Ron moved to Tyler from California in 2006. There was a story there, but no one knew any more than the little snippets Ron shared: As a truck driver, he had often passed through Tyler in his big rig. Tyler was pretty and looked to Ron like a good place to call home once he got off the road.
Ron bought a mobile home and settled in with his beloved dog who had been his only family for many years. He started attending the activities at the Tyler Senior Center, a program run by the City of Tyler, especially enjoying the camaraderie around the pool tables and the Friday night dances. As time went on, Ron began coming to the Center every day and then arriving earlier and earlier each day, taking on small helpful tasks, making the coffee, taking out the trash. “We just got used to having him here,” said Kay Odom, the Center’s Supervisor. “Ron was a big kidder and so much fun to be around. He became a part of our lives.”
The Center’s staff noticed that Ron always brought a bologna sandwich for his lunch, the same sandwich every single day, and he never joined in the hot noon meal provided at the Center by Meals on Wheels. By this time, the staff knew Ron to be a proud man. Maybe he thought it was a ‘free lunch’, something he would never ask for. Maybe he thought the lunch carried a price tag he couldn’t afford. No one knew how to broach the subject. “I finally just blurted it out,” said Kay. “Ron, if we could fix it so that you could get a hot meal at lunch, would you like that?” she asked, but she was unprepared for his response.
After a long pause, Ron replied humbly.
“Well, I guess I qualify.”
“I have a Purple Heart.”
“Do you need to see it?”
Ron was diagnosed with cancer at the Veterans Administration hospital in Dallas in 2011, and it was his friends from the Center who drove him back and forth for visits and then treatments. He had surgery in the fall of 2012 at the VA, but just never bounced back and most of the time he was alone.
When the physicians at the VA mentioned hospice care, Ron’s friends at the Tyler Senior Center had the same idea at about the same time: “We need to bring Ron home”. A phone call to Hospice of East Texas set the wheels in motion. “I’ll never forget the nurse saying to me, ‘we can do this!’” said Kay. It took a while for all the paperwork and forms and red tape to be cleared. There were many people in Tyler who loved Ron but no one was legally his family, and it was complicated. But on a Sunday afternoon in early December, an ambulance brought Ron “home”, to HomePlace, Hospice of East Texas’ inpatient facility.
“I never thought anyone could do this for me,” Ron said over and over. Dr. Tom Beets assured Ron and all his friends that HomePlace was their home now, and that they should treat it as such. For the next three weeks, Ron’s adopted family surrounded him with their caring presence. They were at his bedside literally around the clock, decorating his room with poinsettias and a little Christmas tree, joking with him, sitting quietly sometimes, just ‘being there’ the way a family should be.
“It was a gift”, said Kay Odom, “the gift of a wonderful ending. For Ron to end his journey this way, surrounded by his Tyler ‘family’, in a beautiful place with incredibly caring people was a priceless gift.” After his death, there was talk of a memorial service, but Ron’s friends knew what he would have wanted. “He had already had his send-off,” Kay said, “and Hospice of East Texas gave it to him. For the last few weeks of his life, Ron received hugs and cards and gifts and conversations from all the people who had grown to love him. He was so happy, and he said over and over “I’ll never be able to thank you enough’.”
No one knew much about the beginning of Ron’s life, or even the middle of it. But those who had come to know and love him knew about its ending. That wonderful ending was a gift, a gift to a proud man who had served his country valiantly. Hospice of East Texas brought Ron home to celebrate his life.
The look in her eyes said it all… This is serious. This is the beginning of a hard journey. I am so sorry that you are going to be introduced to the heartache and pain that is ahead. I need you so much. I love you so much. Her eyes said it all… the eyes of my wife. She had found a lump in her breast and years of experience and her God-given intuition said that this was no ordinary situation. She had been a registered nurse for over thirty years and a good one. She had taken care of countless numbers of people. She had given freely of her knowledge, skill, insight, and compassion to patients all over East Texas. She had travelled the world on mission trips just to nurse people to health and share her heart. She was a born caregiver who was about to discover the art of receiving care. As my wife had worked to minister to the physical needs of patients, I had spent my life ministering to their spiritual and emotional needs. I had spent those same thirty years as a pastor in and around the area. I knew what it was like to sit for hours with people in the hospital waiting room. I knew what it was like to be called out in the middle of the night to hold the hand of someone who was grieving. I knew what it was like to give care to folks with broken hearts. Now it was to be my turn to discover the art of receiving care as well.
For a year we walked together through the mine field of emotion that cancer laid before us. Surgeries, hospitalizations, infections, lab work, tubes and drains, chemo, radiation and so many days trying to make some solid sense of it all, that was life. The best way to describe that period was a constant and futile effort to nail "Jello" to the wall. Family and friends from all over converged on us to offer their love and support and come to our aid. It was an overwhelming and humbling experience. At first we tried to resist. We were "care givers" not receivers. However, gradually we began to realize that life had changed. The season to give had been embraced and enjoyed. Now it was the season to receive. It was time to allow others to be a blessing to us. It was time to let other people with hearts of love and compassion to reach out and minister to us just as we had done for so many years. It was a point in our lives when we would learn the value of opening our hearts to allow the love of others to flow in. As that love flowed we found healing and comfort and peace and strength.
The last few months the disease process began to speed up, and we made the transition to hospice care. We had both served for years as volunteers for the Hospice of East Texas. It was our turn once again to be on the receiving end of care that we were accustomed to giving.
Our nurses shared their love and compassion and skill and insight with my wife and family. The chaplains opened their hearts. The rest of the staff gave us smiles and hugs and encouragement at every turn. Early one Sunday morning my wife smiled her last smile here on this earth. She left behind two wonderful children, a loving mother and brothers and sisters who are very special. And she left a man who was blessed to call her sweetheart. We had learned many lessons in life and about life over the years. Of all the lessons we learned, one of the more poignant was the value and importance of accepting our Season to Receive.
Keith Williams was, above all, a man of strong faith. Born and raised in the church, he drew sustenance from its teachings and found in Scripture the model for the way he wanted to live his life. He rarely missed an opportunity to worship, taking great joy in sharing his faith through his musical gifts on the guitar and drums.
A hard worker, model son, devoted husband and father to two young children, at 28 Keith had a life of plans and dreams ahead of him. His diagnosis of terminal cancer stunned all who loved him, but Keith's faith did not waiver. A Bible verse from Thessalonians became his banner: "In everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." It was Keith's certainty that his illness had a reason, and that he was to be an example for others.
When Keith was admitted to HomePlace in May of 2010, it seemed he would not be able to attend the annual family reunion at Lake of the Pines, a time when family gathered from near and far. Keith's cousin, Crystal Rossi, sent word to their family, friends and church family. They would gather at HomePlace on a Friday evening for the music and worship they always shared together so that Keith could join them.
Almost 100 people spread across the back lawn that warm spring day. A keyboard, drums, guitar and an ensemble of singers led the way. With the windows and patio door opened to his room, Keith could hear the music and the voices of those he loved rising in praise and thanksgiving, and he was able to join them for a while and to lift his hands in joy.
HomePlace was a gift to the Williams family, a soft place to land and to gather their strength for the rest of the journey. After a week or so, Keith was able to go home with his wife, Sheree, and their children, Penelope and Sawyer, and with the help of Hospice Home Care, he spent his last days in the home he had built with his own hands when he and Sheree were engaged. "When I think of Hospice, I think of angels," said Sheree. "If Hospice weren't there, people would have to do this all by themselves, and they wouldn't know what to do. They were with us every step of the way."
Keith never missed a church service. First on a walker, then in a wheelchair, he was always there, until the very last week, when he worshipped on the Sabbath, celebrated Father's Day, and died the next Thursday. "He was very strong," said Sheree, "and he lived until he died."
Though Keith was the musical one in the family, Sheree had been working on a song of her own for more than a year, before Keith was even ill. It was to have been a gift for the first Father's Day after Penelope was born, but it took another year, a year of struggle and sadness, for the words to come together. In celebration of the way Keith had taught their little children to pray, Sheree's own song of love and family and faith ends with these words she sang to Keith just four days before he died.
No matter what we face down life's road
Even though the trials may seem too strong
We just have to go back to those little moments
Where we showed them through our faith that
Prayer. . just. . . can't. . . go wrong
So Daddy will you pray. . . and we'll pray with you
Thank God for our every moment that he's brought us through
He'll hold us in His arms each and every day
He knows our every heartache 'cause he's not too far away
And every night we'll all gather just the same
And together we'll call upon His name
And ask Him to help us every day
Amen. 'Cause that's what Daddy prayed
It was Lynne's idea, the party. Months into her diagnosis of lung cancer, post radiation, she knew she wasn't going to get well. Never one to miss a celebration, Lynne certainly didn't want to miss the party that she knew would happen after her funeral. She decided to have her own "going away party" while she could be there to see and thank everyone she loved.
When her friends and family received the invitation, Lynne began receiving phone calls.
"People would call and ask, 'where are you going?'" said Lynne, "and I'd say,'I'm going to heaven to hang out with Big Jim and Jesus!'"
Big Jim, Lynne's husband of 47 years, died 12 years ago. Their first date was on the night they graduated from 8th grade, and instead of joining their classmates on the senior trip four years later, they ran away to get married.
Blessed with three children, today there are 5 grandchildren and 9 great-grandchildren under the age of nine."That gives you a little celebration stuff right there," said Lynne, "to have the '9 under 9' all together!"
It was a grand party, all purple (her favorite color), balloons and butterflies,something she'd always loved, and it lasted most all the day, a big dessert spread, with lots of friends and family, many of whom journeyed long distances to share in the celebration.
The party was just what Lynne wanted, and the mood was festive and joyful. "When they heard of my diagnosis, people would say, 'I'm so sorry,' and my response was, 'Don't be sorry—this is the highlight of my life. Going to heaven is what I've been waiting my whole life for!'"
Lynne became a patient of Hospice of East Texas in July of 2010, and found that her view of life and approach to death perfectly mirrored the hospice philosophy of living each day to the fullest and viewing death as a natural part of life.
Determined to make each day count, Lynne set about creating memories for her family. She sold her home so that she could have the money to do some things that were important to her. "I won't be here to go to my granddaughters' weddings, so I put aside some money for each of them to buy their wedding dresses. On the day they get married, their 'Nanny Goose' will be there with them," she said. She also created education funds for her grandsons to give them encouragement and a head start on their future.
I've loved being who I am these last few months," Lynne added."I'm trying to get as much of me as I can on paper, saying who I am and what I'm doing and why. I think it matters. It matters to me now and it will matter to my family later on."
Even when she was admitted to HomePlace, Lynne's bright spirit shined through.
There's so much to enjoy here!" she exclaimed one fall afternoon as she shared her story. "Anyone who's afraid of dying is a fool. We're all going to die! It's coming your way—don't be afraid of it. Life is great! New things just keep happening to me, even now. I'm meeting new people, making new friends. I'm reading the most interesting book, and Beverly, the volunteer, is coming by later, and we're going to watch a movie together."
Quick to praise and always expressing her gratitude, Lynne was thrilled that we wanted to tell her story and capture something of her spirit for the Hospice newsletter. "I hope someone gets peace and joy from my story, because that's what life is all about, isn't it? Searching for peace and joy?"
Lillian Bishop passed away at Hospice HomePlace on December 29, 2010, with her family surrounding her.
For William Taylor, fishing has been a way of life. He spent much of his working life as a fishing guide, taking clients to the best spots on East Texas lakes, sharing his knowledge and assuring them of a good catch.
But fishing wasn’t just a way to make a living. Mr. Taylor just plain loved to fish and whether he was working at his job or on his own time, he was drawn to the water. A stringer full of fish was satisfying, of course, but it was more than that. The quiet time spent by an East Texas pond, surrounded by trees and warmed by the sun was a time a man could catch his breath, slow down his thoughts, enjoy the beauty and the quiet.
Since his admission to Trinity Rehabilitation and Care Center in San Augustine, Mr. Taylor has missed the water, and he has missed fishing. When he shared his thoughts with Anna Cooper, his social worker from Hospice of East Texas, that was all it took!
On a warm spring day, Mr. Taylor went fishing one more time. With him were Willard Birdwell, a Hospice volunteer, Brother Sonny Scarbrough, a local pastor, and Jessica Henderson, Hospice’s Director of Community Outreach for Deep East Texas. Brother Sonny had plenty of tackle and knew a friend with a stocked pond that was easily accessible for Mr. Taylor’s wheelchair. Jessica loaded up snacks and drinks, and Mr. Birdwell brought the worms.
It was a perfect afternoon, the lake shimmering in the sun, not too much conversation, a really good catch. Everyone in the group appreciated the special moments together and the joy on Mr. Taylor’s face as he reeled in fish after fish. When they returned to the Care Center, Mr. Taylor was very, very tired, but he was also very happy, and he had a question for the fishing crew from Hospice. “Why did you choose me?” he asked.
Why, Mr. Taylor? Because at Hospice we know that every day is a gift, a treasure not to be wasted but to be spent doing what brings meaning and joy. Because we knew that going fishing one more time mattered to you – and so it mattered to us at Hospice of East Texas. Because you are our patient, Mr. Taylor, and it is our honor and privilege to share these days with you, no matter their number, and to make them the best they can be.