Goodbye, Ted

There are some hospice patients to whom it is extra-easy to become attached. One such patient died this evening, I just learned. We'll call him Ted. He was a big, jovial, ruddy-faced fellow with twinkling eyes and a firm handshake. I don't know much about Ted; I don't know what his profession was although I suspect he could have made a fortune in sales, because he had that wonderful knack of making anyone and everyone feel welcome in his presence. I'd met Ted a couple months ago when he had a one-day hospital stay to get some new medicine sorted out, after which he went back home. That one day, the regular staff had told me I simply HAD to see this man, because "You'll just love him." And I did. Ted came back a week or so ago, this time for the last time. He was just too weak to stay home anymore. When he came back, he was ready to die and quite forthright about it. We talked a little bit about how hard it is to be patient when one is ready and the process is taking its time. And about how God will not be hurried. And about how Ted's room in heaven will probably have the largest of big-screen TVs so he can watch his beloved football games. To each staffer who worked with him in the last week, Ted said his thanks for the care he'd received. He was saying goodbye to all of us, even folks like me, who'd only known him a little bit. And he'd said his goodbyes to his beloved wife and children too. Ted got rapidly weaker over the last week. Now he's gone, and I miss him, a lot. Godspeed, Ted. I'm glad I got to know you, even a little.