Til Traveling Days are Done

To our dear family and friends:

On Thursday, March 16, Edward Gibin Tanng went home to meet his Lord. As horrible this disease was, the end was every bit as peaceful as it could be. We received a morning call from the nurses at R Center asking for permission to begin administering morphine. Dad's breathing was becoming labored and showing signs of discomfort. Mom gave permission over the phone, then left soon after to be with him. An hour later she called me and told me the nurses said it was time to call our pastors. I managed to reach Pastor John, and he promised to get there as soon as he could.

I arrived a few minutes after 9, to see Pastor John already there with Mom. Dad had been given some oxygen the night before to help his breathing, but I could see that he was already experiencing Cheynne-Stokes breathing. To the onlooker it appears that the person's chest is heaving, taking huge deep breaths in rapid succession, but the look on Dad's face showed absolutely no pain or discomfort. If it hadn't been for his chest moving the way it was I would have assumed he was sleeping peacefully, which in fact he was.

Pastor John opened his bible, and began to read a liturgy of scripture and prayer to usher one over the bridge. He prayed a blessing for Dad's long and full life, and asked that his spirit be received so that he could rest. After he finished we sat and watched. A couple of times Dad experienced apnea, and his chest stopped moving completely. But after a few moments they would begin to heave again. However, each time I noticed that the movements were a bit smaller, a bit gentler. The hospice nurse came in and said she was ordering a larger dose of morphine, so it would hold Dad longer, instead of us giving it to him so often. She said she would make sure there was someone to come and sit with him through the night, then she left.

At one point Pastor John remembered an experience in which dabbing a bit of someone's favorite drink on their lips could sometimes be a comfort. Mom immediately said Dad loved orange juice, and she left to get him some. We continued to watch, and talk. Then I noticed that Dad was not coming out of his apnea. I leaned closer, then John and I both walked toward the bed. I put my hands on Dad chest, his neck, trying to feel for a pulse, and noticed immediately he felt cooler than he had. I asked Pastor John to fetch the nurse while I continue to try and feel for a pulse. The nurse came but after a few minutes couldn't feel anything, so he fetched the charge nurse.

There is a protocol for confirming someone's demise. First you try to find heart sounds. Finding none, you try to find blood pressure. After several minutes she turned to us and said she was calling the time of death at 9:46 am. It had been about 40 minutes since I arrived.

I've often wondered about the experience of watching someone die after a long illness. Is if filled with grief, regret, loss, relief? For me it was none of those things. It was only love. As the charge nurse talked to Mom about what came next I leaned over Dad, slid the oxygen tubing off his face, for one last time pressed his face between my hand and my cheek. I had no words, I just held him. And then the tears finally came. For what, I don't know. I didn't feel any sorrow, maybe only a quiet gladness that he was finally free. The disease that had slowly stolen his mind and joy no longer held him.

Watching Mom caress the face of the man who has been her husband for almost 50 years, I understood that love covers all things, even death. She told him he had gone ahead, but she would join him soon. Then, standing between Pastor John and the nurse, she opened her Taiwanese hymnal, turned to a page and said, "He really liked this hymn," and began to sing the first verse of "What a Friend We have in Jesus." Then she turned again, and sang from, "Sweet Hour of Prayer," and I knew Dad had the end we all hoped for.

There are no words to express our deep thanks to the friends who have continued to reach out to us during Dad's illness. The ones from California who called regularly to check on Mom and ask how Dad was doing. Our cousin, who arranged for Mom to Skype with Dad's brother, who is now also on his journey with Alzheimer's. Our neighbors, who took our kids in when Mom and I were stuck at medical appointments and couldn't make it home to meet the bus, and showed up unbidden to clean out our driveway after a surprise blizzard two days before Dad's passing. The staff at R Center, who did all the was required of them and more, just to make Dad more comfortable. Pastor John, who stayed not only to pray the final blessing, but continued to sit with us until Dad was taken away. And there is you, who have come here to read our story. In so many ways, large and small, everyone been a part of our journey. And we are so thankful. Without our village our journey would have been much the poorer.

Yesterday evening, as I read through the many messages left by friends, I came across a post by a fellow musician. He sent it as a message of comfort. I leave it here, because the words so beautifully express the arc of Dad's life. Above all he loved God, and knew he was loved. And in God he had his rest.

"I heard the voice of Jesus Say"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mXMQqiLW9c