Terminal lucidity is an uncanny phenomenon, a final gift from those who are leaving us, when clarity briefly pierces the fog of decline. It’s a phenomenon you may have come across if you’ve ever spent the last days with a loved one, and though medical science offers little explanation, it is something I have experienced a couple of times.
Dog’s End
When Toby, our family dog, turned 15 he started to deteriorate. His movement slowed. He started struggling to eat. It started to seem like he was in pain every time he moved. Eventually, even the smallest amount of exertion would end with him struggling to breathe.
He still wanted to go for walks. But I would take him out and we’d get less than 100 meters down the road before he’d collapse, wheezing as he struggled to continue breathing. I would pick him up and carry him back home, setting him to rest on the couch and comforting him until he went to sleep. Every time I feared he wouldn’t wake up again.
Then came the day. I came home from school, opened the door… and Toby leapt at me, barking, running in circles. I was almost in tears. He’d gotten better! He kept looking at his lead and back at me. He wanted to go for a walk.
We went out, and he ran back and forth, nose to the ground, sniffing everything with renewed curiosity. We made it down the road, past the daffodil bed, onto the footpath to his favourite field. I let him off the lead and he ran around, more energetic than he’d been in a long time.
We walked home – not carried, walked! When we got back he went to lay on the couch by himself. I stayed with him watching TV and went to my own bed smiling that night.
The next morning my mother woke me up and told me that he had taken a turn for the worse in the night. They had to put him down. She told me I could take the day off school and I spent the morning sobbing into my pillow.
He had one last burst of energy and he chose to gift it to me. It’s a memory I will always treasure during the bliss of solitude.
Dark Thought
My experience with Toby was the first thing that made me aware of Terminal Lucidity. But it wouldn’t be until a few years later when the idea would become solidified in my mind.
I’d recently moved back to my home town and was spending a lot of time with my best friend. His grandfather was in hospital in a bad way. In the way that the only remaining treatment was to “make him comfortable”.
My friend would visit him almost every day, then tell me about them later on. At some point the conversations shifted to stories about growing up with his grandfather. His granddad’s mind was failing, and the conversations were few, so there was little to tell about the actual visits.
Then one day my friend seemed happy – something I hadn’t seen for a long time. He’d just come back from seeing his grandfather, and he was recovering. My friend told me his granddad had been full of conversation and laughter, sharing memories and affection, more animated than he’d been in weeks. He said there’s a chance he might actually come back home.
As he was telling me these things, all I could think about was the gift Toby gave me years before. I had the same thoughts back then as he was having now. But this time I had a different thought, “he’s gonna die tomorrow.” I didn’t say it out loud. Even if I was right, it would be too cruel to even suggest it. And maybe I hoped I was wrong.
The next day I got a call from my friend. His granddad had passed away. He used that final burst of energy to say goodbye, then moved on to the next world, leaving behind a cherished memory that would live on in those he loved.
Fin
Terminal lucidity remains a mystery, a poignant reminder of the bonds that endure, even at a life’s end. Perhaps it’s a last act of love, a chance to leave behind a lasting memory for those who stay behind, a memory that feels like a gift.
