Loss and Lessons Learned
My dad—Jack Correll—lost his 8-year-battle to colon cancer late January and that brings with it endless thoughts and feelings. He fought valiantly until his very last breath, and while we knew that day was inevitable, it seems to have all-of-a-sudden crept up on us.
My brother “just so happened” to be visiting Mom and Dad and had arrived Saturday, January 6th for a week. That Monday morning, January 8th, I was sitting in a Chicago cafe’ with my daughter when the text from Lenny came through: “Dad was up all night vomiting. The nurse suggested we take him to the emergency room. We are getting him dressed and taking him there. Just letting you know.”
God’s timing was perfect and we thank him for working it out for Lenny to already be there. God knew what Mom and Dad needed. What we all needed.
Dad entered the hospital January 8th and never came home.
The texts flew back and forth that Monday. Should I drop everything and come right now? Could I put it off one day and see my son’s art debut at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago? Should I pack a bag and leave later that night? How serious is this? What should I do?
Long story short: The nurse suggested, “Come tomorrow night, but don’t delay after that!” I left Chicago Tuesday mid-afternoon, after a brief glimpse of Jackson’s artwork on the gallery walls, and promptly drove into a terrible snow storm. Making it to South Haven, Michigan before frazzled nerves called it quits, I made a phone call, friends came to the rescue, and I snuggled into their home to ride out the storm. I made it to Canada, January 10th, early Wednesday afternoon.
I had the honor and privilege of being bedside when both my father and mother-in-law went home to Jesus, and nothing quite prepares you for the days that bump up to those final hours. The signs of death begin to present themselves: the changes in skin color and the bodily weakness; the loss of communication and the crying out in pain; the sponge popsicle offering bits of relief; the silence adjacent to the death rattle that touches a deep place in your soul, where you plead with Jesus to take your loved one Home.
It becomes almost too much to bear.
If you know, you know.
Dad’s pain was mostly managed but when it wasn’t, it was excruciating. Dad, losing strength by the hour, would unsuccessfully try to roll himself onto his side, and when he couldn’t muster up the strength to do so, he’d reach out to us and whisper, “Help me! Help me!” That was, by far, the most devastating part of the journey for me. To not be able to help. To not be able to carry that pain for him. To know that we had a good 20-30 minutes before the new meds would kick in and offer relief. We had promised him we would manage his pain so he wouldn’t feel a thing, and then out of nowhere the pain would hit and I’d feel like I wasn’t making good on my promise—to keep him out of pain. It still brings tears to my eyes.
Despite the overarching sorrow, our time in the hospital, and then hospice, was sprinkled with God’s goodness and joy, from start to finish. We saw God’s perfect timing over and over again. From Room 3A—the large, private room we were relegated to because Dad had Covid-19 a month earlier—to church brought to us in the hospital complete with communion, singing, praying, and sweet times of reading Scripture over the entire two weeks. God was present and it was undeniable.
There was sacred in our sorrow and holy in our hard. That’s what Jesus offers.
We were amazed that Dad, our introverted, quiet, minimal talking father, talked more those last two weeks than he had in twenty years. No joke. It was like he had to get it all out before he left. He was cracking jokes, which he never did, giving us advice, telling us what to do, sharing childhood stories and memories, just talk, talk, talking.
We felt God’s peace and the prayers of thousands around the globe who were praying Dad home to glory.
Sweetness amidst the sadness.
Thursday, January 18th was Dad’s last good day. The puppies came to play—a gift for us as much for Dad—and close friends, that are actually family, ebbed and flowed through his doorway at ARCH during those final days/hours.
That night the pain got worse and the decision was made to up his meds to the point of around-the-clock sleep, which for us was a blessing. Each evening we’d hear, “I’d be surprised if he makes it through the night,” and the following morning we’d hear, “Your dad is one stubborn man! I can’t believe he’s still here!”
And then, in the quiet hours that Tuesday morning, January 23rd—in God’s goodness and perfect timing—death stepped in and Dad’s life really began.
The moment he had lived most of his life anticipating had come.
He woke up; pain-free and with His loving Jesus.
As Mom, Lenny, and I waited for the funeral home to arrive to take Dad’s body, we quietly processed Dad’s reality. He wasn’t in the room. He was WITH His Saviour, the One whom he had served so faithfully all those years. What was Dad doing? Besides Jesus, who met him to welcome him to heaven? We wished we had been able to grab ahold of his ankles and taken the ride heaven-bound for just a glimpse of our Jesus. If only.
While the battle was long, the final days went quickly and for that we’re grateful.
The entire two weeks we read aloud—to Dad and to each other—the countless stories pouring in, telling accounts of the impact Dad had on others. It was humbling and overwhelming in the best possible way, to read story after story of the ways Dad shared the love of Jesus to others. Be assured that if you sent us a message/text/email, Dad heard it and was so grateful for your kindness in sharing. Some messages brought smiles and “Wow, I didn’t realize that!” and a couple brought quiet tears and relief to hear apologies that Dad longed to hear for decades. God is so good and so kind.
There is so much more to process, and perhaps I’ll take a day each week and pop on my blog to process my thoughts surrounding death and eternal life and loss and grief, but for now, I wanted to share a few lessons I learned over the past three months.
The chapter in my life that went from having a dad to not having a dad.
Being on the receiving end of generosity and kindness is so humbling. If you took the time to send a text, write an email, share a story, drop off a meal, mail a card, purchase a gift card, make the call/FaceTime, it had a PROFOUND impact on us. I know I speak for my mom and my brother, too. We shook our heads most every night as we recalled how God had personally loved us that day, by sending you and your thoughtfulness our way.
There was not one moment we felt forgotten or abandoned by our Heavenly Father and
He chose to use so many of you as reminders that we are well loved.
Somewhere early on in the process I started making mental notes of things I wanted to remember the next time someone I loved had someone close to them pass away.
Here are a few of those thoughts for future Alysa, and maybe they might be meaningful for you, too:
Send the text/email. Even if you really don’t know what to say. Even if it feels like you might be imposing. Just send the text. And then release the person from responding. Every single text that we received was meaningful and thoughtful. And while we simply could not respond to everyone (we received hundreds over a span of two weeks), they all mattered.
Send the card. Yes it’s old school, but please send the card and it’s okay if it’s a month or two down the road. Every single card was read and appreciated and felt so loving to receive. To me, cards felt most like hugs. Weird, I know, and perhaps not everyone would feel that way, but for me, cards helped. Personal notes within the card meant the most, so take time to jot down a memory or share a verse. Your words matter to others and they encourage more than you could possibly fathom.
Drop off the meal/gift card/flowers. And you don’t even have to tell the person ahead-of-time. Just make a decision and drop it off—most likely someone will be at the house to receive it. And store-bought is good enough (and delicious, too!) if you don’t feel up to a home-cooked meal. And quite frankly, gift cards to a restaurant come in clutch and are amazing, as are gift cards to grocery stores. Make the effort to do this, Alysa. It means so much to come home, after a long day from the hospital, and not have to think about what to cook.
Don’t take it personal if the person doesn’t respond. I am not exaggerating when I say that I could have spent several hours every day following up with people that had reached out. And I just didn’t have it in me to do so. Even my very closest friends got very little response from me, a) because we had no cell signal in our room at hospice and I wanted to minimize leaving Dad’s room, and b) I had nothing left to give. I’m so grateful they didn’t take it personally. My love for them wasn’t questioned.
Days and weeks after the passing, check in. Just say hi. Just say ‘praying for you.’ Whatever you say communicates that you love them and are still interested in hearing how they’re doing and what they’re processing on that given day. That you haven’t forgotten. It doesn’t have to be long or involved.
Your friend might not know what s/he needs in the days during/after a loss. Notice things and then just take care of it! One of our friends saw that after a several days with 15-20 people at the house, our garbage bin was overflowing. So he loaded up a bunch of the bags and took them to his house. We didn’t have to ask. We didn’t even know that we needed this done. He just noticed and did it. It’s those types of things that lighten the load.
Faithfully pray. You felt the unexplainable peace that comes only from Christ, because of the prayers of so many. Prayer works. Prayer encourages. Be faithful in prayer.
Mom, Lenny, and I stand humbled and grateful for your generosity and kindness. It will always be remembered.
If you’re interested, you can view Dad’s funeral serve here.
