I recently read of the suicide of a philosopher. He was in his nineties and in good health but felt he had lived long enough and wanted his family and friends to remember him as he was with all his faculties and the ability to care for himself. His decision would not be mine, but my age, Teckla’s dementia, and the visits of ambulances to the homes of the elderly on my street force me to think about how I want to be remembered.
I am sad to see Teckla’s dementia dissolve so many of her abilities and gifts. She searches her grandchildren’s faces but can’t recall their names. She forgets we are married. It would be wonderful if our last memories were of her at her best: leading Bible studies and worship, showering love and hospitality on everyone.
And these losses are only the beginning of the indignities we can expect. But caring for my mother, brother, and son as they died has left me unafraid and humble enough to not care how I am remembered. I am unafraid because I have seen how in the days before dying God breaks through with surprising gifts of love and grace. My hope is in Him—not better pain management protocols.
For example, not long before Teckla’s dad died of bone cancer we stood beside his bed and watched as he lifted his hands and stared at the corner of the room. His skin was translucent and you could see the blue line of every vein. He was so frail, so thin. When we tried to take his hands, he shook free. Still staring into the corner he said, “Not yet.” It was clear he was not talking to us. Something a fresh as a mountain breeze touched our skin and souls. That moment on the threshold of eternal life was a gift to Teckla and me. We knew God and eternal life is real and is always a second away.
My mother chose to prolong her life several times after her stroke. She couldn’t swallow so she had to choose whether to starve to death or have a feeding tube put in. I laid hands on her and prayed for her healing. She would always say sweetly, “I feel a little better.” If you can survive your prayers for your dying mother being unanswered, your prayer life has grown a spine and some roots and some perseverance. And of course, in those last days my brothers and I also got to show her the depth of our love.
This last week Teckla and I had a hard time communicating about little things around the house. She simply could not remember what the words were. The milk would end up in the closet, no matter how many times I would point and say, “Refrigerator.” Exhausted, I flopped onto the bed and looked up and Teckla and said sardonically, “Teckla, what is the meaning of existence?” I was, of course, being a smart-aleck and did not expect an answer. But not a millisecond later, she quietly shot back, “To love others.” I was humbled, and I think I God giggled.
So how do I want to be remembered? As someone who has loved God and others fully to the very end. When time, death, and God wring the last drops of life from this ragged body—I want them to be drops of love. I want to be remembered as someone who poured out his life for God and others.
I want my grandchildren to remember how I loved Teckla through every hard moment and every sad moment. I want them to remember that though she can’t recall their names, she has not forgotten to love. As her mind falters, and her body betrays her, I hope they catch a glimpse of the light of glory growing brighter in her each day.
And perhaps above all, Teckla and I want to be remembered for caring most about how God remembers us.
