My Uncle Ron

Monday, June 19th, was supposed to be just another ordinary day. I had an appointment with the doctor in the morning, did a bit of remote work for my customer, had lunch with friends, did some more work in the afternoon, then played gardener in the yard for awhile before spending a relaxing evening with Cheryl. And then we got a text from brother Craig.

Ronald Wayne Jones, my endearing uncle, had suffered a stroke the day before (June 18th) after sharing a Father's Day / Wedding Anniversary dinner with his wife and brother-in-law and niece. His left side and his speech was affected. He was airlifted to a hospital in Portland, Oregon.

In the next week or so, his doctors determined that he was continuing to suffer additional strokes and "brain bleeds" which essentially paralyzed his right side and took away not only his ability to speak but also his ability to comprehend speech.

On the 3rd of July, we were notified by family that Ron was not expected to recover nor to live much longer. My wonderful wife arranged for me to fly out to Portland on the 6th.

I arrived on the 6th and spent the next week with Eileen (my aunt), helping her get to and from the hospital in Portland from their home in Kelso, sitting beside his bed with her as she talked to him and touched his hands and rubbed his shoulders and looked for any sign that he was beginning to recover, watching as she cried when it became obvious that he was not.

He could not eat or drink; he could not swallow. He tried to speak but no sound came out. He made indecipherable motions with his hands. He kept trying to get out of bed until his strength was gone. They gave him medicines for pain and medicines to calm him, as there was nothing else they could do. He drifted in and out of consciousness.

Based on the doctor's advice, and with family consensus, we arranged for Ron to be moved to a hospice facility in Vancouver, Washington (just across the Columbia River from Portland but with a lot less traffic!) so that Eileen wouldn't have to travel so far every day (and also because there were no available hospice beds in Kelso or Longview). He was moved to hospice on the 11th of July. He died on the morning of the 12th.

It was a mercy when he finally died, but that didn't make it any easier on the family who stood beside him. And even though they knew it was what he had been hoping for his whole life -- not the process of death, of course, but the passing from this life to the next - it was not enough to give them peace. But we tried to find some comfort in the fact that he had always looked forward to the day when he would meet Jesus, and now he had accomplished that goal. 

Among all my relatives, he was the one most passionate, most emotional about his faith. It was so much more to him than words in a Holy Book or actions taken in accordance with a set of rules that would guarantee him entry through the gates of Paradise. His was a lovely, simple, excitable, child-like faith imbued with a big smile, a warm hug, a generous spirit and such tremendous joy that it couldn't be contained. Even though he suffered in many ways throughout his life, even in those dark days when his family was young and struggling and it seemed that his prayers were being unanswered, he bore it all with confidence and determination; and, like Job, he did not falter in his faith (although he would sometimes have spirited discussions with his Maker!!) but kept on track, firm to the end.

It was not the end that he would have expected, nor deserved; and I wish that there was some way I could have made it easier for him. But like so many things in this world, it was beyond my capacity, and all I could do now is to try and help those who are left to mourn.

And remember the good times.