Entries from James E. Kerns' Journal

(Friday 25 January 1985).  Zelma called Margie to report that Dave had been to the doctor yesterday after a night of panting for breath.  Dave has an enlarged heart—twice its normal size—and fluid on the lungs.  I don't think he was told about the enlarged heart, although he knows it is "out of kilter."  The doctor prescribed digitalis for his heart and another medicine for the lungs.  If he isn't improved Monday when he goes back to the doctor, he'll be put in the hospital.

Dave gave Zelma strict orders not to tell anyone about his condition unless and until he went in the hospital.  Margie and I felt, however, that he at least needed a blessing.  I, therefore, went to town early and spent some time visiting Dave and Zelma.

For over a month Dave has had trouble with a sore left shoulder and pain up across the back of his neck.  I began questioning him about that and how he was feeling.  Finally I broke through his wall of secrecy and he told me the whole thing.  He says he's very weak.  It's an effort to even lift his arm.  He isn't sleeping well.

I told him he needed a blessing.  He consented.  I anointed him and also sealed the anointing.  I felt "alone" as I began the blessing.  The words weren't being given by the Spirit.  I inwardly asked for the Spirit to come and take over the blessing.  The Spirit came and let me know it was there by giving me a feeling of weightlessness or euphoria (I know not how to describe it), but it didn't take over the blessing.  All I could do was utter words of comfort, saying things about faith and assuring Dave that Heavenly Father knew his situation and was watching over him.  I was unable to say one word about him getting well.  From this I must assume that he has his terminal illness.

(Thursday 2 January 1986).  Monday 23 December at 6:30 the phone rang.  I answered on the first ring.  Zelma was on the other end.

"Jim, Dave just had a bad spell.  I called the ambulance and they're here working on him now."

"We'll be right there," I said, and hung up.

I woke Nathan and told him to take care of breakfast.  Then Margie and I dashed off to town.

We first stopped at the hospital emergency room thinking Zelma might have ridden there with Dave in the ambulance.  She wasn't there, but Margie peeked through the crack in the swinging doors.  She said, "Those are Dad's feet.  They're pumping on his chest."

We found Zelma waiting at her front door.  Her neighbor, Esther Spencer, had seen the flashing lights of the ambulance, had come over, and was waiting with Zelma.

We took Zelma to the hospital.  In a minute Dr. Hammer emerged from the emergency room and said, "I'm afraid there was nothing we could do."

Zelma calmly said, "I knew it.  The ambulance crew couldn't get a pulse, but they said it was worth a try."

Dave had gotten up and gone to the bathroom.  He got back in bed and planted his cold feet on Zelma's legs, as was their custom.  Zelma said they cuddled, and he gave her a pat like he always did.  They settled back down to sleep.  Dave made an awful sound in his throat.  Zelma said, "Dave, are you all right?"  He didn't answer.

She jumped up and began patting his face.  When he didn't respond, she grabbed the telephone.  Her glasses picked that moment to fall apart.  She had to hold them to her eyes while looking for the number of the ambulance.

Margie and I spent the morning with Zelma.  I made phone calls for her and began arranging the funeral.  None of the children felt they could sing or speak, but they seemed to want me to speak, which I was grateful to do.

(Friday 4 April 1986).  Three days before Dave died he stopped Zelma in the kitchen and said:  "I want to tell you something.  I think you're the finest wife a man could ever have.  I love you.  I want you to know that."

Zelma used to tell Dave during his last year that they ought to walk.  "Everyone says that people with heart trouble ought to take walks.  Let's take a walk.  We'll begin by just walking to the end of the block and back."

"Zelma, listen to me," he said.  "I don't have the strength to walk.  Just walking to the front door wears me out."

She never mentioned it to him again.  He sat in his chair on a pillow in a corner in the kitchen.  He read and slept.  He'd make like he was going to get up by scooting to the edge of the chair.  He'd stop there and again fall asleep.  He was just worn out, so tired.

Zelma confessed to me that when she gets to missing him really badly, she does something silly.  "I go pick up the pillow he used to sit on in the corner and hug it.  I think it smells like him.  Isn't that silly?  Don't tell anyone."