My father was the strongest man I ever knew. A WWII hero, he rarely talked about his plane going down in the Philippines but when I moved him out of his apartment into the first of many nursing homes, I found the NY Times article from 1942 that told about the accident. “Henry G. Jackson is credited with saving the lives of the whole crew,” it said. Next to the article is a picture of him, 18 years old, beaming in his Marine uniform.
I learned to celebrate life on my brother’s last day on earth. He had pancreatic and colon cancer. I walked into his room at the hospice suite in the hospital and there was someone sitting with him. I had no idea who this man was, but his presence and peacefulness told me all would be well.
I so often hear the question asked, "And WHY are you doing this volunteering? It must be so sad!" I suspect if you are reading this blog, it happens to you also.