Memorial Services Details

Memorial Services for Harold Jones 

Viewing for family and friends will be Monday, July 1st from 6 pm – 8 pm at Horan & McConaty Mortuary.

The Funeral Services will be on Tuesday, July 2nd at 10 am. Services will be held at the Flanders Building of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Interment will immediately follow the funeral at Fairmount Cemetery.

Horan & McConaty Mortuary
11150E Dartmouth Ave,
Aurora, CO 80014

Flander Building
3101 South Flanders Street
Aurora, CO 80013 

Fairmount Cemetery
430 S Quebec Street
Denver, CO 80247

Just Breathe

There’s been a steady rhythm accompanying my life script these last thirty six years. It’s been the sound of Harold breathing. I imagine that all married couples come to recognize this rhythm, but we talked about it before we were married. Shortly after our engagement, his college roommates warned that Harold snored with such force that the wind draft caused his bedroom door to swing open and shut. Thankfully it wasn’t true.

Later I remember listening to him breathe, oh so peacefully, as he slept through our first argument. How could he not know or somehow sense what was warring in my mind? Finally in desperation, I woke him. “Harold, we’re having an argument and you’re losing. Defend yourself.”

The years have brought many nights of waking and listening as our family has grown and we’ve faced the normal challenges of life. Through it all Harold’s breathing has been the pulse, the rhythm, the comforting constant.

The rapid decline in Harold’s condition magnified our awareness of his breathing. When he was moved to a hospital bed out of our room, I could still hear that steady rhythm through a monitor we’d set up. It was a comfort. Yesterday the sound changed. It was loud and labored as he worked to draw in each breath. I knew his time was short.

Harold has been too weak to talk since Sunday and would rarely open his eyes, yet we knew he could hear everything we said. He would respond with a hand squeeze or a gesture until yesterday when he was too weak even for that. Our daughter Rebecca had a flight home on a ticket she had purchased the week before, little knowing how rapidly her father would decline. I desperately hoped she would make it in time.

“Keep breathing, Harold. Becca will be here in two hours.”

There was no response but I kept talking, kept holding his hand, kept listening.

“Harold, she’ll be here in 30 minutes. Kaylene is picking her up at the airport right now. Keep breathing.”

Several of our children were at work during this time, also making arrangements to get home. I was comforted that they had been able to spend time with their dad, helping to care for him day and night.

“Hi, Daddy, this is Becca. I’m home.”

By then most of the family had arrived and we had word the last were about an hour away. I now realized it was possible we would all be together.

“Harold, hold on a little longer.”

Harold did. We had two hours after the family had gathered. It was a sacred time. We shared stories and were able to express gratitude to Harold for his life’s example and work on our behalf. We expressed gratitude for the tender mercy of the Lord who had made this time possible.

Eventually we started to sing, tentatively at first but then growing in strength and harmony. Sometime during the singing, Harold's breathing relaxed, growing shallower and fainter. I placed my hand on his chest so I could feel his breaths. During the last verse of “Abide With Me,” he left.

It was a fitting benediction. This hymn invites the Savior to stay the night with us, to carry us through dark times. Our Savior’s spirit was there and he has indeed stayed and lifted us.

I woke this morning to the rhythm of breathing. Not mine and not Harold’s but a daughter’s gentle breaths, mindful that her mother might need a reminder . . . to still breathe.

Passed

This afternoon Harold passed his mortal test and joined loved ones on the other side. It was a beautiful and tender moment while surrounded by all our children.

Update - Helping Grandpa

“Can I help fix Grandpa?”  

"Yes, Carly, you can. What would you like to do?”

Given the authority to choose, Carly became Doctor Carly and I could tell she was taking this job seriously. She retrieved the play stethoscope from the toy box downstairs then reverently entered Harold’s room. She gently “listened” to his heart then tentatively looked up at Grandpa. Next she helped me feed him, directing the delivery of each spoonful. Finally she patted lotion onto his legs and rubbed in all the love she could muster.

So what would you say to a four year old granddaughter who just wants to make grandpa better?
  
This was just one of the many bright moments that have lifted us as we've transitioned to caring for Harold in our home. 

Harold started the month in physical therapy with hopes of resuming racquetball. Today he is quietly resting in bed, weakened beyond the ability to take care of his most basic needs and sometimes, even too weak to talk. He has always taken care of us by providing, protecting, and leading. Now it is our privilege to reciprocate. Harold humbly lets us. It is a tender time.

The transformation happened quickly. We received the bad news of his PET scan on Thursday, June 6th. By the next day Harold was officially signed up for hospice care, allowing nursing staff to come to our home to help with pain management and other medical issues. That same day Harold met with a team of doctors in radiation oncology. They scheduled radiation treatments to be administered over the next five working days. The plan was to  treat a tumor threatening his eye sight and to reduce a large tumor mass in his liver which was causing him considerable pain. The goal in palliative radiation treatment is to improve quality of life, not to cure.

Harold became noticeably weaker over the next few days. By Saturday he could no longer chew food. On Sunday one side of his face and tongue were numb, and by Monday he had lost the ability to drink through a straw. It was determined these latest symptoms were caused by new tumor growth putting pressure on the fine nerves in the brain stem area. We shifted the radiation plan to target this area of concern. Then, if he still had the strength, Harold was scheduled to receive the liver radiation treatment on Thursday. We were very anxious for him to have it because he was experiencing regular bouts of intense pain in that area.

Thursday finally arrived, but by then Harold was totally spent. He had nothing left to give. It had been one week from the day we heard the PET scan report. Instead of receiving that final radiation treatment he slept, too weak to eat or talk or move. Throughout the day I sat by his side, watching him breath. I’ve witnessed a loved one pass from this life before, so what I saw with Harold seemed all too familiar. He was slipping away. As much as I hated to acknowledge it, I shared the observation with our daughter, Megan, who was with me for support. She notified the family.

At some point I went to the kitchen to eat. I remember standing at the counter gazing through the sunroom into the backyard. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a feeling of lightness, of happiness. It seemed strange in these circumstances, but that’s what it was. I had a peaceful heart as I returned to Harold and looked deep into his face.

 “Megan, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think Dad’s leaving us today.”

And he didn’t. Harold rallied to the point where he was able to have the final radiation treatment the next day. Five days later, he's very, very weak but he's still with us, sense of humor and all.

In all the ups and downs of Harold's battle, we continue to count our blessings. Here are a few:

Radiation

There was no guarantee radiation treatments would have the desired affect but we’ve seen some positive signs. The numbness on Harold’s face subsided right away and on Saturday Harold regained his ability to drink through a straw. Megan was so excited that she bought him a huge milkshake. He downed most of it. This is a huge improvement over our painstaking efforts to spoon feed him small amounts of nourishment.

Up until Friday when Harold received the final radiation treatment, he required more and more pain medication to cope. It may be too soon to say conclusively, but I think the treatment worked.  Harold hasn’t had any intense episodes of pain for the last three days.

Dog Pile

When our kids were small they would dog pile on our bed early Saturday mornings so Harold could toss them around and tickle them. Last Thursday evening as they gathered in our room, it felt like the tradition was back. Harold was in his recliner and I was on a chair beside him. Out of necessity our grown children were positioned all over our large bed. Their tickling and teasing reminded me of those early days. I guess in some ways we have not changed. Then I was overcome by how how truly blessed Harold and I are. We have wonderful supportive children.

Since that day they've figured out a system so I'm never alone. My children rotate caring for Harold during the night so I can sleep, and one of the family is always here with me during the day. Their summary of the plan is simple:  Mom’s job is to take care of Dad and our job is to take care of Mom.

None of us know what the next hours or days will bring. We take it as it comes. As I look back over the last couple weeks I realize we've essentially had a "dog pile" or convergence of support as each child, spouse, extended family member or friend, brings their unique strength to add to the whole. And the help has come just as we need it.

Rebecca, our only child living out of the area, surprised us by coming home in time to help during the radiation treatments. She took over the meal planning and cooking. She also accompanied us to the radiation appointments, serving as my brain trust and sounding board.

Rebecca had to go home on the Thursday Harold gave out, but by nightfall Harold’s brother Leonard, who had already driven from California to Arizona that day, was on a flight to Denver to help. We hadn’t asked, but he had anticipated our need.

How could we not recognize our Heavenly Father's hand in our care.

A Final Tender Mercy:

During Harold’s early rapid decline we were visited by a hospice nurse who wasn’t afraid to say what she really believed. We had been discussing Harold’s various symptoms and attributing them either to radiation recovery or cancer tumor takeover. I mentioned our oncologist’s estimate that Harold had about a month to live and wondered how his symptoms fit that timeline. Her response was immediate. She knelt in front of Harold, looked him directly in the eye and said, “Doctors don’t give the orders.” Then pointing upward continued, "He does."

“Harold you’ve got to have faith! I’ve had patients who entered hospice with an estimate of two weeks to live. They are still with us two years later. You’ve got to have faith.”

I just started crying at her words. What a timely reaffirmation of the choices we have made. And of course she’s right. Heavenly Father cuts the orders. He has a plan. Harold’s days will not be numbered less. We still choose faith.

Don't Worry About It

Harold’s a social person. Always has been, always will be. He loves people. That doesn’t change because he is ill and, short of divine intervention, may move on. Yet here’s the awkward part. What do you say to a person in that situation?

We’ve now had the chance to explore this question and here’s the short answer: Don’t worry about it. You can say anything you want.

Many conversations start with the phrase, “I just don’t know what to say,” and it’s true, we don’t; yet the very act of desiring to reach out speaks volumes. Often the last thing Harold and I do in the evening is to share the communications we’ve received during the day. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we cry, but we always feel loved and uplifted

Think about your past interactions with Harold. Did you joke or plot some mischief? Did you discuss spiritual things? Did you try to beat him at racquetball or chase him down a basketball court? Did you work together on projects or organize some way to serve? Whatever your previous connection, share the memories. Harold cares about you and would love the opportunity to remember these precious times.

We have also heard that some who wish to communicate aren’t sure how to reach us. Phone calls are intimidating because you don’t know when it’s a good time. Though we always welcome your calls Harold may not be available to talk. Commenting on the blog doesn’t work for many and may not be the setting for the things you wish to share. Recognizing these challenges I have set up an email address where you can reach Harold anytime you want. I’ll make sure he gets your messages and when possible, he’ll reply.

You can reach us at westillchoosefaith@gmail.com

We Still Choose Faith

How can we choose faith when science and medicine show us there is little or no hope? In what or whom do we place our faith? And how can that faith make a difference?

These questions were laid on the table the moment Harold was diagnosed with stage IV melanoma, a statistically fatal cancer. But we had reason to believe Harold’s mission on earth was not yet complete. Individually we wrestled with it, Harold and I prayed about it, then we discussed and prayed about it as a family. We decided to choose faith. Faith that our Heavenly Father was aware of our situation, and that if we continued to act in faith, his promised blessings would come. We knew it would be a test.

As a parent you never want to put your children’s faith in God in jeopardy. Yet we need opportunities to exercise that faith so it can grow. Sometimes those opportunities come when we are very young and they provide a foundation for the tests we will face later.

My mother often reminded me of a faith promoting story from my early childhood. She was hurrying about, trying to get our family ready for church and we were almost late. But she couldn’t find the buckle to my little sister's shoe. Tension mounted as she frantically searched the house, calling my brothers to enlist their help. I kept trying to get her attention, tugging at her, calling her name. Instead she put me off, planning to respond as soon as she found the buckle. 

Finally I persisted enough for her to listen. “Mommy, we just need to ask Heavenly Father. He will help us find the buckle.” It was the natural response from a little girl who had just been taught she had a Heavenly parent who hears and answers prayers. Humbled, my mother stopped. We knelt in prayer, and by the end of the prayer she knew exactly where to find the buckle.

That story came to mind years later when one of my children lost something important. Christian had just started wearing a dental retainer. He had to take it out to eat, so during lunch he discretely wrapped it in a napkin and set it on his school lunch tray. It was only after he turned in his dirty tray and left the cafeteria that he remembered his retainer and sought help. The principal kindly helped him sort through the cafeteria trash but they could not find it. I only learned of the incident when I picked him up after school. Christian's normally cheerful face was downcast as he walked slowly toward the car. I watched him approaching but he wouldn't look at me until he got in the car and buckled up. Then he faced me and explained. 

I had a car full of kids and probably had piano students waiting at home, but at that moment my mother’s story came into my mind with such clarity that I simply asked, “Christian, do you have the faith that Heavenly Father can help you find that retainer if it’s possible to be found?” He said yes.

In retrospect I’ve wondered how I dared put his tender faith to the test in this way. The odds of finding the retainer were remote as I figured it may have gone through the food disposal; yet I had been prompted to ask the question and did. I took the rest of my children home then Christian and I offered a prayer and headed back to the school. 

By now all the trash of the day was in the dumpster outside the building. Christian had to climb in and hand out the bags one by one. Of course there were parents going in and out of the building as we picked through the trash. They gave us puzzled looks, but we just kept searching. Christian finally pulled out the last bag. We opened it and again made our way through the soggy mess of napkins, food, milk cartons, and wrappers. Then, near the bottom of the bag, it just appeared. My son’s faith had been rewarded.

There have been many opportunities for our family to exercise faith individually and collectively in the years since. I had my own battle with cancer eight years ago. I was sustained by the faith and prayers of my family and many of you. I can remember the feeling of being carried, even cradled as I underwent surgeries, the chemotherapy, the radiation and reconstructive surgery. We prayed that my life would be spared and it was . . . but only because it was Heavenly Father’s will for me at that time. Apparently he still had things for me to do.

What about Harold?

How can we still choose faith when science and medicine show us there is little or no hope? In what or whom are we placing our faith? And how can that faith make a difference?

We can still choose faith because we are not putting our faith in science or medicine. We are putting our faith in God. We are humbly grateful however, for the amazing blessings both science and medicine have offered our family and believe that knowledge is also inspired by God.

Our faith in God has grown with our understanding of His plan for us here on earth. He is very aware of our lives as evidenced by countless promptings and blessings received through the Spirit. He has an earthly mission for each of us to fulfill, if we will. Faith in God includes actively striving to understand that mission, and with Christ’s help, doing it. When we have fulfilled that mission, He will call us home. If God still has work for Harold to do, he will be healed in whatever way our Creator chooses. If he has fulfilled his mission, he will be warmly welcomed home.

Do we risk anything by choosing faith? I have come to understand that choosing faith does not guarantee the outcome or the timing we want. God sees the bigger picture and may instead do what is best for us. Choosing faith doesn't exempt us from the challenges of life. Instead it gives us power to get through them and grow. But choosing faith absolutely guarantees the quality of the life we live. 

Choosing faith has granted us genuine happiness. It has provided us with peace, and it has surrounded us with love. We still choose faith.