He was a veteran days from dying
That’s all I knew when I began my volunteer vigil at his bedside. But no one should die alone.
He was 93 years old. A decorated World War II veteran, a Christian, he liked movies, and his health care agent was a friend. He was actively dying, which means he was showing physical signs indicating death was imminent, within 24 to 48 hours.
That is all I knew. That is all I was told.
It was June 2018 and I was a new hospice volunteer in Illinois, long before COVID-19 changed all the rules. This was my first opportunity to be a companion to a patient in his last hours. I walked into his darkened hospital room, lit by a single lamp, for the last shift of the overnight vigil. In a whispered conversation, the volunteer for the midnight to 4 a.m. shift shared how the elderly man was doing. He was comatose but had peaceful, regular breathing, and he made the occasional soft moan.
I greeted him and told him that I would be with him for the next few hours. It was the first of several oneway conversations with him.
Why was he alone?
Those hours were uneventful. I prayed aloud. I prayed silently. I asked him questions about his wartime experience. Was he drafted? Was he in Europe or the Pacific Theater? What was his job? I made sure I thanked him for his service. He didn’t answer of course, but still I asked.
I speculated about his family. A wife, perhaps, who died before him? Kids? Grandkids? Or a bachelor? Any siblings still alive? I was curious, but knowing any of that really didn’t matter. I was there for him. To be fully present, just for him.
At first I played calming music on my phone, but then changed it to music from the 1940s. We listened to the “Big Band Sounds” of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. Even the Andrews Sisters crooned to us, “I’ll be with you in apple blossom time.” I hoped it was familiar and comforting for him.
As 8 a.m. approached, I listened to his shallow, but strong, 24 breaths a minute. I said a prayer, wished him well and said goodbye. When I got to my car, I texted the volunteer coordinator. I suspected that another night of vigil would need to be set up.
There was no text message the next day or night to say that the veteran had died and that the vigil was canceled.
At 4 a.m., I arrived again to keep him company. It was an uneventful four hours. Still peaceful. I even stayed an extra hour to see whether there would be any change. Nothing. He had great stamina. He did not die until two days later.
There was no wake or funeral but a committal service at the Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery in Elwood. As I drove into the cemetery, there were a number of striped lanes for cars to line up for services, like a toll plaza on the highway. This afternoon, there was only one short line of vehicles: the hearse, three SUVs and my car.
At 2:30 p.m. sharp, we processed to an outdoor committal shelter. Five elderly Veterans of Foreign Wars members in uniform emerged from the first two SUVs and escorted the casket to the shelter. A young woman got out of the third sport utility vehicle. We introduced ourselves, and she said she had worked with the deceased man until just five years ago, when he began to experience health issues. She told me that periodically, she and her husband would pick him up and treat him to dinner and a movie.
Reuniting with his wife
We were the only guests at the service. The funeral director said a few words to honor his service to his country. An honor squad fired a rifle volley, then the notes of taps played. The flag on the casket was removed, folded and presented to the deceased veteran’s VFW friend and health care agent, who had been looking over his welfare for some years. After it was over, I was told that the man was an only child and had no children, and that his wife passed away over 15 years ago. She was already buried there.
Although safety precautions related to COVID-19 make it difficult, no one should die alone or die forgotten. Especially not a veteran, a gentleman who put his life at risk in service to our country and its values.
The process of dying, and after death occurs, is a special and sacred opportunity to review, respect and celebrate the value of an individual’s life. I think of that veteran, the very first patient I had the opportunity to sit with in his final days, and I’m thankful to him. I’m thankful we all had the chance to honor him as he so richly deserved — his friend, his fellow VFW brothers, his co-worker and her husband, the hospital staff who cared for him, and all the hospice volunteers who kept him company in his final days. Thank you, sir, for your service.
WANT TO COMMENT? Have Your Say at letters@usatoday.com, @usatodayopinion on Twitter and facebook.com/usatodayopinion. Comments are edited for length and clarity. Content submitted to USA TODAY may appear in print, digital or other forms. For letters, include name, address and phone number. Letters may be mailed to 7950 Jones Branch Drive, McLean, VA, 22108.