I came across an article on social media recently, and it had me hooked. It was all about the last words spoken by famous people before they passed away. What struck me was the incredible variety in these words, just like the personalities of those who said them. Some were profound, like heartfelt messages to a higher power, while others took a more bitter tone. There were even funny and slightly impolite ones in the mix. The common thread? These were the very last words these individuals ever said out loud.
This got me thinking. What might my own last words be when my time comes? But then, my thoughts shifted to the times I’d unknowingly exchanged my last words with someone who soon after embarked on their final journey.
I find myself reflecting on a deeply personal memory—the passing of my grandfather. His battle with chronic kidney disease had been a long and arduous one, and he had bravely opted to discontinue his dialysis treatments. The doctor’s words lingered: without medical intervention, he might have about ten days left. My grandfather, known for his unwavering strength and stubborn resilience, had encountered numerous hardships over his lifetime. Yet, at that juncture, he grew tired. I knew he was tired. We all did.
I remember a specific evening, the ninth day after my grandfather’s final dialysis treatment. He was in the hospital, wanting to spare my grandmother from the weight of his passing at home. He felt it might be too much for her. We all gathered in the hallway outside his room, taking turns to keep him company. He mostly slept as the doctors had shifted their focus to ensuring his comfort.
I tiptoed into his room and stood beside his bed. His breath was slow, his eyes closed. I touched his hand and whispered, “Goodbye, Grandaddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stirred, opening his eyes. I knew exactly what he would say; it was our routine whenever I left his house: “Where are you going? You just got here.” This man hadn’t spoken all day, but his coin phrase didn’t fail me. I couldn’t help but smile. I explained that we had been with him all day, but he had been resting, so I didn’t want to disturb his rest.
I held his hand, letting him know I loved him and that I’d see him tomorrow. Deep down, I understood the chances of me seeing him again were slim. I could have made it a big, dramatic farewell, but simplicity felt more fitting. I wanted him to feel calm, not burdened by a long and complicated goodbye. He nodded his head and drifted back off to sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning, the phone call arrived: my grandfather had passed away. I always held it close to my heart that I was one of the last people he spoke to and that the conversation we had was one of our normal routines.
Years down the road, I had my last words with my grandmother. She had moved into an assisted living facility a few years after my grandfather had passed away and had adapted fairly well to her new home. Much better than we had anticipated. In the last few months of her life, she had entered a nursing facility so they could better monitor her health. Her mind was beginning to show signs of dementia, but I knew all along it was her getting ready to leave her earthly home. She was having conversations with people who had long been gone from Earth. Her mother, husband, and siblings – were all people she spoke to. She often thought that my father, her only child, was my grandfather and talked to him as if he was.
Two conversations with my grandmother stand out in my memory, taking place as her life was drawing to a close. On one particular night, as I entered her room during a visit, I noticed an unusual worry in her gaze—almost a hint of fear. She looked at me and posed a question that struck me deeply, “Have you seen Mama?” At that moment, I wasn’t entirely sure if she recognized me. However, the look on her face was one of deep concern.
“I have been looking and looking for mama but can’t find her. Is Mama okay? Do you know where she is?” My heart ached for her, witnessing her anxiety over her inability to locate her mother. She was completely unaware of what year it was, where she was, where her mother was, or who this stranger was she was now questioning.
I tried to console her, reassuring her not to worry. I offered to help her find her mother, and the idea seemed to brighten her expression. With her sitting upright in her wheelchair, we began our quest down the corridors, her voice calling out, “Mama? Mama?” at each door.
After a short search, I stopped pushing her and came face to face with my grandmother. “Granny, I think your mama is probably resting. That’s why she’s not answering us right now. She is sleeping and can’t hear us calling. But I promise you she is ok, and she is safe.” My grandmother made me reassure her of this several times before she accepted what I was telling her. “So, you think she is ok?” she asked.
Then, there was a moment I’ll forever carry with me, her eyes meeting mine, and she said, “You just sparkle when you are here.” In those words, she found solace, and we returned to her room, sitting together for a while. She never mentioned her mother to me again.
As I visited my grandmother more and more, it became painfully clear that her health was slipping away. The things she once loved—meals, TV, conversations—no longer held any joy for her. She spent most of her time sleeping and barely eating. The nurses had gently told us that she had entered the final stage of her life.
Yet, I didn’t stop visiting. Similar to how it was with my grandfather, I hadn’t preplanned the exact words I’d say to her for the last time. But deep down, I knew what needed to be expressed. Despite her weariness, she clung to life’s thread, perhaps because she sensed we weren’t ready to let her go just yet. It’s a feeling that resonates, a shared understanding of the struggle between holding on and letting go.
I chose to make my final visit alone. I waited until I was certain no one else would be around so that I could have a private conversation with her. Sitting by her side on the bed, I held her hand and softly spoke the words I had in my heart: “Are you feeling tired, Granny?” She nodded in agreement. “Do you want to go see your Mama and my grandaddy?” Again, a gentle nod. I held her hand a little tighter and said, “Go. It’s okay. You can be with them.”
Even as I write this, the lump in my throat feels as big as it did that very night when I shared these words with her. They were my last words to my grandmother. But deep within, I knew she needed to hear them. It was as if she had been waiting for the assurance to embrace what she was prepared for—to release her earthly struggle and journey home to be with Jesus.
Not all of our final words to people are as comforting as these two scenarios. There’s a memory that lingers, where the last words I exchanged were bitter, and their echo still resonates within me from time to time. I recall an incident involving a heated exchange with a young co-worker. The cause was his constant need to be in everyone’s affairs. He had made me the topic of one of his conversations, and upon catching wind of it, my composure crumbled. “Stay out of my business and don’t you ever talk to me again,” I exclaimed, the outburst occurring in front of a gathering of colleagues.
Before I had another chance to face him, news struck that he had been tragically killed in a car accident. I didn’t even have an ounce of hatred for this individual. He had simply caught me on a rough day, and in the grip of anger, my words escaped me without due consideration. It’s a sensation I pray never to encounter again—a reminder of the importance of mindful communication and the permanence of our final interactions.
Through my own journey with mental health, I’ve come to recognize the importance of thoughtful communication when it comes to expressing our emotions. I never go to bed without saying I love you to my husband and my daughter. In fact, this sentiment has taken root in my daughter’s heart as well, particularly after she experienced the loss of someone close to her. Now, we never hang up the phone without sharing those three words, ensuring that not only are we physically well, but emotionally well too. It’s a practice that reinforces the bonds we share and the care we hold for one another.
Through the practice of empathy in our interactions, we not only foster emotional growth within our relationships, but we also offer others the solace of feeling cared for and cherished—an invaluable sentiment, especially for those facing the challenges of anxiety.
The Bible teaches us to “Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you should answer each person.” Colossians 4:6
Don’t let those last words take up space in your head. Keep your speech gracious, so that you have no regrets.
Last words are important. What will yours be?
Amy Marcle