My partner Andy's mother passed away six months ago today. What follows is a collection of diary entries I wrote before and after her death, a recounting of her final weeks. You'll see I wrote more about her final morning in the days after her death. I pray this information helps you in some way.
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I need to document what I’m seeing, hearing, and experiencing these past few days in North Carolina, because I know I’ll be thinking back to this time for the rest of my life.
Today is Monday, January 17, 2022, and it’s 10:16 AM right now. I was just here in North Carolina from December 17th through January 1st, but on Sunday, January 9th, only a week after I got home, Andy told me his mom was starting to go downhill—labored breathing, barely eating, sleeping more. “Okay,” I wrote him on our text. “Keep me posted. I can drive back down this week or next if needed.”
An hour or so later, Andy wrote me again to say the nurse had come by to take Lynette’s vitals and see how she was doing. Though the numbers were good, the nurse heard congestion in Lynette’s lungs, and told Andy and his dad that they should tell Andy’s brother Chris he should think about coming down (“and I guess you as well”, Andy told me). I began to mentally prepare myself for another 11-hour drive and set about preparing our house as well. I cleaned up, put Christmas decorations away, and slowly began preparing my things and myself for the imminent trip once Andy gave me the go-ahead.
Later that night, Andy told me the nurse had silently pointed to a certain section in the hospice book that detailed when death was near. “She thinks it’s one to two weeks or days away,” Andy told me. [The nurse was right. It was two weeks and less than one day later that she died.]
“I feel so oddly in between worlds right now,” I wrote to Andy on Monday the 10th, “because I was just with you, now home, soon going back.”
“It is strange,” Andy replied. “It feels like you were here a month ago, but it’s only been nine days.”
On Tuesday, January 11th, a priest came to administer Anointing of the Sick, formerly called Last Rites. Andy’s Aunt Lydia and her sister Zeny suggested we do this, and while neither Andy nor his parents are religious, Andy and his dad wanted to do what they felt was right, so they made the appointment for the priest to come. That night, Andy texted me, “I’m thinking you should come. I was scared to death about 10 minutes ago. Her breathing got very slow. Still breathing slow, so still a little scared.” I told him I could drive down in the morning (Wednesday) if necessary, but needed to get some sleep either way, as it was already close to midnight. We ultimately decided that Thursday would be fine, so that’s what I did. I got here to his parents’ house around 4:45 PM on Thursday, January 13th.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve witnessed firsthand how concerned Andy and his dad are for Lynette’s health. Though I don’t believe either one of them are in denial about her imminent fate, they also don’t want to lose her to a choking incident, nor lose her even one minute sooner than they must. They are taking very, very good care of her, and Andy has now taken to sleeping in their bedroom too, so he can wake up and help her in the middle of the night if she has a coughing incident. There’s a kind of vigil we are all keeping with her as she goes through this final stage of her disease. We talk to her, we rub her arm or shoulder very gently, we kiss her, we hold her hand.
In a previous conversation with Lynette when she was more alert (though she can still hear us well even when her eyes aren’t opened or focused), I told her that no one knew exactly what her timing was, that they weren’t keeping information from her. I wanted to make sure she knew this, because in the past, early in her illness, long before she got so sick, she seemed suspicious at times. I also told her that there would be no good time for her to pass, that it was simply going to happen when it did, and she shouldn’t hold on longer just to satisfy someone else. Even writing this and even as I said it to her though, I knew she would remain in control of this situation as much as possible. I also made sure she knew that we wanted her to be with us as long as she could.
10 Days Before…
On Friday, January 14th, the day after I arrived here, I had the talk with her I knew I must have, the one I planned to have with her for quite a while. I told her she had a very near future ahead of her filled with walking, and running, and talking, and joyful reunions with loved ones who have gone before her. I told her that all my family and all our friends are praying for her, and that our prayer is that she have a peaceful transition when the time comes, which, I added, I believed she would. I told her how I reached out in prayer to my deceased family members as well, and asked them to bless her with an easy journey. She smiled as I told her these things, even though smiles are hard to get from her anymore.
9 Days Before…
On Saturday the 15th, she stayed in bed all day. That night, when we had another moment alone, I told her how grateful I was to her for the gift of Andy, and said he’s made me so happy. I told her we just celebrated our 20th anniversary on December 1st. “He came to my door that day 20 years ago with a bouquet of roses, and he had a heart-shaped box of chocolate for me as well in the car. I just knew right from the start that I loved him, and I have you to thank for bringing him into the world.”
We thought she might die that night, such was her silence and slow breathing, and yet she continued to take small spoonfuls of food (a blended mix of Ensure and/or food at the right consistency to swallow as easily as possible through her constricted throat). Molly and Buck got back from their trip to Jamaica that night, and they stopped by the house to see her on their way home. We had told them time might be running out, and since a winter storm of ice and snow was due to hit on Sunday, we felt they should stop by just in case. By some time after midnight, I went to bed, and as has become my custom, I reminded Andy to wake me up anytime, even if he just wanted to talk.
8 Days Before…
Yesterday, on Sunday, she stayed in bed again all day as the uncertain vigil continued. We don’t know if her energy will come back enough now or if this is it, but the nurse is due to come again on Tuesday, as well as an aid, I believe, to give her a bed bath.
That night, when Andy’s brother Chris called, and Lorelei came on the video call too, Lynette’s attention was rapt. Though her eyes were closed much more often this weekend, she was as alert as can be when Chris and Lorelei were on the screen. It was honestly beautiful to witness her ability to snap herself out of the haze long enough to appreciate their faces and voices on the screen.
7 Days Before…
At breakfast earlier, just after I wrote the previous paragraph, Andy called his dad in to come to the bedroom. Everard put down his tea and ran back there. As I didn’t hear any coughing, I knew there wasn’t an incident in progress, but I followed inside as well, just in case, a moment later. There I saw Andy and his dad leaning in close, where even from the bedroom door in the hallway, I could hear what they heard: the rattle. We’ve heard it before, signs of pneumonia or congestion or imminent death or all of these, but not since Friday or Saturday. She was alert though, so we just waited, and gave her food when she could have some, and medicine—morphine as prescribed when she seems to need it.
Before he left the table, Everard and I were discussing the funeral plans. He visited the funeral home the other day to start reviewing options and to set a plan in place. Over 50 years together as a couple, months shy of 50 years married, Everard remarked he still couldn’t believe he had to do this. Lynette has been ill with this progressive disease for 8-10 years now, but no matter how near we see the end approaching, it’s still surreal to witness as it all plays out. She didn’t smoke or drink or do drugs. Neither did she do something dangerous or immoral or foolish to make this happen. She did not deserve this. It just happened. Life just happens, and disease, and heartache, and death.
On Monday night, just as I thought we’d be having dinner, Andy’s dad came into his bedroom where Andy and I were sitting next to Lynette, and he said, “Let’s get her up into the chair.” We were both surprised, as she hadn’t been in the wheelchair since Friday. I wonder if Lynette was surprised too. They got her into the chair and she was alert and okay, which made me happy to see. Lynette was alert and even smiling a little at the funny animal videos we watched together on YouTube as we ate our dinner.
In other news, Everard spoke to Andy’s Aunt Molly on the phone yesterday and asked her what she wanted for her sister’s funeral. She deferred to him, Andy, and Chris, and said they should do whatever they want. It seems as if he’s opting for a one-day wake and a service the next day here in North Carolina. Since she’s being cremated anyway, he’ll use a basic cardboard-style box of some sort, which I’m guessing is the standard for this kind of thing when a fancier coffin is not necessary. Andy and I think she should just be cremated, but he seems to want to do this, so that’s where it stands. He says it’ll be about $10,000 in all, which sounds about right, and he seems to be okay with that. Of course he’ll have to pay for internment in New York eventually too, which I believe will be in the same cemetery as Lynette’s brother Afai.
Before I fell asleep on the Wednesday before my drive down here, Andy gave me a last-minute request for a pair of dress pants, a dress shirt, socks, belt, and shoes. “I hate to think like this,” he said, “but I should probably have it ready.” I was literally in bed under the covers already when he told me this, so I had to scramble to collect it all and make sure it was ready for me to put into the car in the morning. Unfortunately, I did not think it all out because of the timing. If I was thinking clearly, I would have collected dress clothes for myself as well. I have a pair of khakis and a dark blue sweater, but I’m going to be looking far more casual than I’d prefer. I told Andy this last night, and he said not to worry. I think I may take a drive today though to buy a black dress shirt and tie at least. I’ll have to see what department stores are nearby, but I don’t think it will be hard to do.
5 Days Before…
Today is Wednesday, January 19th, and I want to share three quick sights-and-sounds stories with you to further document my time here.
1) Chris called last night, as he does each day now, and I was once again amazed and delighted to see Lynette’s eyes open more than usual as she absorbed every word from her son (and briefly her daughter-in-law and granddaughter) on the screen. I just knew she was looking at them with the eyes and attention of someone who knows this could be her last time seeing them, and it inspired me to do my best to treasure each moment with others as well. We know not the day nor the hour.
2) A little while later, she had one of her coughing incidents, where she has trouble swallowing the food they’ve spooned into her mouth. They have this loud machine, a mouth vacuum, that they stick into her mouth to suck up as much food and moisture as they can right away whenever this happens. It’s a terribly loud device that’s jarring to hear, and yet it’s very effective each time too. You just feel as if without it, she would have died each time from choking.
3) I woke up early this morning and looked at my phone. 4:09 AM. As I lay in bed, I became aware of a high-pitched noise unlike anything I’ve heard before, at least in recent years. It wasn’t in my ears the way some high-pitched noises are. It was outside of me somewhere, but neither, I sensed, was it from the physical realm. I felt as if it was a tone I was allowed to hear that told me angels were visiting Lynette, and I wondered if this was her time. I got up to use the bathroom, and still heard the noise when I got back into bed, only it soon turned to a visual—again not through my eyes, but more of a vision. It looked like the Aurora Borealis, only there was no color, as if showing me a cloud of visitors surrounding the house. I don’t think I’ll mention this to anyone, but I wanted to document it here. I feel as if they told Lynette her time is growing near, and I am hopeful it will be fast and peaceful for her.
Though I don’t know if the above I wrote is true, that angels did indeed visit or if it was only my imagination, when I went in to wish her a good morning soon after writing the above, she was smiling more than I’ve seen her smile recently before, so I decided to tell her some version of what I experienced. “I had a kind of vision of angels watching over you, Lynette, and I have a feeling that they’re blessing you and assuring you of peace to come soon,” I said to her, or something to that effect. I once again didn’t mention death. As I said this however, she smiled even more, so I do pray that whether or not she experienced a similar vision last night, that she believes me and my words, and finds some hope and peace in my sharing those words with her this morning.
Everard has to go to the funeral parlor again today to finalize plans for Lynette. This morning at breakfast, he told me how they had plans for travel to different places right after they retired, but then this happened to Lynette. He said it reminds him of the song he heard as a boy, “Enjoy Yourself”, which includes the lyrics, “Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think”. I later found the song as performed by Doris Day, and will play it for him when it’s appropriate/not near Lynette, in case the lyrics would make her sad.
When Chris called, once again with Meredith and Lorelei, Lynette’s attention was fixed, but began to wane near the end. Before I went to sleep, Andy texted me (our way of communicating privately around others), “I’m worried about her again.” I replied, “She’s getting close”. He came into my guest room to say good night a little while later, and said he’d be sleeping in his parents’ bedroom again. I told him to wake me up anytime in the middle of the night.
4 Days Before…
It’s Thursday morning, January 20th as I begin writing this. When I wake up each morning, I listen for Lynette’s oxygen machine. It gives off a low hum I can hear through the walls, since it’s inside their private bathroom which borders my guest room across the hall. Hearing it when I wake up around 7:30 means she didn’t die in her sleep. While Everard might not wake me, I have a feeling I’d hear him and Andy up anyway, and do want Andy to wake me should they realize she has passed, since they check on her throughout the night.
I had another moment alone with Lynette today, and I told her that there was pure joy on the other side of all this. When I saw my dad appear to me on the train, I reminded her, he was smiling and happy. Everything’s going to be okay.
At breakfast with Everard, I told him that though it may not be within his comfort zone, there are so many widows groups out there he could join. “I know it might not be your thing,” I said, “but I’m sure it helps to be in a room filled with other people who know exactly what you’re going through.”
1 Day Before…
On Sunday afternoon, January 23rd, I drove to Kohl’s and bought a dress shirt for the wake and funeral.
1 Day After…
There are other details to fill in, moments to recall, and conversations worth documenting between Friday and Monday, but for now, for just this moment, I have to share one ultimate fact. Andy’s mother, Lynette Charles, died yesterday, on Monday, January 24, 2022, a minute or two after 9 AM.
The obituary I wrote on Tuesday the 25th:
Lynette Chong Charles, 77, of Kernersville passed away peacefully at home surrounded by family on January 24th after a decade-long struggle with Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. She leaves behind her husband of almost 50 years, Everard Charles, her two sons, Christopher (Meredith) Charles and Andy (Sean) Charles, her granddaughter Lorelei Charles, her sister Molly Chong (Buck) Eng, sisters-in-law Lydia Chong, Brenda Santiago, and Heather Fitzpatrick, and so many other loving family members and friends in China, Trinidad, England, Canada, New York, North Carolina, and elsewhere around the world.
Born in the city of Zhongshan in 1944, Lynette fled Communist China with her grandmother in 1956 to resettle in Trinidad and Tobago with her immediate family. She married Everard in 1972 and later gave birth to Christopher and Andy. The family then immigrated to the United States in 1984. She is predeceased by her parents and her older brother Afai Chong.
Lynette was an amazing wife, mother, grandmother, sister, cousin, and friend to so many who now mourn her passing. Though her condition debilitated her in recent years, the family remembers happier times filled with joy, hard work, dedication to her family, and unflinching generosity for others. Even in illness, however, she faced the storms of PSP with incredible courage, tremendous strength, and inspiring grace.
The greatest achievement of her lifetime, her sons and granddaughter, are a living tribute to the magnificent woman she was and always will be.
2 Days After…
Wednesday, January 26th. There are many emotions floating around the household here this week. Sadness, of course, but also misplaced anger, real anger, numbness, denial, fear, shock, relief, and guilt. Because Andy and his dad were doing so much work for so long to care for Lynette, there is a valley filled with free time all of a sudden that the two of them don’t yet feel comfortable inhabiting. This is, every bit of it, 100% normal, and I share none of these words with judgment of any kind. When others ask me how they’re doing, I say some version of the phrase, “relatively good under the circumstances”.
4 Days After…
Today is Friday the 28th, the day of the funeral. I want to just document what happened the morning Lynette passed away.
Though I usually get up early enough to log into work at 8:38, on this particular Monday morning, I was really feeling the cumulative stress of the situation, and decided to just head down for work after 8:45. When I left my bedroom, however, I immediately saw two things: Everard was on the phone with hospice in the hallway, and Andy was holding Lynette’s hand and kneeling by her bedside. I approached Lynette and Andy, and saw what Andy and his father had already seen: her breathing was very, very shallow.
Apparently, it was another rough night for all of them, as she had exhibited breathing issues that made them nervous, but it wasn’t until morning came that her breathing changed enough to really concern them. To my eyes, I knew right away that this was it. The nurse on the phone told Andy’s dad he could give her valium and morphine together, but Andy and I felt she was already at a point that this kind of medicine might stop her heart. In retrospect, it seems, that’s exactly what the nurse was encouraging him to do, simply because if she was barely taking in air, she was already on the way out. I don’t know this for sure, I must be clear, but I suspect the hospice team, well trained in these things, knew exactly what was going on.
At any rate, medicine or not, I was certain Lynette was in her final minutes, so after Everard was off the phone with hospice and Lynette’s sister Molly, I told him he should come back in right away. He knelt down on the floor next to Andy, on his own mattress, which he had placed right up against her hospital bed, and together, the three of us spoke to Lynette and said our tearful goodbyes. Andy asked me what time it was, and I looked and saw it was 9 AM on the dot.
We assured Lynette we were there with her, we kissed her softly and told her not to be afraid, and we told her how much we loved her. For a brief moment at the end as she was breathing very, very slowly, a sad silence grew in the room, so I reminded Andy and Everard that she could still hear them, which helped them give her their words of comfort a little more. And then, very naturally and peacefully, her little breaths turned to no breaths, and we knew her spirit had left her body. It couldn’t have been later than 9:02 AM.
As you can imagine, this was when the tears and pain really shook Everard and Andy, and me as well behind them. In my case, the pain was less about our loss of Lynette, who I loved very much but knew was finally free, and more because I was witnessing a profoundly heartbreaking moment for Everard and Andy. I stood behind them and cried to myself as they cried to her and each other. When they were finally up, I hugged Andy and encouraged him to hug his dad.
Once the phone calls started, the next stage of the process began. Hospice was alerted that she passed, that the nurse already called for would be coming into the house not to help Lynette so much as to pronounce and prepare. Everard called Molly then too to let her know, and Christopher as well, whose phone went to voicemail since he was already at school. More phone calls then and video calls to Trinidad (Lynette’s cousin Robert) and England (Everard’s sister Heather). I took this time to pick up Everard’s mattress and lean it against the dresser, then set up chairs, a tissue box, hand sanitizer, and a small garbage can in the room in front of Lynette’s bed, so that people could sit beside her.
The nurse arrived around 10 and took her pulse, then turned around to us and said, “So she has passed,” which we knew already, yet I think it helped just the same. The time on Lynette’s death certificate reflects the official pronouncement, 10:06 AM. The nurse asked us nicely, once a few more minutes had passed, to step outside, and she washed Lynette’s body briefly and tucked in the sheet a bit around her. She also called the funeral home to notify them, but to let them know the family would call them after a while to come for Lynette.
After the nurse left, Sudha, one of Lynette’s aids who helped keep her company, talk to her, and feed her, came by, and she sat with us in the bedroom. Molly and Buck got there around 11. It wasn’t until 2:40 when the funeral home guys finally took Lynette away. Everard kissed her one last time in the driveway and then he and Molly followed along behind the hearse over to the funeral home. On Lynette’s hospital bed back in the bedroom, a lone white rose was left on her pillow, and it’s still there four days later. Everard has slept beside Lynette’s hospital bed each night this week—the hospice team will come to collect the bed, oxygen machine, and more in the next few days—and he has left the bedroom door open each night too.
I took off on Monday because of everything, but worked Tuesday and Wednesday. On Wednesday around 5 PM, Chris arrived by plane and Andy and Everard picked him up at the airport.
On Thursday, we had a 1 PM appointment at the funeral home to view Lynette and set up some pictures. Andy and Chris put a collection of photos on large poster boards, and Andy also had two 8 x 10 photos printed and framed, which we set up on pedestals in the funeral parlor. A very large picture of Lynette, taken of her when she was a little girl in China, which Andy had gifted her for Christmas this year, was also brought over and left on an easel.
After the funeral home, we went over to Buck and Molly’s for dinner. Lydia and Ferdinand drove down from New York on Thursday to join us. They plan to leave on Saturday or Sunday. Chris will fly back on Sunday, and I will leave on Monday morning.
The wake and funeral service for Lynette went relatively fast, but
was thankfully—relatively—easy. Andy’s dad sang along with the songs,
and with Chris beside him and Andy next to Chris, Everard reached over at one
point and Andy held his hand with Chris holding his dad’s arm in
between the two of them. The three of them stayed that way for the
second half of the service.
There are many more details I’m no doubt omitting here, but I just wanted to document things as best I could. For my part, I am a witness. I consider it a great privilege to have known Lynette, to have been with her for most of her last five weeks, and most of all to have been with her when she passed. I’ve never been in the same building as someone when they passed—not including hospitals, where who knows what transpires elsewhere—nor have I ever been by someone’s side at such a sacred moment. Knowing I was one of only three souls who kissed her, told her not to be afraid, assured her of our love, and watched her as she left for Heaven is a remarkably awful yet truly beautiful honor for me, and something I will cherish always.
5 Days After…
On Saturday, Everard and Chris went to the funeral home and picked up Lynette’s ashes, which now reside in Everard’s bedroom.
6 Days After…
Today is Sunday, January 30th. Lydia and Ferdi began their drive back to NY around 6 this morning. We’ll drive Chris to the airport around 3:30 today. I’ll leave here tomorrow morning for my own drive back home to Malverne.
I’ve spent 32 of the last 45 days here in North Carolina since December the 17th, more than a month of time, and it’s depleted me fully. I will hug my own pillows so much tighter once I’m back home in Malverne. I’m already counting the days until Andy is back with me there too, in just a few more weeks.
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Lynette Charles was a beautiful woman who gave so much to the world. She took her final breaths surrounded by loved ones, but she was surrounded by love from family and friends throughout her final years. We should all be so lucky to have people who love us so much they spend so many hours, restless nights, and countless moments enduring our health struggles along with us. I once told Lynette I knew she would have done the same for all of us if the situation was reversed, and she vigorously nodded yes and told me "yes". Last year, after she'd lost her ability to speak, and we were either feeding her, wiping her mouth or nose, or some other small act like this, I said it to her again. She couldn't answer with her voice, but she gave me a very firm nod again to agree.
If she could add her own words to this document, they would surely be words of supreme gratefulness to her loved ones who cared for her in small ways and large over the course of her illness. And she'd be sure to remind each and every one of us to appreciate our health while we have it. Life is good. Enjoy every moment of the good while the good is yours to enjoy.
