April 2nd

Today is a difficult day; this is a difficult post to share.
 
For myself and the rest of Kim’s family, it is one of the most difficult days of the year, as it is the day that Kim died. I have never written about this day, and I rarely speak about this final chapter of Kim’s life, but I would like to share some of that season with you today. 
 
The day that Kim passed, Good Friday 2021, was a peaceful day. Kim had already been sedated for more than a week, and as a family, we had by this time talked about that instead of “waiting for Kim to die”, we needed to learn to “live alongside her” during these final days of her life.
 
In the first days after Kim lost consciousness and was kept sedated because of the immense pain she was suffering, we feared leaving the room or leaving the house, worried that Kim would pass when we were gone from her side. Being almost driven to the point of exhaustion in our tense waiting and angst, and knowing that Kim had already lived more than a month longer than anyone predicted, we knew that simply waiting was not the way to honor this final page of her life. And so, we changed our disposition from “waiting” to “living alongside.” We knew that Kim would pass when her body was ready, and not a moment earlier or later. And so, we learned to live alongside her. I came and went from our bedroom where Kim lay sleeping as I would most days. I would talk to her, sit with her, read in her presence, and when family would come to be with her, I would go for my walks, get some fresh air, go for groceries, and all the somewhat regular things someone does in a day. Her parents would come daily to be with Kim, and her siblings and in-laws every couple of days, to sit and be in her sacred presence, straddling the line between earth and heaven.
 
When April 2 came, we lived the day as we had the past week. It was an especially quiet day. Her sister-in-law came in the afternoon to be with Kim. At around 9 pm, I began to get ready for bed. I had been using the guest bathroom for the last few weeks so as to keep our bedroom quieter and not disturb people visiting with Kim. I brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas. I walked slowly and softly through the quiet hallway towards our bedroom, reflecting on the peaceful day. As I walked into our room and around her bed, I noticed something different about her breathing. It was shallow and slower than usual. I sat down in the chair beside Kim. I held her right hand in my own and stroked her temple and forehead with my left hand. She breathed in and out peacefully, and then her breathing paused for ten seconds. Another slow breath in and out, and then a longer pause of thirty seconds. I knew now that she was leaving, stepping across the threshold. A final breath, in and out, and then, silence. I waited. I counted to sixty. I waited.
Kim was gone. I kissed her lips and forehead one last time.
 
It was 9:30 pm when I called family to tell them Kim was gone, and it was quickly decided to meet at our house to see Kim and be in her presence one last time. We carried Kim downstairs and laid her on the couch. We gathered around her in the living room to spend a short time sharing, praying, and reading Scripture, saying one last good-bye to someone we all knew was already gone, already rejoicing face-to-face with her Savior over her race well-lived.
 
At around midnight, women from the funeral home came to the house to receive Kim’s body. Myself, along with Kim’s brothers and their wives, watched in vigil as Kim was taken out of our house for the final time.
 
Kim’s final chapter of life, her final months, were filled with a lot of pain and suffering, but there were also incredible moments of peace and joy. Amazing times of blessing with family and friends, words spoken, impacts and legacies shared, and much love felt. As painful as it is, it is a blessing to be able to leave this world with time to say all of your goodbyes and to leave nothing left unsaid.
 
There was a lot of suffering in those months and weeks, but on the final night, and really that last week, there was only peace. People who came and went from our house during that time have spoken or written to me about an overwhelming sense of peace within our home. I can honestly say that had nothing to do with me, but it was all Kim. For nine weeks, from early February to that first week in April, Kim really straddled the line between earth and heaven, one foot in each, and it was she who brought that courage, peace, and even times of joy and levity into our home. There was truly a sacredness in those moments when we sat with her one-on-one, talked with her, rubbed her feet, and just sat in her presence while she slept. It was the hardest thing we all went through, witnessing what Kim was going through, and it has left its impact on all of our lives, but as time has gone by, we have all come to appreciate what a unique and special time that was, that Kim gave us. There was nothing warm and fuzzy about that time; it was not the “romantic ideal” that we may hope for at the end of life, often portrayed in movies or books, not at all, but it was incredibly sacred. Difficult, stressful, and dark, but always a light, always still a sense of peace. A deep abiding.
 
In the end, Kim slid away from this life at 9:30pm on April 2, 2021. Slowly, methodically, peacefully–just as she had lived her life.