It was when the nurses washed him that his breathing changed. We were all in the kitchen while they did the morning bed-bath, but I peeped through a crack and saw my beautiful naked son being gently washed in the way I had been taught as a student nurse nearly 40 years before. A minute later they covered him up and called us into the room: “His breathing’s changed, you should come in” Was this ‘it’?
We all swap places – the nurses leave us round his bed. Becca and I stand on Sam’s left, Martin and Sam’s grandad on his right, holding his hands and arms. His eyes are closed, his face composed, but he is definitely struggling to inhale and exhale. How hard to let this process run its course – how can this be happening? Hardest for the medical man who had been trained to bring people back from the brink… But Sam has a red sign in the kitchen saying “Do Not Resuscitate” – the brain we cannot see has already done it’s fatal work. Despite that fact we speak our love and comfort to him, not knowing if he can hear us: it is our only way to say goodbye.
Within a few minutes his breathing stops… “the breath returns to God who gave it” “Into Your Hands we commit his spirit”. His pallor gradually turns to blue, then purple – there is no oxygen in the blood but his strong, young heart is still pumping it round his body. Oh God! It is too much – his head and shoulders rear up from the bed and we all jump. Martin says, “Don’t worry that is normal” – death throes as the body relinquishes it’s life, so horrible to see it is still the worst moment of the whole thing. He falls back to the bed lifeless and all colour quickly fades to white, then waxen…
Dying is nothing like death itself. Dying people are still with us, but death means GONE. It is a totally different feeling – even though you know it is coming you cannot really prepare for it. Sometimes people talk of heavenly experiences, feeling there are angels in the room to guide the loved one home, but for us it wasn’t like that at all: Sam’s death was traumatic despite his unconscious state. The hands we continued to hold went cold. Rebecca in her terrible distress immediately left the house to go and cry in her friend’s arms. Martin’s dad went back into the kitchen to make tea. I looked at my watch, to know the time of death…
We all react in different ways. I am sure Martin was weeping. I sat very close to the bed and put my cheek on Sam’s. It was cold and the skin had changed: he was a corpse. I whispered my love one last time, but there was nothing to be done: Sam Dyer had left the building. We relinquished his body to the nurses for laying out, dressing him in his favourite tee-shirt and shorts for his long sleep in the earth.
I was numb: now there were things to do. I went straight to the funeral directors to get advice and organise what had to happen next – but I’m not going to write about that now. (See this post for the overview I did write one month later when at last I felt able to communicate something.) I left Martin waiting with the body for the doctor to come and certify the death. When he came our lovely GP cried over the loss of a young man who had been so full of life…
That was the question uppermost in our minds: What had happened to all that life? That strong spirit? HOW could it just be snuffed out because it’s container had worn out? Surely we believed he had gone into the spiritual realm – to meet God? But what actually does happen when we die? Where was Sam now? It made me cringe when well-meaning friends said things like “he is safe in the arms of Jesus” – it seemed so unreal, wishful-thinking, imagination, generic gobbledygook – no comfort at all. It doesn’t say anything like that in Scripture! However, something that really did help, was someone who didn’t know us at all who had been praying for us – how amazing is that on its own? – who had a vision of Sam drumming his way into heaven with great joy and gusto! She had no idea he was a drummer… I loved that! 🙂
It is all so much a matter of faith in things unseen, convictions being tested at the point of crisis. All we really knew for sure was he was and is no longer with us… But we refuse to use words like “passed or passed over/on” “gone into the next room” – yuk! things that take the finality out of this loss. It has to be called by it’s name: DEATH. St Francis called her Sister Death – a close companion through our lives, a friend who takes us in her arms at last, a rest after a weary, long day. And we admit Sam’s death was a release for us as well as him.
In fact we do not begrudge the timing, his young age. I’ve blogged abut these last 10 days because they were so amazing and full of grace. It was a good death! He lived his 27 years to the full and had many great experiences: he used to say so himself. He told his sister to say at his funeral (and I quote!) “Fuck you, I went to Hawaii!” – which of course she was delighted to do! He also used to say he was actually glad all this had happened because of all the good that had come of it – the healing in his own life and in our family! Acceptance has to come if there is to be any peace in life – and in the end it is all about this, from Fr Richard Rohr:
At the time I needed something to hang onto and the gospel story about the thief on the cross next to Jesus came to mind. As they were both dying, this man said to Jesus, “Please Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom!” and Jesus’ immediate response to this wicked man – who had simply acknowledged that He actually had an eternal kingdom and nothing more – was “Today you will be with Me in Paradise” Sam did acknowledge my Jesus, despite all the other paths he also took. Apart from that I know that my God is Love and that definitely includes my children as well as – in fact – I believe it includes the whole world. Unless someone downright refuses, they are given access…I cannot help believe Sam is ‘in’! As a wise friend said to us later: Sam is in our future
My son is dead, long live the memories – my baby boy, our cheeky little lad.
I cannot list the precious moments that I treasure in my heart: “My mummy, my best thing” he said at nearly 2 – “I love you mum” he vowed before he died.
Now he lives on, his childhood laughter, mimicry and humour, that quirky character and stubborn will – his face in photographs and dreams, held in our hearts.
Our son is dead, long live the legacy – our drummer boy, so totally unique
His struggles and the anguish of his youth, a life cut short, the battle that he bravely fought out in the public gaze, his words and love and courage stamped on many lives.
They still live on – online, on You Tube, TV and in print – a shooting star that blazed across the sky and fell to earth.
My son, my dearest Sam, is dead – long live the LOVE