The Christmas Card List

(Chris Haws is a British-born psychologist and certified Grief Counselor, based in Washington, DC. He specializes in grief, loss, and bereavement recovery working with individual clients – both face to face and virtually. He also advises multinational corporations, grief support organizations, and bereavement affinity groups locally and internationally. His work has appeared in print, radio, and TV in the UK, the US, Australia and Europe.)

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The consultant oncologist swung his computer screen round so I could see the image on it.

“This is your mother’s whole body scan. And these black dots …” he said, indicating with his gold pen, “are the metastases. The additional places where the original lung cancer has taken hold.”

It looked to me like the ghostly, skeletal image had been machine-gunned. The black dots were everywhere.

“That doesn’t look good. What does it mean,” I asked, suspecting that I already knew the answer.

“It means, I’m very sorry to say, that your mother is very ill indeed. I don’t think she’ll last much more than a few weeks.” He gently closed her file.

“Her birthday is just under a month away, will she make that?”

He pursed his lips and frowned. “I’d be very surprised. But, be assured, we can keep her comfortable and pain free until her time comes.” He looked up from his notes. “And she’s still at home in her own bed, I see?” I nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll arrange for specialist nurses to come and look after her final days.”

Back home, I broke the news that I was sure my mother knew was coming.

“Only a few weeks?” she asked, quietly, her eyes welling with tears.

“I’m afraid so,” I replied. “But we’ll make you as comfortable as possible, and the doctor has said that you can have anything you want.”

“Good. I’ll have a cigarette and a stiff whisky right now, please. And then get me the Christmas Card List out of the bureau drawer.”

It was never a good idea to countermand my mother’s instructions, so minutes later, as she sipped her whisky and drew on her cigarette, she began thumbing through the creased and crinkled Christmas Card List, containing the names and addresses of every friend and relative who were routinely remembered at least once a year.

I was curious ­– “What are you up to? Why do you need the Christmas Card List?”

“Well,” she replied, waving the list in front of me, “I’ll want to say goodbye to some of these people in person. The special people. And then you can let all the others know when I’m gone. Using the list will ensure that I don’t miss anyone important. Can you organize that?”

“Of course,” I replied, impressed at her ingenuity. “I think it would make sense to start with those furthest away and end with those who live nearby.”

“Sounds good,” she nodded, passing me her now-empty tumbler. “More whisky, please.”

The next 10 days were extraordinary. Relatives and friends arrived from up and down the length of England, according to my precisely crafted timetable. Each was firmly told to avoid using phrases like “Get well soon,” or, “See you when you’re better.” These were to be “goodbyes,” not “au revoirs, and everyone needed to accept that reality. Without exception, they all did.

There were many tears before, during, and after these final appointments with my mother. Some were hers, but most were her visitors’. I suppose most of them had never been in such a situation.

As the last few local friends were leaving, I arranged for my mother’s accountant and lawyer to drop in. By now, she was exhausted, not only by the deadly progress of her disease, but also by the emotional drain of the loved ones’ visits. Fortunately, she had always kept her affairs in good order, so all that was required of her old friends was that they could confirm that she had nothing to worry about – everything was fine. Despite all their professionalism, they too needed a couple of Kleenex as they left.

It was a Friday afternoon.

“Are we done?” she asked. “Have I seen everyone?”

“You have indeed,” I replied. “You can relax now.”

She nodded wearily. “But you and Derry (my wife) and Joyce (her lifelong friend of 60 years) will be staying, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

I thought it best not to tell her about my embarrassing visit to the local funeral director earlier that day. The procedures surrounding death and dying in the UK were unfamiliar to me, and I wanted to do it all properly. So I swung by the funeral director’s offices to make the necessary arrangements.

“I’d like to arrange a funeral please,” I said to the somberly dressed young lady behind the desk.

“Of course,” she replied, reaching for her notepad. “Who is it for?”

“My mother.”

“I’m so sorry. And where is mother’s body right now?”

“Oh, she’s not dead yet,” I explained. “But she will be soon.”

The young lady looked a little taken aback.  “Not dead?”

“No, not yet. But she will be very soon.”

That did not seem to reassure the funeral director. “Well, I’m afraid that I can’t begin to arrange a funeral without a body.”

Clearly, I had misunderstood the way these things work. So I made my apologies and headed for the door.

“Call us when, er, you know, er, your mother …” Her voice trailed away as I stepped back out onto the street.

In retrospect, I think my mother would have seen the darkly humorous side of my encounter with the funeral director, but at the time, I thought it best not to say anything.

Meanwhile, the expert hospice nurses were teaching us about “active” dying. They explained that my mother might approach death and then draw back several times, like a fearful kid on a high diving board.

And they were right. Twice over the next couple of days, they called me to my mother’s bedside with the suspicion that this might be “it”. But both times she rallied and briefly regained consciousness, able to see that I, Derry, and Joyce were all there for her. That seemed to reassure her.

Then, as dawn was breaking on the Monday morning, the nurse called us in again. “This may be the one,” she said quietly.

We sat around my mother on her bed and I took her hand. Her breathing was raw and shallow, her eyes closed. Nobody said anything.

After a few minutes, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Her expression was more alert than it had been for most of the previous days. She seemed questioning, curious, almost surprised by whatever it was she could see. And that was when she took her last breath. I held her gaze until the light in her eyes dimmed and finally went out. I wish I could know what she saw.

Minutes later, after the mandatory British cup of hot sweet tea, I called the funeral director.

“I have a body now,” I said.

Later that morning, as the funeral director’s staff gently removed my mother’s body from her much-loved home for the last time, Derry quietly said:

“This may seem strange, but I think Mum would agree that, all things considered, hers was a Good Death.”

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Final Exit Network (FEN) is a network of dedicated professionals and caring, trained volunteers who support mentally competent adults as they navigate their end-of-life journey. Established in 2004, FEN seeks to educate qualified individuals in practical, peaceful ways to end their lives, offer a compassionate bedside presence and defend a person’s right to choose. For more information, go to www.finalexitnetwork.org.

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