Death Is Just a Sunset

It seemed strange, somehow even wrong, to be decorating a house while someone I loved was in pain and nearing death. Yet that’s what I was doing.

My grandmother was dying in a nursing home in Kentucky, and I was moving into a new home in Georgia.

We didn’t know how long she had, only that her death seemed imminent. Her eighty-nine-year-old body was tired and thin. She’d lost her appetite and her desire to live along with it. She had told me a few months prior that she was ready to go. But I wasn’t ready!

I wanted to stop time. I wanted to push rewind. I wanted my grandmother to experience that trip to Hawaii she’d always dreamed of. I wanted to ask her questions about her life that I’d never before thought to ask. I wanted to have one more dinner at her kitchen table.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks.

I scolded myself for my grief and my selfishness.

The problem was, I couldn’t imagine life without her in it. She’d been there in that little town, in that little house, since before I was born.

I clung to the memories. I wanted to hear her snort when she laughed. I wanted to hear her call Chick-fil-A, “Chick-a-fil.” I wanted to hear her practicing songs for the choir and laughing when her poodle joined in. I wanted to do another annual Christmas photo, the one where she pretended to gulp down the bottle of wine while the rest of us held a wine glass. I wanted to roll my eyes as she passed on her old, unwanted magazines to me. I wanted to hear her pronounce my daughter Megan’s name, “Maygun,” just one more time. The kind of stuff you don’t realize is precious until death arrives to take it away.

I told myself that she had lived a good and long life. And this was true, but it did not erase the pain of losing her.

I told myself that death is a part of life, and I needed to accept it. Yet death seemed so final, and I was struggling to hold onto my long-held belief in resurrection and the hope of life beyond this life.

Then comfort came.

While unpacking, I came across several sunset photographs I had taken. I have always loved their beauty—each one unique, each one coloring the evening sky in different hues. Some vivid and some muted, yet each often offering a spectacular finale to the end of a day.

I began to wonder if death is a sunset. If so, maybe there could be beauty in it.

I recalled the time I stood on a beach with a crowd of strangers watching the sun go down. We were silent, awed by the beauty, trying to capture it with our cameras. Moments later, it was gone. Someone broke the silence with applause, and others joined in.

It seemed to me as though that sunset mirrored my last visit with my grandmother. Words can’t explain how beautiful, holy, and cherished our time together was.

Her body was fading away like the setting sun, but she was still there. She was concerned that her hair looked a mess. She wanted to hear about my new house and how I would decorate it. We looked at photos and laughed. We watched HGTV and listened to music. When she needed to use the restroom, I explained that the nurses would bring her a bedpan. She told me that was gross, and I agreed.

I combed her hair, clipped her nails, fed her, and held her hand as she dozed off. Every single moment was precious, the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. I told her I didn’t want her to die. She reached for me, hugged me, and told me she had loved me since the moment I was born. I told her I knew death was a part of life, but it wasn’t the fun part. She nodded in agreement.

I wanted the beauty of this sunset to linger a little bit longer.

Twelve days later, she was gone.

But was she? From my perspective, the sun was gone. It had set, but wasn’t it rising on the other side of the earth? I hope so. I think so.

I wanted to clap at her funeral, and I imagined that somewhere on the other side, there was a crowd gathered, waiting, watching, expecting, and applauding at the magnificent sunrise before them. My voice joined with theirs, and together we exclaimed, “Beautiful, just beautiful!”

Amy Chumbley is a Kentucky native. She has been married to her husband, Eric, for 28 years. They have two adult children, Megan and Sam, as well as two fur babies, Lucy and Shoshanna. Some of Amy’s favorite things include 80’s music, hot baths, and a clean house. She also enjoys traveling, walking her dogs, spending time with her kids, organizing and decorating homes, and hosting get-togethers and game nights for friends.