Death hits home
On the morning of December 6, 2012, my daughter-in-law was in the hospital taking care of Jotham and playing Christian music from a CD Cecilia had bought for her Dad to listen to throughout hospitalization. The hospital staff liked the songs, and they would share their life stories with us. I remained in the apartment with our five children as we tried to decide on the doctor’s suggestion to transfer Jotham’s body from MD Anderson in Houston, Texas to Atlanta, Georgia, and Jotham’s wish to have his body cremated.
He frequently said, “I, Jotham, will make sure I have enough money to cremate my body and gas for your cars, a meal for each one. Do what you want with the ashes. You can keep it in one container or share it among yourselves. You need your money to spend on your needs and do not take money from the people in the community; they need their money for their needs.” He would respond whenever anybody asked him whether he wanted a burial in Kenya or the US.
On this day, the crucial decision was whether to cremate Rev. Dr. Jotham Gatungo Wandu or bury him. After hours of deliberating, our five children decided to override their father’s wish for a burial.
I listened to their deliberation and arguments without interference since they were reeling from the loss of their father. They argued that “our father suffered extreme pain, and cremating his body seemed to increase his pain after death and also add to our pain.” I believe that life goes back to God once a person dies, as John 14:3 (NIV) reads, “I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”
Finally, the children agreed that they would use their own money to fund a traditional burial for their father. We needed to transport the body, identify the funeral home, cemetery, and the location for the memorial service, preferably where all three were close to each other to avoid driving for long stretches at a time. They called Wilkin’s funeral home in Atlanta, Georgia, to transport the body, and settled on burying him at Westview Cemetery. They booked Brown school for the memorial service.
At 4 pm, we went to the hospital to unite with Jotham and my daughter-in-law. He was not talking but responded by moving his head sideways. We all surrounded his bed and watched him, and I realized it was the first time he could not speak to us. I stood at his left side close to his head, my thoughts racing. I gave what I imagined was a comforting look to the children, worrying about how they would react to his death. Would I be able to take care of the family while in another state? By this time, there were fourteen of us in the family. I felt guilty for moving Jotham alive from Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, to John Hopes Hospital in Maryland, to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. I would now be taking him back home in a black plastic bag.
I was ashamed that we had lost the battle, and I was not ready to face the community in Georgia without their great friend. I was afraid to explain his death, and I did not even believe that he had died. It was like a movie playing over and over in my mind.
I would stand on the left side of the bed and say, “Look at me. It is me, mama Mbaire,” referring to how he used to call me. He would turn towards me and try to open his eyes, but he only managed to open them slightly. The doctor found that cancer did not damage his brain.
He took a deep breath in and breathed out slowly, then he breathed in slowly, followed by a sharp exhalation. I waited for him to live in again, but it never happened. I kept asking him whether he was going to breathe again or if it was the end. Everyone around the bed was listening to me, asking him to live. The hospital worker came in to administer the pressure oxygen, but he was not breathing. The hospital staff ran out and called the nurse, who determined that he was dead. The death happened at 5:00 pm on a Thursday.
Rev. Dr. Jotham Gatungo Wandu, the senior pastor of Interdenominational Community Church of Atlanta in Georgia (ICCA), and my beloved husband died. December 6, 2012, a critical day for the Gatungo family.
We had lost the battle. He had been diagnosed with MLS thirteen years earlier, and the doctor had told him that he would live for two to two and a half years. The lungs would deteriorate during the sickness, and resuscitation attempts were more likely to destroy them. I signed a “do not resuscitate” form. Everything about Jotham’s condition was devastating to him and us.
Jotham was surrounded by his children, grandkids, sister, stepbrother, and me. I could not escort the body to the hospital mortuary because I was suddenly feeling unwell. Sylvia and Leonard followed their father’s body to the mortuary, and the rest of us went to the waiting room. We prayed quietly, defeated. Thenceforth we had to create a new world where a husband, father, father-in-love, and grandfather existed no more.
I finally went home to Georgia that evening because I had to contact everyone involved in funeral arrangements. The master of the ceremony told me, “You need total rest. We will do everything right.” I believed him and slept without any worry of the burial arrangement going wrong.
On the burial day, I was weak, and the fear of facing my new reality overwhelmed me. A voice in my head told me that it was my time. I had comforted many, and it was my day to derive comfort from others. I got ready early in the morning but did not get out of the house. I sat in the house until my daughter came for me. She told me that they were waiting for me. I joined the procession, with my sisters in Christ comforting me. They danced for the Lord, joyously that the loved and a brave man of God had gone home to heaven. I recalled his long life testimony, where he stated that he lived waiting for Jesus Christ’s coming to take him home. I kept asking Jesus if he had come and took him to heaven so soon.
Jotham’s sons and the other pastors’ kids carried the casket from the hearse to the gravesite. They all wore black suits, white shirts, and red ties. They looked wonderful. Jotham’s robe, which was on the coffin, was folded and handed over to me by my sister, pastor Mary. I received it and gave it to a son, Wandu – he still has it safe in his house.
Conclusion
What is my take from the gone and not forgotten? Death knows no age or diaspora, and when it is time to go, nothing can stop it. I am still on my long-life journey, and I am not alone. God is always with me in the present and future, as He has been with me in the past. To all, the path is the same, but the individual’s steps are significantly different. Amen.