Like ancient Greeks at the Oracle of Delphi, many people wait, anticipating something prophetic from their loved one’s last words. Maybe it’s a revelation into the eternal, a release from guilt, or the secret to peace from life’s fray that people hope to hear.
On rare occasions, it happens, as it did for those gathered at the bedside of the dying 19th-century evangelist, D.L. Moody. “Is this dying?” he asked from his bed. “Why this is bliss. There is no valley. I have been within the gates. Earth is receding; Heaven is opening; God is calling; I must go. “
Reportedly, Moody passed back into unconsciousness and, upon awakening, said he had seen his loved ones in heaven, even giving their names. When those with him mentioned that he was only dreaming, Moody insisted he had been within the gates of heaven.
We tell and retell such end-of-life stories like that because they are so uncommon. But, the fact of their existence makes us wonder and wait and whisper: “What will she say?” “What will he see?”
In some instances, also a rarity, the dying answer our questions in surprising ways, like the nurse who asked drummer Buddy Rich in prepping him for surgery if there were anything he couldn’t take. Rich, who didn’t survive the surgery, responded: “Yeah, country music.”
The dying’s last words are often spoken earlier, in moments that we think don’t matter. The nurse comes into the room and asks if the patient is comfortable. Would he like to be turned in bed? Does she want her dry mouth swabbed with cool moisture? In most instances, last words are “yes/no” responses to the body’s desire for final comfort before the dying exit the shell in which they, like every one of us, temporarily dwell.
I knew I had heard my brother Lowell’s last words to me after I left his side, a few weeks ago. I had spoken to the hospice nurse on my way out of the facility. “Who am to tell you what to do?” I told her, feeling like I could confide in her since she had been forthright about how quickly Lowell would probably pass, describing it as “days, maybe weeks, but not yet hours or days.”
So, I had made the arrangements to return home, having spent my time with Lowell, sharing some beautiful memories but mostly watching him suffer and hurting for him and his wife, Rebecca, who had to witness her husband slipping away. And so, I told the nurse, “Please keep my brother as comfortable as you can.”
Then I was gone and in a few hours had returned home, having flown the friendly skies. But, no longer had I entered my house, but my brother passed through heaven’s gates.
Most of Lowell’s interactions had become nonverbal as his body shut down. He only spoke in whispers, and even that sapped his strength. And the pain meds, designed to make him more comfortable, also eased him into more prolonged periods of unconsciousness.
But he had his last words for me. They were unrehearsed, a response to the moment.
Not long before I left the final time, I stepped outside his room while the nurses attended to him. When they emerged, they had a message for me. “Tell my brother I love him, and it’s okay for him to go,” he had told the nurses. Knowing I would insist on staying another day, he sent the message through the nurses, so I couldn’t counter.
Then, when I entered his room to pray one last time with him, having swabbed his dry mouth and adjusted the blinds in his room, he whispered, “I wish I could be there for you.” Just like a watchful big brother, he wanted to be there to help his younger sibling when it was time for my departure one day.
Now, maybe it will be—as I lay dying someday, somewhere, should I be granted the awareness of time and place and the ability to speak—I will recall his last words and, in remembering them, wish for his presence, too.
And I would like to think at that moment, I will recall my last words to him:
“You already have.”