had little upward potential, Bill decided he’d had enough and was ready to embrace the reality of dying. It was a shocking decision, especially in its swiftness; catapulting us into bewilderment, doubt, sadness, and grief, all in one fell swoop. He was moved to T. Boone Pickens Center, Faith Presbyterian Hospice in Dallas, where he died a few days later.

Cody also spent his final days at T. Boone Pickens Center, his room a short distance from the one Bill occupied. Cody was a gay Christian I met at Northaven United Methodist Church. He had suffered through a long battle with colon cancer that included multiple surgeries and treatments. Toward the end, his pain became increasingly difficult to control. Riding in a car became too much, precluding him from visiting his favorite places: the Dallas arboretum, local museums, church. Soon, short walks with his dog, Hunter, became shorter. A hospital bed was moved into the living room until the pain became unbearable. He then entered the Pickens Center where he later died.

Since their deaths, I’ve wondered more about meaningful ways to approach our final moments on earth, especially if given the time and space to prepare.

A good death

In the medieval period, when death occupied a prominent and persistent aspect of life, people knew about the art of dying. They called this the good death and, in their view, it involved two key ideas. First, it was more important to prepare for death than to prolong life. And, second, the best preparation for death was how one had lived their life (Fr. Thomas Nairn, Building Virtues in Life Leads to ‘Good Death’). When a medical practitioner had determined death was imminent, they relinquished their role so that religious authorities could step in and provide the necessary expertise as the patient prepared to die.

Preparing to die: make the switch from prolonging life to dying well

Bill had the financial resources to keep trying other medical interventions designed to extend his life. I imagine if he had gone that route, he would have spent long days in hospitals where multiple experts tried to solve his expanding physical challenges. And, because of how much we, as a society, push death to the margins, it has been easy to wish he would have tried this path.

Instead, in his final days, Bill took control over his dying process. As he settled into the T. Boone Pickens Center, friends and family from near and far were invited to visit him, a gift of liminal space—a refuge from the otherwise hectic and harrowing trauma that is so often experienced as death becomes imminent.

The beauty and peacefulness of the facility provides a necessary refuge for one’s final earth journey. Everything about it exudes serenity. Its architectural style speaks of being home with accessibility to nature a key component. Expansive windows and individual patios open to the warming sun while the reflection pond and fountain add to the immersive natural environment. The spacious patient rooms include comfortable furniture and attractive décor. For those who wish to use it, the spiritual care center is appointed with lit candles, colorful, bucolic stained glass, and tasteful religious symbols. A child and family bereavement center provides specialists who offer comfort and support.

A few months before he died, when Cody knew his cancer was terminal and there wasn’t hope of outliving his doctors’ prognoses, he began reaching out to all of those people who had influenced his life. He wanted them to know how thankful he was for them. I was around him enough to witness that he knew how to go deep and knew how to bring others with him. Without time for shallow living, he took advantage of the present moment, prizing its fullest potential.

In his last year, Cody summoned the courage and stamina to go with his husband to Hawaii, a dream they had shared. No longer able to do all of the sight-seeing he wished, he still had the perspective to relish the energy he had and to be grateful for experience in his reach. Back home, as his body slowly diminished, his heart and soul grew even stronger. He was busy leaving wisdom not only through conversations but on his Facebook page. Following him there was like receiving a master class on living well.

One of the last conversations I had with Bill he talked about the simple things he enjoyed: the yellow tulips his loving wife had brought to his room, the fresh air he could breathe and feel when they opened his door overlooking the small reflection pond flanked with trees. I asked him what book had been his favorite. Without a pause, he replied To Kill a Mockingbird had affected him deeply, although Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall had been pure enjoyment.

Preparing to die: live well

Rainn Wilson, the Emmy-awarded actor and author of books and media on spirituality, thinks that contemplating death helps us live more happily. He points to the country of Bhutan where happiness is a central focus. While the government keeps track of what they call the Gross National Happiness of its citizens, the cultural expectation is that “…one is expected to think about death at least three times a day.” (Soul Boom: 56)

In contrast, in America, we seldom evaluate death or consider deeply the process of dying, at least as a culture. Martha Atkins, an expert in the field of death and dying, explains that when we removed death from our homes to hospitals and long-term care facilities, we became less familiar with the process and therefore, more frightened by it. Because we are afraid, when someone is diagnosed with a terminal illness, we often offer platitudes about beating the odds and urging positivity in living longer.

On one hand, such approaches can be helpful, especially for those who want to hear this perspective. On the other hand, however, we can become more adept in opening ourselves to cultivating awareness of how to die well by being more intentional in living well.

For example, physician David Meyers wrote about his diagnosis of glioblastoma and how he found knitting a sweater for his college-aged son, a meaningful way to demonstrate his unending love while also enabling him to live fully even as he faced his impending death.

When I reflect on Bill’s final days, I think he was able to accept his impending death because he had lived well; he had been intentional about creating goodness and appreciating life’s moments in the moment.

One of the last things Bill did—when he was in hospice but still alert and thinking clearly—was to provide financial resources to someone in need. It was the kind of thing that can change a life. I imagine there will be many other generosities we will learn about him as time passes; this was just who Bill was.

At Cody’s memorial service, one of his friends spoke about how Cody’s life changed everything for him. He was ten years old, his friend recalled, when he began hating himself, because it was then that he realized he was attracted to boys. This attraction, he heard in church, meant that God hated him. All throughout his teenage years and into his first year of college he struggled with his identity, hating himself for who he was, pretending to be someone else in order to fit in. Angry at God for making him defective, he tried suicide.

Fortunately, after high school, this friend went to the same university as Cody and met Cody when he was at his most vulnerable. He had just returned to his dormitory after an especially angry episode with God; he’d been running around the campus track during an intense thunderstorm, daring God to strike him dead with lightning so that he didn’t have to keep being so miserable.

Emotionally spent and soaking wet, he dragged himself back to his dorm’s lounge on the way to his room. Cody was there. They hadn’t met before, but Cody picked up on his pain. “Hey, man,” Cody said, “you don’t seem ok.” They walked together to his room where Cody listened as a broken heart unspooled years of anger, pain, disappointment, frustration, rejection, and fear. When exhaustion took over and this friend cried himself to sleep, Cody sat through the night, his hand lightly resting on this new friend’s back, a gentle reassurance that someone cared.

The art of dying

While Cody’s path to death was longer than Bill’s, their attentiveness to its terrain, their determination to use it wisely and selflessly, and the potential of hospice care to provide transitional space in the last segment of life, is something I’ve seldom witnessed up close.

Shortly before he died, Cody found a Jewish meditation used before Kaddish that captured his hope for how he wanted to be remembered. I think it rings true of Bill, too. “Love doesn’t die, people do. So, when all that’s left of me is love, give me away.”

The art of dying doesn’t get better than that.

Visit Kendra’s website here.

Photos of Bill:

Photos of Cody: