Four weeks before my daughter died, she called us into her room. One by one, she proclaimed her love for each of us, and thanked us for being the best family a girl could ever have. She told us not to worry, that she was going to be all right, and that one day, we would all be together again. On Memorial Day, she died in her mother’s arms, with all of us at her side.

We decided to bring Jody home to die for several reasons. First of all, the medical profession was offering no more realistic hope. Secondly, Jody was young enough and small enough to be easily held, carried, cared for by us. Thirdly, nothing violent or terrifying happened to make us seriously debate whether to go back in the hospital with him.

I saw many life values in a new way from the experience of Jody dying at home. What comes to my mind is a sunny, breezy afternoon, September 13. Only Jody and I were home. I held him outside under the plum tree for perhaps an hour and a half or longer. I couldn’t support him well and read to him at the same time, so we didn’t do anything. I spoke to him some, but mostly just held him quietly. I was aware as I looked up into the sky that my normal reaction on such a day would be to want to be hiking, biking, “doing” something. A surprise recognition burst and spread gently through my consciousness: I was exactly where I wanted to be and no doing of anything could mean as much as being there with Jody.

Jody’s last day, September 16, was peaceful. A spiritual healer, whom Jody had known for 2 years, came and spent time with him. A massage therapist/healer/friend, who had visited him several times during the 5 weeks he was home, gave him a long, gentle massage. My husband Tom stayed home from teaching that day (by chance?). Jody lay in his arms or on my lap most of the day. The visiting home nurse came by briefly, offered to stay, but we preferred to be alone. I was holding Jody; Tom was next to me holding his feet. His breathing became labored and irregular. His eyes were unblinking long before he took his last breath, then a heartbeat, then another, then silence.