The Gift

Story of a Hospice Miracle

by Mary Maddux, Published in Energyworks

     “Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. The real miracle is the love which inspires them. In this sense everything that comes from love is a miracle.”   – A Course in Miracles

In hospice miracles seem almost commonplace — there are so many moments where estrangement turns to intimacy, misunderstandings are cleared, forgiveness descends and suddenly life is lived more appreciatively and peace is made with the mystery of death. Not always, but often. And my work with “Dan” was especially filled with such moments. One of my hospice teammates turned to me after Dan’s death and said, you’ve got to write about this. And, funnily enough, I saved the notes about my work with Dan, and I also saved on tape a very sweet, faint, celestial piece of music which is the basis for this story. The notes and the tape have been hidden away for sometime, forgotten, and then as life’s little miracles would have it, Ontario asked me if I had a story of a miracle to write. This story immediately popped to mind, and how delighted I have been to rediscover the notes and the tape, for I find myself nourished in the remembrance of a very special time.

Before meeting Dan, he was described as a kind of rough and tough, very conservative, man’s man. He had a gun collection and loved to talk baseball. I wondered how well we would be able to relate. He didn’t sound like he would readily accept any sort of counseling relationship. When I first went to meet him, he was very cordial, but for the first few weeks, seemed too busy to see much of me.

Then on one visit, the miracle began. This seemingly tough fellow was suddenly telling me about his second divorce, the painful events that surrounded it and his sense of having no idea what went wrong. The story poured out, and he suddenly looked at me and said “I don’t know why I’m saying all this” and I simply affirmed that oftentimes there’s lots that needs to be said, to be remembered, and forgiven. This time, Dan was eager to see me again the next week, remarking at the next visit that he didn’t know what it was, but somehow with me things came out that he normally wouldn’t talk about and with this came some sense of relief and comfort.

Over the weeks that followed, Dan reviewed his life — from the time growing up to the tragic loss of his brother to suicide — from the things that were painful to the things that brought him joy. And in this process, it seemed that more and more he was able to see things in a different light and most of all to forgive and accept. We shared laughter and we shared tears, and sometimes it felt as if I had known Dan forever… On one visit, we joked about having “the last dance” together, and this became the way we ended all of our visits, affirming that indeed, we would have the last dance.

In time, my work with Dan expanded to include a web of relationships. It was a most fascinating web. Dan was a very conservative, mainstream type of guy, and his brother, “Bob”, was a very liberal man living in Berkeley where they had been born. To illustrate how far apart their worlds were, Dan did not even want Berkeley mentioned in his obituary as he wouldn’t want to be associated with such a radical place! They had a history of heated arguments about politics and just about everything. Over the months, weekly visits from his brother, Bob, were helping to bring them closer, with the relationship of brother to brother becoming more important than their differences in face of the separation of death.

Dan and his son, “Daryl” were close, but they also had a large gap to bridge in that Daryl had become a Mormon, with a very different view of life. While very fond of each other, they weren’t always able to express themselves easily to each other. Dan had a daughter, “Peggy”, from whom he was completely estranged as she never forgave him for the divorce from her mother. Nevertheless, in his illness, a caregiver came into his life who cared for him with the devotion of a daughter. Interestingly enough, her name was also “Peggy”. While Dan clearly had a lot of “unfinished business” when I met him, he and those who rallied around him seemed remarkably ready to tie up loose ends. . It became clear that Dan was blessed with many opportunities for growth and reconciliation, and in the course of our work, I was awed at what he was able to accomplish. I felt privileged to bear witness to the many expressions of grace that ensued.

As time went on, I felt a very strong current of guidance flowing through our work together, and Dan’s final days seemed to be choreographed by some divine hand. There were more instances of grace than I could name, but the most memorable for me took place in the last two weeks of Dan’s life. On one visit, as I sat with Dan, his brother, Bob, and sister-in-law, “Marie”, I got the strong sense that there may not be many more opportunities for them to be together, and also felt there was more they could accomplish with each other. With Dan’s particular kind of illness, it was very hard to know when death might come. He could have had months, and he could have had just days. I was prompted to offer them all a piece of homework. I asked them to think about what they had not yet done or said to each other that they would wish they had if Dan died. I asked them to imagine that they only had a couple more times together, and suggested that we all meet the next week, and I would hold a space for them to share whatever they still needed to share.

They all eagerly accepted the homework, and we met the next week. At that meeting, all three had something very important to discuss, each needing some sense of resolution and forgiveness. All was brought out into the open as we all sat in tears as past hurts were forgiven with everyone feeling united in love and understanding. Each person felt that there was nothing remaining to express. I could sense that this life was almost complete, and Dan seemed to feel that but wished for one more visit from his son who lived at a distance. He was reluctant to ask his son to leave his work to come, especially not knowing how long he had to live. Again, I felt strongly prompted to act, and offered to call his son. I urged his son to come, emphasizing that we simply didn’t know how long was left. His son did come, and I spoke with him later learning that the time they shared was crucial.

Soon thereafter, I learned that Dan was rapidly declining. I was scheduled for a visit, and was warned that he was in and out of consciousness, and may not respond. When I saw Dan, he lay with his eyes closed, barely responding. I held his hand, reviewed for him what he had accomplished, and he acknowledged my words with a nod. There was little to say, and I knew it was our final visit. Before leaving, I said, “well, it looks like this is our last dance”. Dan nodded. “Can you hear the music?”, I asked. Dan smiled, “yes, I think I can.” With that I said goodbye, leaving him in Peggy’s capable hands.

When I came to our hospice team meeting two days later, I learned that Dan had died the night before with Peggy by his side. In hospice, a nurse always visits to help after a patient’s death. The nurse, “Jill”, who went out that night told us about Dan’s death, and her visit with Peggy, Bob and Marie. They honored Dan and prayed together. Jill mentioned that she had left a long message for me after the visit on my voicemail, but that now of course I could ignore it. I had already listened to my voicemail messages and was puzzled why I hadn’t heard it. I had forgotten about an unusual message I’d received, which was just a fragment of music. I thought someone on the team was fooling around and left us all a bit of music and dismissed it.

After the meeting, I listened to the messages again, and there was no message from Jill about Dan’s death. The musical message, however, was left at exactly the time Jill would have left her message. It was a short fragment of a sweet, heart-touching melody. As I heard it again, it went straight to my heart, and felt like a gift from Dan or his angels who were celebrating his transition. It brought me a great wave of happiness.

Although someone might be able to find a “scientific explanation” of the appearance of the music in place of Jill’s message, to me it was a miracle. This was one voicemail I didn’t erase, but listened to every time I checked my messages. When I finally left the hospice, I recorded it on my tape player so I could keep it. I got it out and played it again when I began to write this story. It wasn’t until I remembered my last conversation with about the last dance when I asked if he could hear the music that I made the connection — perhaps Dan was sharing the music of the last dance with me — and that music is very, very sweet!

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