 My father, the Reverend David Rees, who died on September 18th, 2000Twenty-five years ago, my father died. He was sixty-three years old. My family was blindsided by the suddenness of his demise. We later learned he had stage four lung cancer that had been growing undetected. When dad began experiencing unexplained pain and breathlessness, his doctor ordered some invasive tests that disturbed a tumour and made him very sick, very quickly. When his breathlessness became serious, a good friend of his drove him to a local, convalescent hospital, which technically should not have given him a bed, as he didn't meet the patient criteria. However, dad was known and loved at the hospital, due to his ministry. He was a regular visitor to the elderly patients. The nurses found him a private room and made him comfortable. They could see he was dying. His family was called to his bedside. Dad was surrounded by his four daughters when he passed. Also at his bedside was my mum, from whom he had been separated for more than a decade (that's a story for another time). Briefly, the family was back together. An owl hooted through the night in the forest outside, and when dawn broke, dad slipped away. His passing was peaceful, and we were so very grateful for the dignity and kindness shown to him by the staff.  The Hospital Chapel where dad was taken after he died, to enable his parishioners to visit and pay their respects I drove my sisters back to our dad’s house in silence, reeling from the shock. We were all in our twenties – too young to lose our father. Dad was our rock, and the scale of his loss was immeasurable. How on earth were we going to cope without him? He had been taken from us too soon. He would never know the joy of retirement, of growing old, of reading bible stories to grandchildren. Why had God done this? Dad was a faithful, obedient servant who deserved a little more time to experience the fullness of life, or at least to watch one of his daughters get married. The unfairness of his death shrouded me like a cloak.
On our arrival at dad’s house, two pieces of mail were awaiting us. One piece of mail was a letter from the NHS (British healthcare), informing dad that his recent tests had detected cancerous cells. This didn’t come as a surprise to us, as we already knew that a terrible force had ravaged his body without warning. The other piece of mail was much more remarkable – it was a cutting from a national newspaper called “The Telegraph”. There were two scraps of paper inside an envelope – one displayed a line of scripture that had presumably been listed in the obituaries section. The other cutting was “The Telegraph” banner, showing the newspaper’s date. The envelope had been sent anonymously. The scripture read: And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. Romans 8:28 Somebody (we still don’t know who) delivered to us an important spiritual message. And they mailed it to the vicarage two days before dad died – he wasn’t even in the hospital at that point. That good Samaritan obeyed a Godly command that was SO specifically tailored to our needs on that difficult morning. I often wonder if this person doubted their sanity when receiving the instruction– “You want me to cut out a piece of my newspaper? And mail it to the vicar’s house? Are you sure, God?” But they obeyed. And we were so incredibly comforted by this confirmation that God has full control over all things. Whoever did this for us – Thank you. I have thought of this moment often over the last twenty-five years. I'm so sorry that this cutting was lost in amongst the chaos of moving dad's things from The Vicarage (the house came with dad's job, so it had to be quickly vacated). But the impact of the gesture remains as strong as it ever was. God knows what you need, well before you know it. And he’s already working on it. Keep the faith. Elisabeth
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A lovely lady recently contacted me after reading my latest book Submerged Secrets. She wanted to tell me about her experience of taking care of her mother, who suffered with dementia. Far from being negative or forlorn, this reader focused on the laughter that her mother’s diagnosis brought with it. When your mom forgets you are her daughter, it can be deeply upsetting. To approach these difficulties with humor helps to chase away the sadness. My mother, Judith, also has dementia. She can no longer remember the word for shoes, so she goes off in search of her “feet” when it’s time to go out. She sings along to songs with all the wrong words. And she slices an onion in the same way she would core an apple. These are funny and sweet moments that make up for the times when the disease causes her moods to pivot to a darker place.
I became a part-time carer for my mother in early 2024, shortly after she was diagnosed with both vascular dementia and Alzheimer's disease. Her condition is progressing quickly and we lose a little bit more of her each day. She no longer remembers her career as a mental health nurse, but she can still usually recall the names of her four daughters (and most of her grandchildren). The character of Francesca in Submerged Secrets was heavily influenced by my personal experience. Just like my mother, Francesca is forgetting pieces of her life, and her family is doing everything possible to support her at home. If you care for someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s, it can feel very lonely. Going out is often a huge challenge, because people with dementia do not like change. Even something as mundane as going to the local store can give them anxiety. I never realized how hard this task was until I started doing it, and I admire those of you who care for someone on a full-time basis. You are angels on earth. In times of struggle, our faith becomes our refuge. God sees the sadness, laughter, frustrations and anger. What’s more, He understands every tiny emotion you feel. You might sometimes be resentful, especially if your relationship with the person was strained before the dementia set in. You might find yourself longing for the freedom of your old life. You might be despondent to see a once vibrant person fade away before your eyes. Dementia is usually far harder on the person doing the caring than the one suffering the disease.  Mum, aged 78, with her four daughters, L-R Elisabeth, Joanna, Judith, Deborah, Katie There is no blueprint for dealing with dementia. We simply do our best and hope it is enough (spoiler - it is!) If you are a caregiver, always try to remember you are a blessing and a gift to those that rely on you. You do the Lord’s work. With love, Elisabeth X  |
