Purposefully Living

As we were going to bed on Tuesday night, I could not imagine being in another room.  I knew we had the monitor in his room, I knew he simply needed to speak for me to be at his side, but that was just not enough-- I had to be next to him.  If the bed would have been bigger, I would have slept on it with him.  The floor at his side was more comfortable than you could ever imagine.  As I rolled over at about 1:30am, I could tell that his breathing was different, so I sat up to look at him and noticed that he was rousing.  As I helped him sit, I felt a difference around him: a peace, and an urgency.  I knew then that our time was short.

As we were in the moment, we weren't quite sure what was happening, but as we look back, we wonder if he had more than one out-of-body experience.  When he woke, he was extremely confused.  He started speaking things as if he was remembering them, not just speaking what he knew.  Mira walked in, and the sound of her collar made him say, "Oh, yeah, Mira."  It was almost like he came back to us, to tell us goodbye, but needed to search his memories and spoke them as they came.  As he calmed with his memories, he immediately asked for a hug and told me that he loved me, and that he was sorry that he had lied.  He looked up at Randy, standing over us, and told him that he loved him.  He asked for the kids, wanting to give them the gifts he had for them, and to tell them that he loved them.  One thing we will always remember about Caden: He was the best gift giver!  While I was rousing the others, Randy witnessed Keilie walk in, heard Caden telling her that he was going to die.  And, oh, the tears.  We were getting everything that we wanted-- to go quickly without suffering-- but we were not prepared.  How can you prepare adequately to say your last "I love you," your last "goodbye?"

Bishop once again came immediately to our aid.  He had come during the day when Caden asked for a blessing.  Throughout the entire cancer journey, it was us that would ask if he wanted one.  If he did, he'd get one; if he didn't, he wouldn't.  This was the first time he came to us, asking.  Bishop arrived within minutes.  And, again, at 2:00am, he was there within minutes, comforting our troubled boy about a small sin he had committed when he was 12 or 13.  His calming hands, his calming words, and his calming presence helped Caden ease into a peaceful rest.  My son was troubled no more, my son was prepared, my son was going Home.

We sent the kids back to bed after hearing from the Hospice nurse (I called her with a few questions, thinking it was happening at that very second and wanting him to have the correct medications to calm him further) say that if he was talking and communicating to us, that it wasn't quite the end, that we still had an unknown amount of time.  For about 30-45 minutes, we sat in his room, just listening and watching, while I prayed and prayed and prayed to my Heavenly Father to just take him Home, to keep him from suffering, to release him from this life. I laid next to him, touching and carressing him, talking to him, loving him so deeply.  In that time, my parents arrived after driving straight through from Utah.  It was approximately 4:15am when we decided that if we could possibly have another day, I should get some rest-- I just felt so, so tired.  Bishop left, promising he'd come as soon as we needed him.  I finished a few things, kissing Caden's cheek one more time, telling him I loved him for what I know now was the last time I'd say it while his spirit occupied his broken body, and went to try and sleep.  I got myself situated on one side, but didn't feel quite comfortable, so I turned over, and at that minute, took a deep, purifying, refreshing, cleansing breath... and Randy said, "Steph, Steph, please come in here.  I think he's gone."  And I knew.  I knew my son had come to me, had helped release almost four years of fear, and hurt, and agony, and worry, and sorrow, and unconditional love, and anguish-- his suffering was done.  My son was gone.

I cannot tell you how difficult it was to realize that I couldn't tell him one more time, "CADEN, I LOVE YOU!!!"  I wanted to scream it, for the whole world to hear, for him to hear me and know, "Caden, I will love you forever.  I will never forget you.  I love you, I love you, I love you, I. LOVE. YOU!"  But also, in that moment, my thought was for my Heavenly Father, "Thank you.  Thank you for loving him enough to take him so quickly, without any pain or suffering."  We got everything we wanted, everything we hoped, everything we had prayed for from the very second we heard that there was nothing earthly that could be done: the long goodbye, where we said what we wanted to say (although it can never possibly be enough), and the quick release without suffering.  He was asleep.  He was comfortable.  He was at peace.  He waited until I left the room, so I wouldn't have to watch the stress and anxiety of him taking his last few breaths.  Even in death, my son was protecting me.  He loves me that much.

Some of the last words spoken by our valiant, noble hero will forever be burned in my mind and heart, will be the legacy that I remember about a boy that lived his life with purpose for his Heavenly Father, that touched the lives of so many with his example, and courage, and unending faith because of who he was and what he believed are these:

I won!

Caden, my miracle, I will never be able to say it enough: I love you. I miss you.  I will follow your example of purposefully living each and every day, to better myself, to make myself worthy to meet you and my Heavenly Father in the Celestial Kingdom, to tell you face-to-face  just one more time and for all eternity,

I LOVE YOU!!!

I LOVE YOU!!!

I. LOVE. YOU!!!