by
NARRATION:
I used to be like most people. I couldn't imagine having to watch someone die. And I certainly didn't want to talk about the subject. That all changed when I met Francis Deardon. I was volunteering for an outreach program that helps dying people. I was only filling in for another volunteer for a couple of days and I had no idea what to expect. Francis was my first assignment and I went to his house without any training or preparation.
Francis, was sitting upright watching t.v. from his bed when I walked in. He was an artist… about sixty-years-old… a small, pale man, with a crop of red hair like Woody Allen. He had a friend who took care of him in the evenings… So, I was really only there to keep him company during the day. That first day, he was alert and chatty. He didn't appear to be dying. But he certainly was. As soon as I introduced myself, he described to me what would happen to him over the next few days. Francis had a tumor in his neck that was growing quickly. It would soon stop the flow of blood to his brain and he would die. Simple as that.
Surprisingly, his acceptance of the situation put me at ease. It wasn't the deathbed scene I expected. It felt more like I was dropping someone off at the bus depot… And I felt free to talk to him about anything without fear of offending him.
Throughout that first day, Francis showed me his artwork… oil paintings of Long Island landscapes… large murals of wildlife… and a series of portraits of dogs standing upright and dressed in full regalia. He talked about growing up on Long Island and working in New York City as a commercial artist. He came from a large, wealthy family… but they disowned him when he told them he was gay. They didn't even know he was dying.
I asked him if he believed in an afterlife… not knowing for sure what I believed myself… He said he thought there would be something and that he was excited to see what it was. I told him it would be cool if he could contact me from the other side… "You can haunt me if you like," I told him. He said he'd give it a shot.
The next day, the tumor had grown large enough that Francis could no longer swallow. He was beginning to weaken and had less energy to speak. By the third day, he was lying on his bed struggling to breathe. He was conscious and responded when I held his hand. But he was too focused on breathing to talk. His body lay bent like a wire doll on the bed and he gasped loudly every few seconds. I spoke to him in a calm, steady voice. "How are you doing, Francis?" "Hang in there. I'm here with you." Francis rhythmically squeezed my hand to tell me he heard me. "Don't forget to haunt me, Francis." He squeezed my hand again.
I left the house when his friend came back. Francis died a few hours later. Sure, I was sad... But, I was also just happy to have had the privilege of being with him when he was most vulnerable. From my brief time with him, I learned that death is not nearly as frightening as I had imagined. In fact, it's one of the most important and natural events in our lives… right up there with birth.
Since meeting Francis, I've found that… generally… people who are close to dying are eager to talk about it. It's the people they're leaving behind who are uncomfortable with the topic. That's why they often miss the chance to say what they really want to say to a dying person. That they're really going to miss that person. That they were happy to have known them at all. … And while it may be understandable… it's unnecessary… and it's a pity.
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