“Maynard just coded and they are not sure they will get him back.”
It’s not the kind of thing you want to hear. I rushed to the hospital to find one of our friends, Maynard Davidson. Room 1019. Lifeless. I walked in and found his granddaughter Becky, and a nurse. Becky was holding Maynard’s hand, crying.
Maynard was a good guy. A great guy. All told he had something like 28 heart surgeries, looked healthy, and was as active as a guy half his age. I remember seeing Maynard around church as I grew up. Always smiling. Always looking for the next golf game. Often a kind word.
As the time went on, Maynard’s family and friends filed into the hospital room. Tears. Memories. Words of goodbye. Many stood around the bed and held his hands or rubbed his legs. An act of affection and love. Memories were being dug up of the life that they all lived together. It was beautifully sad.
Somewhere in the middle of the experience, I had a mental picture of me in the bed. Not something that I relished. I saw myself in the bed and my girls around me. Rubbing my lifeless body and remembering the life that we shared together.
In that moment they will not remember how much Dad worked. They won’t care much about what I made or who I knew. They will have little concerns for my professional accomplishments. They will remember the life and memories we shared. Memories of vacations, family nights, runs for ice cream, wrestling with the dog, tickle time, laughing, crying, praying, serving, hoping, and dreaming. That is the stuff of life.
The end of a life always puts the living of life in perspective.
Thanks Maynard, for living a great life and teaching me that life is in the living. Peace to you, my friend.
[tags]death, life, hospital, living, peace, family, grief[/tags]