Celebrating Ralph

  Ralph W. Peters died just as his father's grandfather clock down the hall - the clock he had spent $1,000 repairing after The Fire but was only worth about half that - was striking midnight, taking leave of his time in this life on Sunday, September 6th and ushering in the day he began eternal life on Monday, September 7th.

 

Death came, as it sometimes does, quickly and yet not fast enough.

 

Just last Sunday, August 30th, we had been together. We are great fans of and hold season tickets to Clearspace Theatre in Rehoboth Beach. We hadn't been able to attend any of the performances because of the pandemic but had decided to "risk" seeing the play "Constellations" precisely because it was a 90-minute play with two performers and not a musical with folks singing and dancing and twirling on stage. And, the theatre folks at Clearspace could not have been better about taking every precaution to keep us all safe.

 

After the performance, we stopped for supper over at the outside patio of the Yellowfin, one of our favorite Bistros in Millsboro. Ralph ordered the Fried Oyster Po-boy with a side of Onion Rings and a beer. The man was 87 years old and he wolfed down that meal with all the enthusiasm and relish of a 20-year old, sharing one fried oyster with Rita, his bride of 40 years, and one which had inadvertently fallen to the ground with a neighborhood cat who had come from one of the local condos for a nightly mooch.

 

We talked and laughed and solved almost all the problems in the world as we most always do when we're together, after which we thoroughly discussed, analyzed and solved all problems in the church. You know, as friends are of't wont to do.

 

It was a beautiful evening. It was not just good to be together, it was good to be together having been to the theatre and sharing a meal and feeling "almost normal" again. We dined out on that feeling of normalcy as a dessert that capped off a wonderful night out. We didn't want it to end. Indeed, Ralph and Rita were late - very late - when their daughter Kristen came to fetch them and take them back home.

 

We couldn't have known what was coming next but maybe somewhere, we knew and that's why we lingered so.

 

In the wee, very early, still dark hours of Monday, August 31st, Ralph became ill. He vomited every hour until late morning when his family finally convinced him to be checked out at the hospital. He was taken by ambulance to the ER and admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.

 

On Thursday, September 3rd, he had surgery for what the doctor felt sure must be some sort of blockage or kink in the intestine which he would remove, sew him back up, and he'd be back home for the Labor Day festivities.

 

What the doctor found was what no one - not even the doctor - expected. Ralph had metastatic cancer. There was to be no chemo. No radiation. No further surgery. Nothing to do but to stabilize him and send him home to be loved and cared for by his family and his friends and his Hospice Team.

 

Ralph arrived home on Saturday afternoon, September 5th. He was so very, very happy to be home that his eyes were shining uncontrollably with unmitigated joy. His voice was raspy from having been intubated and having had an NG (nasogastric) tube. He was having a difficult time breathing because he was recovering from aspiration pneumonia. But, he was wearing that marvelous, warm, genuine, authentic Ralph Peters smile.

 

When I made my way over to the bed to see him, he looked at me and for just a flickering second we saw in each other's eyes the sadness that was an acknowledgment of The Truth. His smile was momentarily overtaken by a thin-lipped resolve and he said, "This is NOT over. I'm gonna fight this thing."

 

"Absolutely, Ralph," I said. "With everything you've got." We smiled at each other. Knowing. Understanding. Gripping each other's hand in a pact of resolve.

 

It wasn't a lie; neither was it some cockeyed-optimistic statement of impossible hope. It was, rather, a statement that life is a precious gift, one that is worthy of the fight against any adversary, even the formidable foe of Cancer; not to win but to declare before the whole cosmos that this life, this one, precious life, was not going to be taken easily.

 

I joined my Ms. Conroy as she did her amazing Hospice Nurse teaching, adding a few pastoral notes when warranted and as necessary. I stepped back several times to marvel again at her skill and expertise and competence, her confidence which instills confidence in the uninitiated and inexperience, and her compassion which communicates genuine care and concern and comfort in knowing they are in good hands.

 

She really is badass at this, you know?

 

We may not yet have the credentials but we are, none the less, "End of Life Doulas".

 

We gathered again last evening, around 7-ish. Not knowing but knowing nonetheless. I brought my communion kit and oils. I went over to Ralph and told him that we were about to say "The Prayers" for him and that I would be anointing him. He was very weak and could hardly speak but he was able to croak out "Yes."

 

We had Eucharist - my first time presiding and receiving since the Second Sunday in Lent, which would have been March 8th. It was a perfect way to break the fast.

 

Then, having been spiritually fortified, I lead the family in what the BCP titles, "Ministrations at the Time of Death."

 

Ralph was anointed for death. Rita and Kristen asked for anointing and laying on of hands and prayers. COVID be damned. There are times when the human touch is absolutely the best medicine - the only medicine - for a heart that is breaking open with love and sorrow.

 

We all cried. Big, gasping sobs. It was good.

 

We left around 9:30. Rita called shortly after midnight. We got dressed and came back to the house to say our goodbyes and to keep Vigil until the Hospice nurse pronounced him legally dead and the Mortuary came to fetch his body.

 

There is a strange aura of peace in the room after a person has fought the good fight and slipped past the veil and stepped into Life Eternal. It's only strange because, as often as you've seen it, you are surprised by its presence.

 

That peace, that Shalom, is one of the manifestations of "the peace of God which passes all understanding." It is in the presence of death, however, that I understand the deeply layered meaning of Shalom.

 

In Palestine and Israel, "Shalom" is said as both a greeting and a farewell. The root of the Hebrew word Shalom is Shalam, meaning to be safe or complete. Related words are Shelem (to pay for) and Shulam (to be fully paid). It has many nuanced meanings: completeness, wholeness, health, peace, welfare, safety, soundness, tranquility, prosperity, perfectness, fullness, rest, harmony.

 

Shalom. It is now finished. Shalom. It is just begun.

 

Shalom, goodbye. Shalom, hello.

 

Harmony. Balance. Completeness. Fullness. Rest.

 

I will miss Ralph, but I will rest on the promise of the words in the Eucharistic prayer used in the Burial Office, " . . . for we know that life is changed, not ended. . . ".

 

Enter our new, ancient companion, Grief.

 

The next few days will be remembered mostly as a blur. That is probably for the best. Grief will usually arrive as an uninvited guest, unannounced but not a surprise. She will take several shapes and forms but she will be our companion for a long, long time, perhaps even walking us to our own graves, comforting us, and whispering to us that we will soon be returning to the ones we've loved and have gone on before.

 

Grief is proof of love, evidence of a reality that is no more, bearing the credentials of the importance and value of life.

 

I always welcome her when she comes. She is here now, sitting right beside me. I'm reporting to her the events of the past week even as I am telling them to you. She will sit and stay and then take her leave, arriving again when I don't necessarily want her but often, she will let me know of her presence as a wave rising in my heart, lapping at the shore of my soul.

 

And then, I will weep. And then, I will dry my tears, wipe my nose, pull up my socks, and get on with it. And then, life will go on with an ever-increasing awareness of just how precious life really is.

 

Grief will do that for you, if you let it.

 

Shalom, Ralph. Shalom, Chevarim (my friends).

 

To quote poet Henri-Frederic Amiel: "Life is short and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who make this earthly pilgrimage with us. So be swift to love and make haste to do kindness."

 

"O that today we would harken to his voice." (Hebrews 3:15)

 

Amen.

 

Elizabeth Kaeton

September 7, 2020