This is the account of a hospice doctor in Montana (Ira Byock, MD) who was privileged to attend the dying of a woman of great faith . . . who died well. Very well. This is the kind of death that is available for those in Christ. He recounts this in his book Dying Well and admits he was reluctant to tell this story because of its beauty and that it would provide critics ammunition that he is “sugarcoating the dying experience.”

There is no indication that Byock himself is a believer; he grew up Jewish. While compassionate and well-respected as a hospice doctor, there is nothing said about any kind of faith on his part. What is remarkable is his recognition that something transcendent occurred with the death of Mo Riley, a woman of Christian faith. As Byock writes, “Everything this woman did in her dying days reflected not just acceptance of her impending demise, but curiosity, anticipation and even pleasure. She typified full, rich living through her very last breath. Mo also showed me how someone who is dying can transform herself from a vibrant, loving mother and person living in the world into an almost lofty being of beauty and spirit.”

Mo was 65 years old and had raised six children on her own. She was a faithful member of a local church who provided daily prayer partners for her while she was dying. She was diagnosed with a fast-growing cancer and refused any medical treatment to combat the deadly disease. Her response to the doctor after hearing she had only a few weeks to live was “This is great. I thought I would go quickly in the middle of the night, and never wake up. But actually, with a few weeks, I can say goodbye to everybody. This is better.“

Here is Byock’s account of the last time he saw Mo . . .

“Mo was in bed, curled up on her right side. She looked tiny and white, a wisp of a woman. It is a paradox of dying that a person can seem to grow strikingly in the realms of spirit and of soul as her physical self dramatically shrinks. I sat in the chair beside her bed; after three or four minutes, she opened her eyes. The Chalice harpists were quietly putting away their instruments. When I next turned around, they had left.

“Hi, Mo, you don’t need to talk,” I said softly. “I just wanted to come by and make sure you’re all right.”

She opened her eyes, which were still clear and brilliant. They seemed to be emanating light. We gazed into each other’s eyes, and as she gave me a smile, her eyes teared up, and so did mine. She was radiant! I was half-crying and half-laughing in wonderment at this marvelous lady.

“Are you OK in there?” I asked, knowing the answer.

For a moment, she seemed to concentrate, as if grasping for the right answer. She began working her tongue and mouth. I wondered what she was trying to say. Her mouth opened, and there on the tip of her tongue was a small pink wad of gum! Mo still had her gum, and this was her way of letting me know that she was still “in there.” While her body was barely alive, her spirit was strong and soaring.

I stayed for only twenty or thirty minutes. As I walked down the hall from Mo’s room, I noticed a picture frame with a display of her collection of favorite sayings. I paused to read them, and one stuck with me: “Every death is a door opening on Creation’s mystery.” Mo was moving toward the mystery, and I knew she was well and unafraid.

Gail telephoned me later that afternoon. Mo had died fifteen minutes earlier, with Emily and Bill by her bedside. About an hour before she died, her breathing had become labored, each cycle a loud rattle and wheeze. I had ordered that a small amount of morphine be on hand for just such a purpose, and it promptly provided comfort. She rested, her breathing eased. Emily had just wiped her brow with a cool washcloth when Mo turned her head and quietly expired. As much as any patient I have known, Mo personified the possibility of a joy within the process of letting go, transcending this world, and growing into an unexplored, spiritual realm.”