Here on Digital Doorway, I've reviewed many books written by healthcare professionals, including doctors and nurses. In contrast, "Hospice Voices: Lessons For Living at the End of Life" is a memoir written by a lay hospice volunteer who shares with us his moving story of spending time with those facing their mortality. It's a beautiful book, deeply instructive to the professional and layperson alike.
Showing posts with label death and dying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death and dying. Show all posts
Monday, January 20, 2014
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Book Review: "Last Acts of Kindness"
Judith Redwing Keysarr is the Director
of Palliative and End of Life Care of Jewish Family and Children’s Services of
the San Fransisco Bay Area. Her book, “Last Acts of Kindness: Lessons for the
Living From the Bedsides of the Dying” was recognized as the American Journal
of Nursing Book of the Year in 2011. Ms. Keysarr will appear as our guest onRN.FM Radio on Monday, November 26th, 2012. (As
always, I received no compensation for this book review.)
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Ride of a Lifetime
Over the last six or seven months or so, mortality, health and illness have played a significant role in my personal life, and led to many musings about these weighty and universal subjects.
On Thanksgiving Day of last year, my father was hospitalized for a mysterious set of symptoms that left him bouncing between the hospital, a rehab facility and a nursing home for the better part of two months, his life a combination of miseries that brought him to the very edge of his tolerance of discomfort and physical and emotional exhaustion. Luckily for him, he has greatly improved, and while some symptoms persist, he is now happy to be home and relatively independent at the age of 82.
Two months ago, a rather garden variety respiratory infection sent my wife to the local hospital (on our moving day, no less) with a very aggressive bacterial bronchitis. Luckily, her infection was treated equally as aggressively, and she was sent home within a few days and eventually recovered after much rest and recuperation. Still, it was a wake up call on many levels.
Then, out of the blue on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo (which also happened to be my father's 82nd birthday), my wife's father had a massive heart attack and died in the living room of the home he shared with my mother-in-law. Although the paramedics attempted to revive him for thirty minutes (he had no advanced directives to request that they not do so), I am 100% certain that he was dead by the time they arrived. He was a large man in both the physical and metaphysical sense, and the loss of his presence on this earth is reverberating in the lives of many, many people who loved and admired him.
Since my step-father's death four years ago from metastatic pancreatic cancer (a death over which my wife and I presided as midwives, of a sort), we have become acutely aware of how our parents are indeed aging, and how their health and mortality are coming to the fore as they enter the winter of their lives. Other friends who have lost their parents understand our position, and we have watched as certain friends have become the new "elders" of their clans as their parents' generation makes it's exit.
Several weeks ago, sitting at a restaurant in a town outside of Austin with my now widowed mother-in-law and assorted family members, I was acutely aware of how my brother-in-law and I were, in effect, the patriarchs at this long table, a table at which, by all rights, my father-in-law should have been seated at the very head. However, in his absence, my brother-in-law and I had no one to fight with over the bill, so we calmly took out our credit cards and split the bill 50/50, starkly aware of how "The Colonel" (as he was affectionately known) would have never allowed us to do such a thing if he had been there to seize the check for himself. (In fact, in order to ever pay the check for a restaurant meal, I would always need to pretend to go the men's room, surreptitiously slipping my credit card to the server in advance, a sneaky yet highly effective endeavor.) But I digress.
This continuous movement along the life-and-death cycle truly brings home the fact that death---just like life---is itself inescapable, and our time on this mortal coil is blessed indeed. With the happy knowledge that I will eventually be a grandparent, God willing, my heart sings with the notion of life continuing in the very face of death and decay.
Sitting here this afternoon on the porch of an elderly patient's home where I work 12-hour shifts twice per week, I watch the clouds roll across the deep blue New Mexican sky. I observe the movements of the wind, trees, sun, dust, and tumbleweeds across the wide open expanse that surrounds me with a 360-degree view. A small lizard scurries across the worn wood planks of the porch, two birds alight in the bird-feeder, and a horse whinnies in the distance. I am grateful for the life that I have been given, and for the choices I have made that have brought me to this very place.
I think of my father-in-law, his large body now reduced to a small box of ashes interred reverently in a military cemetery in Texas. I think of the ashes of my step-father, some of which sit in a decorative vessel on my mother's kitchen counter, and a container of which awaits a trip to the Italian island of Capri where I promised him I would one day scatter them to the Mediterranean winds. I think of friends who have died, one by murder, one by his own hand, and others from illness and disease. I think of another friend who is currently waging a battle with cancer.
Human life is a beautiful, fragile, precarious and wonderful gift, and many of us waste countless hours, weeks and years frittering our time away in worry, regret, recrimination and remorse. In the final analysis, it's the quality of your living and your giving that counts, not the number of CDs in your collection, the balance in your checking account, or the make of your car. We humans get caught up in such shenanigans, losing track of what's important as we mindlessly chase that which is ephemeral and meaningless. It can be a long way from birth to death, and sometimes it's a short ride indeed, but the quality of the space in between these mysterious processes is truly the issue to deeply consider.
I have firmly and unequivocally entered middle age, and as my 50th birthday approaches in only three years hence, I look back and examine my life, realizing that it is likely more than half over. Regret is neither my friend nor my companion, and I realize that in order to honor the dead who have gone before me, it is my righteous duty to take this life by the horns and live it with the fiercest love and grace that I can muster. That is the greatest gift that I can give to myself, and it is the most fitting tribute to those who have moved on from this life to the next.
Our mortality is, in the end, one of the things that make living a fulfilling life so urgently sweet. Our time is limited, there's much to do and see, and there are hearts to touch and people to love along the way. Moving forward is indeed the only option, even when those we love leave us behind to wonder what is beyond that ethereal veil through which they have passed. I want my life to be a testament to what I love and what I value, and I believe that I am on the right path. I am grateful for my time on this earth, and I want to always rest in the knowledge that, despite the pain and suffering, it was truly the ride of a lifetime.
On Thanksgiving Day of last year, my father was hospitalized for a mysterious set of symptoms that left him bouncing between the hospital, a rehab facility and a nursing home for the better part of two months, his life a combination of miseries that brought him to the very edge of his tolerance of discomfort and physical and emotional exhaustion. Luckily for him, he has greatly improved, and while some symptoms persist, he is now happy to be home and relatively independent at the age of 82.
Two months ago, a rather garden variety respiratory infection sent my wife to the local hospital (on our moving day, no less) with a very aggressive bacterial bronchitis. Luckily, her infection was treated equally as aggressively, and she was sent home within a few days and eventually recovered after much rest and recuperation. Still, it was a wake up call on many levels.
Then, out of the blue on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo (which also happened to be my father's 82nd birthday), my wife's father had a massive heart attack and died in the living room of the home he shared with my mother-in-law. Although the paramedics attempted to revive him for thirty minutes (he had no advanced directives to request that they not do so), I am 100% certain that he was dead by the time they arrived. He was a large man in both the physical and metaphysical sense, and the loss of his presence on this earth is reverberating in the lives of many, many people who loved and admired him.
Since my step-father's death four years ago from metastatic pancreatic cancer (a death over which my wife and I presided as midwives, of a sort), we have become acutely aware of how our parents are indeed aging, and how their health and mortality are coming to the fore as they enter the winter of their lives. Other friends who have lost their parents understand our position, and we have watched as certain friends have become the new "elders" of their clans as their parents' generation makes it's exit.
Several weeks ago, sitting at a restaurant in a town outside of Austin with my now widowed mother-in-law and assorted family members, I was acutely aware of how my brother-in-law and I were, in effect, the patriarchs at this long table, a table at which, by all rights, my father-in-law should have been seated at the very head. However, in his absence, my brother-in-law and I had no one to fight with over the bill, so we calmly took out our credit cards and split the bill 50/50, starkly aware of how "The Colonel" (as he was affectionately known) would have never allowed us to do such a thing if he had been there to seize the check for himself. (In fact, in order to ever pay the check for a restaurant meal, I would always need to pretend to go the men's room, surreptitiously slipping my credit card to the server in advance, a sneaky yet highly effective endeavor.) But I digress.
This continuous movement along the life-and-death cycle truly brings home the fact that death---just like life---is itself inescapable, and our time on this mortal coil is blessed indeed. With the happy knowledge that I will eventually be a grandparent, God willing, my heart sings with the notion of life continuing in the very face of death and decay.
Sitting here this afternoon on the porch of an elderly patient's home where I work 12-hour shifts twice per week, I watch the clouds roll across the deep blue New Mexican sky. I observe the movements of the wind, trees, sun, dust, and tumbleweeds across the wide open expanse that surrounds me with a 360-degree view. A small lizard scurries across the worn wood planks of the porch, two birds alight in the bird-feeder, and a horse whinnies in the distance. I am grateful for the life that I have been given, and for the choices I have made that have brought me to this very place.
I think of my father-in-law, his large body now reduced to a small box of ashes interred reverently in a military cemetery in Texas. I think of the ashes of my step-father, some of which sit in a decorative vessel on my mother's kitchen counter, and a container of which awaits a trip to the Italian island of Capri where I promised him I would one day scatter them to the Mediterranean winds. I think of friends who have died, one by murder, one by his own hand, and others from illness and disease. I think of another friend who is currently waging a battle with cancer.
Human life is a beautiful, fragile, precarious and wonderful gift, and many of us waste countless hours, weeks and years frittering our time away in worry, regret, recrimination and remorse. In the final analysis, it's the quality of your living and your giving that counts, not the number of CDs in your collection, the balance in your checking account, or the make of your car. We humans get caught up in such shenanigans, losing track of what's important as we mindlessly chase that which is ephemeral and meaningless. It can be a long way from birth to death, and sometimes it's a short ride indeed, but the quality of the space in between these mysterious processes is truly the issue to deeply consider.
I have firmly and unequivocally entered middle age, and as my 50th birthday approaches in only three years hence, I look back and examine my life, realizing that it is likely more than half over. Regret is neither my friend nor my companion, and I realize that in order to honor the dead who have gone before me, it is my righteous duty to take this life by the horns and live it with the fiercest love and grace that I can muster. That is the greatest gift that I can give to myself, and it is the most fitting tribute to those who have moved on from this life to the next.
Our mortality is, in the end, one of the things that make living a fulfilling life so urgently sweet. Our time is limited, there's much to do and see, and there are hearts to touch and people to love along the way. Moving forward is indeed the only option, even when those we love leave us behind to wonder what is beyond that ethereal veil through which they have passed. I want my life to be a testament to what I love and what I value, and I believe that I am on the right path. I am grateful for my time on this earth, and I want to always rest in the knowledge that, despite the pain and suffering, it was truly the ride of a lifetime.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Ashes to Ashes
Cruising into the office after seeing a few patients for home evaluations, I walk into my supervisor's office to pick up some documents from the printer. On her desk, there is a white cardboard box with printing on the top, and I immediately know what it contains: ashes, or what is known euphemistically in the funeral industry as "cremains".
Stopping in my tracks, I approach the box, my mind flashing back to the day when I picked up my step-father's ashes from the funeral home, overwhelmed by the fact that his 72-inch tall body weighing 180 pounds in his prime was now reduced to a box of detritus weighing in at less than 10 pounds. I recall driving home with that box in the passenger seat of my car as I cried in relief for the end of his suffering, despite the surreal notion that all that was left of his physical body now fit in a small container that bounced nonchalantly on the seat as I raced towards home.
Returning to the present, I gently opened the white box bearing my deceased patient's name, and reached in to grasp in my hand a clear, thick plastic bag containing her remains. I lifted the bag out of the box, weighed it in my left hand, and closely examined the small chunks of bone interspersed in the grayish ash. Closing my eyes, I conjured her face in my mind's eye and sent her a prayer of comfort as I returned the bag to the box and closed the flaps tightly.
I had only met this patient once, and although I had heard that she was dying, my next visit was not scheduled quickly enough, and she died before I could make a final visit. Our agency's home health aides knew her well, providing intensive personal care as her illness progressed. An intellectual, writer and retired professor, her body and mind had deteriorated greatly over the last five years, and those who knew her well understood that this mental and physical deterioration had been incredibly difficult for her to accept. Unable to read, write or speak, she was trapped in a body that had become, for all intents and purposes, a vestige of itself, a shell almost entirely incapable of personal expression. Despite having no living family, she did not die alone, and this is a comfort to all who knew and loved her.
Leaving my supervisor's office, I was flooded with memories of my step-father and his final days, especially that last day of his life when we all gathered around his bed to witness his last intake of breath. He never exhaled, and it was as if the six of us expectantly gathered around his bed had exhaled for him, sending his spirit out from his body on its journey into the unknown.
Next, my old dog Sparkey came to mind, and I pictured that day in late summer when the vet came to our house and assisted him to leave his pained and wasted body behind. As the medication entered his veins, he licked each of our faces in turn and a single tear ran down his furry cheek. It was a difficult goodbye, but his suffering was due for a humane and timely end.
Now a dear friend of ours struggles with cancer as she grapples with what treatment regimen will be most effective and least toxic, and her phone messages and our conversations across the country reflect the potential of loss that we are all facing vis-a-vis her mortality.
Recently, another dear friend's sister took her own life, and another acquaintance died after a brief but heroic battle with leukemia.
That little white box and its contents of ash and pulverized bone were a provocative reminder, a physical and unexpected talisman of the final ride that we all must eventually take. Bearing this in mind, I considered my own complaints and their relative pettiness, and was once again reminded of what a brief and wonderful privilege it is to inhabit a human body, walk the earth, and breath in the air of life.
We arrive to this world empty-handed and leave with nothing but our soul. They say you can't take it with you when you go, so we have to make the most of this fleeting earthly sojourn of ours. I am grateful for the time I have, and when it's my turn to take my place in a little white box of ash and bone, I will do so with gratitude and the knowledge that this was a life well lived.
As the saying goes, ashes to ashes.
Stopping in my tracks, I approach the box, my mind flashing back to the day when I picked up my step-father's ashes from the funeral home, overwhelmed by the fact that his 72-inch tall body weighing 180 pounds in his prime was now reduced to a box of detritus weighing in at less than 10 pounds. I recall driving home with that box in the passenger seat of my car as I cried in relief for the end of his suffering, despite the surreal notion that all that was left of his physical body now fit in a small container that bounced nonchalantly on the seat as I raced towards home.
Returning to the present, I gently opened the white box bearing my deceased patient's name, and reached in to grasp in my hand a clear, thick plastic bag containing her remains. I lifted the bag out of the box, weighed it in my left hand, and closely examined the small chunks of bone interspersed in the grayish ash. Closing my eyes, I conjured her face in my mind's eye and sent her a prayer of comfort as I returned the bag to the box and closed the flaps tightly.
I had only met this patient once, and although I had heard that she was dying, my next visit was not scheduled quickly enough, and she died before I could make a final visit. Our agency's home health aides knew her well, providing intensive personal care as her illness progressed. An intellectual, writer and retired professor, her body and mind had deteriorated greatly over the last five years, and those who knew her well understood that this mental and physical deterioration had been incredibly difficult for her to accept. Unable to read, write or speak, she was trapped in a body that had become, for all intents and purposes, a vestige of itself, a shell almost entirely incapable of personal expression. Despite having no living family, she did not die alone, and this is a comfort to all who knew and loved her.
Leaving my supervisor's office, I was flooded with memories of my step-father and his final days, especially that last day of his life when we all gathered around his bed to witness his last intake of breath. He never exhaled, and it was as if the six of us expectantly gathered around his bed had exhaled for him, sending his spirit out from his body on its journey into the unknown.
Next, my old dog Sparkey came to mind, and I pictured that day in late summer when the vet came to our house and assisted him to leave his pained and wasted body behind. As the medication entered his veins, he licked each of our faces in turn and a single tear ran down his furry cheek. It was a difficult goodbye, but his suffering was due for a humane and timely end.
Now a dear friend of ours struggles with cancer as she grapples with what treatment regimen will be most effective and least toxic, and her phone messages and our conversations across the country reflect the potential of loss that we are all facing vis-a-vis her mortality.
Recently, another dear friend's sister took her own life, and another acquaintance died after a brief but heroic battle with leukemia.
That little white box and its contents of ash and pulverized bone were a provocative reminder, a physical and unexpected talisman of the final ride that we all must eventually take. Bearing this in mind, I considered my own complaints and their relative pettiness, and was once again reminded of what a brief and wonderful privilege it is to inhabit a human body, walk the earth, and breath in the air of life.
We arrive to this world empty-handed and leave with nothing but our soul. They say you can't take it with you when you go, so we have to make the most of this fleeting earthly sojourn of ours. I am grateful for the time I have, and when it's my turn to take my place in a little white box of ash and bone, I will do so with gratitude and the knowledge that this was a life well lived.
As the saying goes, ashes to ashes.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Of Birthdays and Death
Celebrating my 46th birthday this week has been a wonderful exercise in being grateful for all of my blessings, and the need to take grateful stock of my life is underscored by the persistent presence of sickness and death that is such an intrinsic part of human existence.
As a nurse, I have worked with the dying and the chronically ill for many years, and their struggles are a reminder that our hold on this mortal coil is tenuous, at best. Several years ago, my wife and I spent about three weeks living at my mother's house in New Jersey, caring for my step-father as his body slowly diminished in its power and presence at the hands of pancreatic cancer. Presiding over his dying process and his death was a powerful and moving experience, and despite my many years of nursing, his was the first death that I witnessed firsthand. That last gasping intake of breath was profound in its finality, even as we waited for the exhalation that never came. I noted how quickly the life force left the body, and how quickly we shifted from care-taking to grieving in the space of one breath.
In 2001, a very close friend of our family was gunned down by the police in a circumstance that might be plausible in a movie or novel, yet was wholly unreal to those who witnessed it and those who survived his horrible passage from this world to the next. Distressed, he had called our home to solicit our assistance moments before the police burst in and riddled his body with seven bullets, and we heard his dying cries of love on our answering machine as he lay bleeding. His death was indeed something almost beyond belief, and the post-traumatic stress that followed was life-altering.
Last year, a dear friend took his own life after years of struggling with chronic pain, depression, and an undiagnosed cognitive condition that robbed him of the ability to use his brilliant brain in the way in which he was accustomed. Memory failed him, words were slow to come, and the loneliness that he experienced was simply too profound for him to see a way to continue on. His 51st birthday would have been last Friday, and I miss the opportunity for him and I to celebrate our August birthdays together, Leos in heart and spirit.
Another close friend was diagnosed with an advanced cancer a few months ago, and this shocking news of urgent surgery, treatment and the potential for death from the ravages of the disease were yet another wake-up call. She is literally fighting for her life while she also faces her own mortality square in the face with courage and understanding that our time on this earth is indeed limited, either by illness, fate or irreversible circumstance. She is a shining example of grace and courage in action.
The other day, it was revealed that a close friend's sister died suddenly at 42, leaving a young daughter without a mother and a confused group of family members and friends. Sudden death is perhaps the most difficult to digest and understand, but acceptance is still the eventual goal, no matter how challenging the path to that state may be.
So, birthdays come and birthdays go, and we move forward in our lives with our petty complaints, our desire to do better, and the courage to continue on even in the face of monumental loss and grief. Birthdays are indeed a time for celebration, but they are also a moment for reflection, atonement, and the realization that this very birthday may very well be our last.
In light of that reality, why then do we waste such precious time with the minutiae of our complaints, problems and apprehensions? This is one of the puzzles of human life, and perhaps this year I will learn even more deeply that my time on this earth is limited, that these days are precious beyond description, and that it's time to live life without regret and hesitation. Perhaps this is the year when I will realize the enormity of the gift, embracing life with the open-eyed wonder that its many mysteries deserve. Happy birthday indeed.
As a nurse, I have worked with the dying and the chronically ill for many years, and their struggles are a reminder that our hold on this mortal coil is tenuous, at best. Several years ago, my wife and I spent about three weeks living at my mother's house in New Jersey, caring for my step-father as his body slowly diminished in its power and presence at the hands of pancreatic cancer. Presiding over his dying process and his death was a powerful and moving experience, and despite my many years of nursing, his was the first death that I witnessed firsthand. That last gasping intake of breath was profound in its finality, even as we waited for the exhalation that never came. I noted how quickly the life force left the body, and how quickly we shifted from care-taking to grieving in the space of one breath.
In 2001, a very close friend of our family was gunned down by the police in a circumstance that might be plausible in a movie or novel, yet was wholly unreal to those who witnessed it and those who survived his horrible passage from this world to the next. Distressed, he had called our home to solicit our assistance moments before the police burst in and riddled his body with seven bullets, and we heard his dying cries of love on our answering machine as he lay bleeding. His death was indeed something almost beyond belief, and the post-traumatic stress that followed was life-altering.
Last year, a dear friend took his own life after years of struggling with chronic pain, depression, and an undiagnosed cognitive condition that robbed him of the ability to use his brilliant brain in the way in which he was accustomed. Memory failed him, words were slow to come, and the loneliness that he experienced was simply too profound for him to see a way to continue on. His 51st birthday would have been last Friday, and I miss the opportunity for him and I to celebrate our August birthdays together, Leos in heart and spirit.
Another close friend was diagnosed with an advanced cancer a few months ago, and this shocking news of urgent surgery, treatment and the potential for death from the ravages of the disease were yet another wake-up call. She is literally fighting for her life while she also faces her own mortality square in the face with courage and understanding that our time on this earth is indeed limited, either by illness, fate or irreversible circumstance. She is a shining example of grace and courage in action.
The other day, it was revealed that a close friend's sister died suddenly at 42, leaving a young daughter without a mother and a confused group of family members and friends. Sudden death is perhaps the most difficult to digest and understand, but acceptance is still the eventual goal, no matter how challenging the path to that state may be.
So, birthdays come and birthdays go, and we move forward in our lives with our petty complaints, our desire to do better, and the courage to continue on even in the face of monumental loss and grief. Birthdays are indeed a time for celebration, but they are also a moment for reflection, atonement, and the realization that this very birthday may very well be our last.
In light of that reality, why then do we waste such precious time with the minutiae of our complaints, problems and apprehensions? This is one of the puzzles of human life, and perhaps this year I will learn even more deeply that my time on this earth is limited, that these days are precious beyond description, and that it's time to live life without regret and hesitation. Perhaps this is the year when I will realize the enormity of the gift, embracing life with the open-eyed wonder that its many mysteries deserve. Happy birthday indeed.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
The Universe of the Grieving
And now the grief settles into our bones. Mary and I have been complaining today of profound aches and pains, an experience which my sister shares. Our muscles are like stones which have lost the long-ago suppleness of soil. Our joints ache and creak like wintry tree limbs. We move through a syrup of feeling, even as we unpack the car, wash clothes, and attempt to resume "normal" life following the experience of a death.
Today we avoided a neighborhood picnic, lacking all motivation for superficial conversation and pleasantries. At the supermarket, we ducked in order to not encounter someone who we knew would only drain us with her narcissism. Tomorrow, I work from home, and Mary enjoys one more day of bereavement leave. Tuesday, we re-enter the proverbial rat-race, even as we continue to feel like we're still in a parallel universe, the Universe of the Grieving.
This special universe is inhabited by many, and even as some of us lose sight of it as we become enshrouded in the everyday world once more, a part of our heart remains in the Universe of the Grieving, holding the memories of our departed loved one in a special and tender place.
Pieces of my soul dwell permanently in the Universe of the Grieving, holding a spirit candle for my beloveds who have since left this earthly plane. The candle I burn for my step-dad glows most brightly, having only recently been lit. Some day another beloved's candle will be the newest one to grace my spirit altar, but for now his soul occupies the center of that most sacred space, and I send love and light to him as he claims his most righteous prize.
Today we avoided a neighborhood picnic, lacking all motivation for superficial conversation and pleasantries. At the supermarket, we ducked in order to not encounter someone who we knew would only drain us with her narcissism. Tomorrow, I work from home, and Mary enjoys one more day of bereavement leave. Tuesday, we re-enter the proverbial rat-race, even as we continue to feel like we're still in a parallel universe, the Universe of the Grieving.
This special universe is inhabited by many, and even as some of us lose sight of it as we become enshrouded in the everyday world once more, a part of our heart remains in the Universe of the Grieving, holding the memories of our departed loved one in a special and tender place.
Pieces of my soul dwell permanently in the Universe of the Grieving, holding a spirit candle for my beloveds who have since left this earthly plane. The candle I burn for my step-dad glows most brightly, having only recently been lit. Some day another beloved's candle will be the newest one to grace my spirit altar, but for now his soul occupies the center of that most sacred space, and I send love and light to him as he claims his most righteous prize.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Ashes to Ashes
This afternoon, I went to the funeral home and picked up my step-father's ashes. A small, compact container wrapped tightly in cardboard and sealed with official notification of its contents weighed heavily in my arms as I carried it down the steps.
Once in my car, I sat in the driver's seat and hugged that box to my chest, breathing quietly, feeling its weight in my lap. When I was ready, I placed the box gingerly on the passenger seat, and began to drive back towards my mother's house, where I would deliver her beloved husband's remains into her trembling hands. During that ride, I rested my right hand on top of the little box, just as I might rest my hand on my son's shoulder.
About half-way home, I realized that I was carefully avoiding bumps and pot-holes, gingerly taking turns, as if a fragile and easily damaged cargo sat beside me. Perhaps that fragile cargo was actually my own heart, heavy with grief, relieved that his suffering was over, and worried for my mother's future and well-being. Carrying those ashes was like being a solitary pall-bearer, shouldering a container whose contents were undeniably heavy, but whose ultimate goal was lightness and the shedding of the physical body's weight.
Resting that box on the piano in the living room after everyone had a chance to feel its weight, it was so very apparent that he is not actually in that box. What is in that box is simply the remains of a body, a vessel, a vehicle that propelled that soul through this life for eighty years. That soul, that spirit, is now free, roaming a world of which we can only dream. Blessings on that soul, even as the ashes and dust and bone fragments which remain with us are scattered to the winds of the earth.
Tomorrow, we celebrate that soul's accomplishments and that body's life on earth. And then we move on without him at our side, but with him always in our hearts.
Once in my car, I sat in the driver's seat and hugged that box to my chest, breathing quietly, feeling its weight in my lap. When I was ready, I placed the box gingerly on the passenger seat, and began to drive back towards my mother's house, where I would deliver her beloved husband's remains into her trembling hands. During that ride, I rested my right hand on top of the little box, just as I might rest my hand on my son's shoulder.
About half-way home, I realized that I was carefully avoiding bumps and pot-holes, gingerly taking turns, as if a fragile and easily damaged cargo sat beside me. Perhaps that fragile cargo was actually my own heart, heavy with grief, relieved that his suffering was over, and worried for my mother's future and well-being. Carrying those ashes was like being a solitary pall-bearer, shouldering a container whose contents were undeniably heavy, but whose ultimate goal was lightness and the shedding of the physical body's weight.
Resting that box on the piano in the living room after everyone had a chance to feel its weight, it was so very apparent that he is not actually in that box. What is in that box is simply the remains of a body, a vessel, a vehicle that propelled that soul through this life for eighty years. That soul, that spirit, is now free, roaming a world of which we can only dream. Blessings on that soul, even as the ashes and dust and bone fragments which remain with us are scattered to the winds of the earth.
Tomorrow, we celebrate that soul's accomplishments and that body's life on earth. And then we move on without him at our side, but with him always in our hearts.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Unfolding the Days of Mourning
When someone dies, we take a breath and realize that a new chapter has begun. Where before we cleaned the commode and wiped a sweaty brow, now we sift through memories and personal effects. Where before we concerned ourselves with medications and symptoms, now we examine legal necessities and paperwork. While our loved one was living while dying, we were also living through their dying process, slowly letting go of the old earthly relationship as we opened to a less corporeal connection which loomed large in our future. As our loved one's eyes began to focus beyond us in their softening gaze, we looked more and more closely for the subtle changes that might portend the end being near.
Once the body has been removed from the home and the hospital bed and other equipment as well, one must take stock of the space where the loved one lived and died, and accept that their physical presence in that space is now a thing of the past.
Next come the personal effects. A watch. A money clip. A ring. A necklace. The trousers hang in the closet, pockets still filled with the normal flotsam and jetsam of a life: wallet, keys, change, mints, candies usually carried for bank tellers and cashiers in stores, a handkerchief.
And then there are the clothes that hang in the closet, bereft of the body which once filled them. The shirts pine for a beating heart. The pants wish for legs to crease and bend them. The socks sit alone alongside the underwear and undershirts. The ties and belts dangle sadly like plants in a hanging garden. But a new life awaits them.
Food begins to arrive from caring friends and family. The phone is rarely at rest. Arrangements are made, and plans created. Activity is a welcome relief from the heaviness of mourning, yet too much activity can also preclude one's feelings being actively felt.
On the physical side, one must ask simple questions. Are you eating? Are you hydrating? Can you sleep? Would exercise be a benefit to you now? A fine balance must be struck, whether it be emotionally, physically or spiritually. You walk a tightrope of emotional balance, and living friends and family offer guiding hands along the way.
Laughter, smiles, moments alone, moments in motion, the awareness of loss---they are all part and parcel of the unfolding of the days of mourning.
Once the body has been removed from the home and the hospital bed and other equipment as well, one must take stock of the space where the loved one lived and died, and accept that their physical presence in that space is now a thing of the past.
Next come the personal effects. A watch. A money clip. A ring. A necklace. The trousers hang in the closet, pockets still filled with the normal flotsam and jetsam of a life: wallet, keys, change, mints, candies usually carried for bank tellers and cashiers in stores, a handkerchief.
And then there are the clothes that hang in the closet, bereft of the body which once filled them. The shirts pine for a beating heart. The pants wish for legs to crease and bend them. The socks sit alone alongside the underwear and undershirts. The ties and belts dangle sadly like plants in a hanging garden. But a new life awaits them.
Food begins to arrive from caring friends and family. The phone is rarely at rest. Arrangements are made, and plans created. Activity is a welcome relief from the heaviness of mourning, yet too much activity can also preclude one's feelings being actively felt.
On the physical side, one must ask simple questions. Are you eating? Are you hydrating? Can you sleep? Would exercise be a benefit to you now? A fine balance must be struck, whether it be emotionally, physically or spiritually. You walk a tightrope of emotional balance, and living friends and family offer guiding hands along the way.
Laughter, smiles, moments alone, moments in motion, the awareness of loss---they are all part and parcel of the unfolding of the days of mourning.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Death's Labor Pains on Labor Day
Today at 4:10pm, my beloved step-father left this world as we surrounded his bed to witness his final breaths. As he moved through the stages of the dying process over the last 48 hours, I became more and more certain that the end was drawing ever closer, perhaps more rapidly than I originally surmised it might. His struggle to allow his spirit to leave his body was truly like labor, and we were the midwives and cheerleaders along his triumphant road to freedom.
Just as it happens around the world at every hour under the sun, people came and went from my parents' home over these last days, and we all played our parts in the unfolding drama according to our individual roles and skills. My step-father's lovely daughters, sons-in-law, granddaughter, and great-grandchildren all added to the quality of the times shared under this roof, and his final days were filled with loving visits and calming energy. One visitor, a Stephen Minister by vocation, remarked that Spirit was "just pouring through the house", and he praised our little home hospice with words of benediction.
Losing myself in the minutiae of my step-dad's hourly care, I realized that my grieving process was being (somewhat necessarily) truncated by my self-imposed duties of conductor, coordinator, choreographer, and caregiver. Even as others found moments to cry, my reservoir was seemingly dry. But when the moment came and he took his final breath, we all huddled around the bed, and the tears and sobs came in torrents, releasing days of unexpressed stress and grief. It is said that "unshed tears will make other organs weep". I wrung some organs dry today, so to speak, and now I can sleep the rest of the exhausted along with the rest of our family.
His death was a fine one, navigated with grace, dignity, and a collective benevolence of spirit. Now we can be certain that our dear loved one is winging his way to a place of deserved beauty and peace, and our efforts here on Earth sent him with enormous love to fuel his journey.
Just as it happens around the world at every hour under the sun, people came and went from my parents' home over these last days, and we all played our parts in the unfolding drama according to our individual roles and skills. My step-father's lovely daughters, sons-in-law, granddaughter, and great-grandchildren all added to the quality of the times shared under this roof, and his final days were filled with loving visits and calming energy. One visitor, a Stephen Minister by vocation, remarked that Spirit was "just pouring through the house", and he praised our little home hospice with words of benediction.
Losing myself in the minutiae of my step-dad's hourly care, I realized that my grieving process was being (somewhat necessarily) truncated by my self-imposed duties of conductor, coordinator, choreographer, and caregiver. Even as others found moments to cry, my reservoir was seemingly dry. But when the moment came and he took his final breath, we all huddled around the bed, and the tears and sobs came in torrents, releasing days of unexpressed stress and grief. It is said that "unshed tears will make other organs weep". I wrung some organs dry today, so to speak, and now I can sleep the rest of the exhausted along with the rest of our family.
His death was a fine one, navigated with grace, dignity, and a collective benevolence of spirit. Now we can be certain that our dear loved one is winging his way to a place of deserved beauty and peace, and our efforts here on Earth sent him with enormous love to fuel his journey.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
One Year: Of Endings and Beginnings
I just posted this on Latter Day Sparks and decided to also post it here. Thanks for stopping by.
Today, September 2nd, 2007, at approximately 1pm, Sparkey will be dead one year. His body still rests in the earth just beside our house, but his spirit body moves in an entirely different dimension.
Even as we celebrate his life and honor the 12-month anniversary of his passing, we sit vigil here in New Jersey, comforting my beloved step-father as he moves into the final stages of the dying process himself. The details of Sparkey's passage are fresh in my mind, and at this time (10am) on September 2nd of last year, we were enjoying what we knew would be our final morning and afternoon on earth with our wonderful canine companion. It was a day of final events: the last walk, the last meal, the final treats from the mail carrier, loving visits from the neighbors, Sparkey bestowing a final kiss to a small child's face (our neighbors' newborn). And then, before we could catch our breath, the vet came, we administered the medications, and he died, crying a final tear from his left eye as we kissed him and told him how loved and lovely he truly was.
Now, on this very day, we watch as my step-father's breathing becomes erratic, with 5-second periods of apnea (the absence of breathing), followed by a succession of rapid breaths once again. Hints of a minimal rattle in the throat make themselves known from time to time, yet he then breathes normally again. There will be no doctor visiting today to administer a dose of medicine to end his struggle, to assuage his suffering. In our culture, our dogs' and cats' suffering is painlessly ended when it is seen to be the most humane act we can perform; yet our suffering human loved ones, whose quality of life has long since diminished to less than a shadow of its former self, must struggle and gasp until the end. Morphine assists the process and depresses respiration, but Tulane will not experience the sudden and painless release that Sparkey was so blessed to receive.
Speaking of Sparkey and Tulane, Sparkey has now visited Tulane twice over the last few months, the most recent visit being only several days ago. When my mother and my wife and I were finishing a conversation around Tulane's bed early last week, Tulane said, "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation, but Sparkey was just here. He came through the window and stood by my bed, looking at me, smiling and panting, and wagging his tail furiously." (We all noted that there was a chocolate-chip cookie on the bedside table and Sparkey may have been eying it from across the veil.) Tulane seemed very pleased by this visit, as he did by a similar visit several months ago when Sparkey entered through the closed front door and curled around Tulane's legs under the kitchen table. With each visit, Tulane describes being able to smell Sparkey in the air, and to smell him on his hand after petting his head, long after our favorite golden dog had left the scene.
So, we await Tulane's death, midwifing him through the process, even as we recognize and celebrate Sparkey's anniversary. It is a significant day in our lives, and its importance informs our every waking (and sleeping) moment.
Happy un-Birthday Sparkey! May you run and play and rest in a peaceful and wonderful world, and may you welcome Tulane when he is ready to join you there. We love you, Sparkey!
Today, September 2nd, 2007, at approximately 1pm, Sparkey will be dead one year. His body still rests in the earth just beside our house, but his spirit body moves in an entirely different dimension.
Even as we celebrate his life and honor the 12-month anniversary of his passing, we sit vigil here in New Jersey, comforting my beloved step-father as he moves into the final stages of the dying process himself. The details of Sparkey's passage are fresh in my mind, and at this time (10am) on September 2nd of last year, we were enjoying what we knew would be our final morning and afternoon on earth with our wonderful canine companion. It was a day of final events: the last walk, the last meal, the final treats from the mail carrier, loving visits from the neighbors, Sparkey bestowing a final kiss to a small child's face (our neighbors' newborn). And then, before we could catch our breath, the vet came, we administered the medications, and he died, crying a final tear from his left eye as we kissed him and told him how loved and lovely he truly was.
Now, on this very day, we watch as my step-father's breathing becomes erratic, with 5-second periods of apnea (the absence of breathing), followed by a succession of rapid breaths once again. Hints of a minimal rattle in the throat make themselves known from time to time, yet he then breathes normally again. There will be no doctor visiting today to administer a dose of medicine to end his struggle, to assuage his suffering. In our culture, our dogs' and cats' suffering is painlessly ended when it is seen to be the most humane act we can perform; yet our suffering human loved ones, whose quality of life has long since diminished to less than a shadow of its former self, must struggle and gasp until the end. Morphine assists the process and depresses respiration, but Tulane will not experience the sudden and painless release that Sparkey was so blessed to receive.
Speaking of Sparkey and Tulane, Sparkey has now visited Tulane twice over the last few months, the most recent visit being only several days ago. When my mother and my wife and I were finishing a conversation around Tulane's bed early last week, Tulane said, "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation, but Sparkey was just here. He came through the window and stood by my bed, looking at me, smiling and panting, and wagging his tail furiously." (We all noted that there was a chocolate-chip cookie on the bedside table and Sparkey may have been eying it from across the veil.) Tulane seemed very pleased by this visit, as he did by a similar visit several months ago when Sparkey entered through the closed front door and curled around Tulane's legs under the kitchen table. With each visit, Tulane describes being able to smell Sparkey in the air, and to smell him on his hand after petting his head, long after our favorite golden dog had left the scene.
So, we await Tulane's death, midwifing him through the process, even as we recognize and celebrate Sparkey's anniversary. It is a significant day in our lives, and its importance informs our every waking (and sleeping) moment.
Happy un-Birthday Sparkey! May you run and play and rest in a peaceful and wonderful world, and may you welcome Tulane when he is ready to join you there. We love you, Sparkey!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wine and Roses
A week lapse in blogging due to extenuating circumstances, caring for a dying parent. Stranded in suburban purgatory without internet connection or any of my usual anchors.
Death comes slowly and inexorably. We all die in increments. From the day we are born we are moment by moment closer to the time of our death.
And what does this proximity to death mean? What does it portend?
I feel that it portends our deeply held need to live even more fully and to forgive those who have trespassed against us, for those days of wine and roses are altogether too fleeting.
Death comes slowly and inexorably. We all die in increments. From the day we are born we are moment by moment closer to the time of our death.
And what does this proximity to death mean? What does it portend?
I feel that it portends our deeply held need to live even more fully and to forgive those who have trespassed against us, for those days of wine and roses are altogether too fleeting.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Death Circles the Wagons
When Death begins to circle its wagons
drawing ever tighter spaces
around our dying loved one
we circle our wagons as well
drawing on previously untapped emotional and physical reserves
in order to do what we felt was beyond our ken.
Never did we think
that we could do what we are now doing.
Never could we picture the compromises, the sacrifices,
the emotional stretching that we would need to endure.
Never did we consider how Death---so patient----
would slowly and inexorably remove our loved one
from our midst,
allowing us an intimate view
of how Death begins to take our loved one
even while he is still breathing before our very eyes.
Wait, watch
Listen and breathe.
Death may be cruel, Death may be kind
but Death is eventually our final friend in life;
removing our physical presence from this mortal coil
when our personal Sun has set.
Even as Death causes our loved one to wither
and unequivocally disappear
before our very eyes,
God(dess) is there,
holding the hands of all, the dying and the bereaved alike,
guiding us to a place
where Grace, Wisdom, and Beauty make their home.
We watch the wagons circle, helpless, yet
poised for the future,
but still clinging to a present
that must eventually give way
to a new world for our loved one,
a world to which they must travel alone.
Alone, yes, they must take their leave of us alone,
to release themselves from a body ready to return to Source.
We cannot accompany our loved one on that final road,
yet they are released by us with blessings
and hopes
for a sweet, sweet hereafter.
drawing ever tighter spaces
around our dying loved one
we circle our wagons as well
drawing on previously untapped emotional and physical reserves
in order to do what we felt was beyond our ken.
Never did we think
that we could do what we are now doing.
Never could we picture the compromises, the sacrifices,
the emotional stretching that we would need to endure.
Never did we consider how Death---so patient----
would slowly and inexorably remove our loved one
from our midst,
allowing us an intimate view
of how Death begins to take our loved one
even while he is still breathing before our very eyes.
Wait, watch
Listen and breathe.
Death may be cruel, Death may be kind
but Death is eventually our final friend in life;
removing our physical presence from this mortal coil
when our personal Sun has set.
Even as Death causes our loved one to wither
and unequivocally disappear
before our very eyes,
God(dess) is there,
holding the hands of all, the dying and the bereaved alike,
guiding us to a place
where Grace, Wisdom, and Beauty make their home.
We watch the wagons circle, helpless, yet
poised for the future,
but still clinging to a present
that must eventually give way
to a new world for our loved one,
a world to which they must travel alone.
Alone, yes, they must take their leave of us alone,
to release themselves from a body ready to return to Source.
We cannot accompany our loved one on that final road,
yet they are released by us with blessings
and hopes
for a sweet, sweet hereafter.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Whirlwind Weekends and Weathering Storms
A string of whirlwind weekends---and the impending death of my step-father---have been generally impeding my ability to blog as consistently as I would like. Regular readers will also notice that death, dying and the grieving process have also made themselves quite visible in recent writings. When faced with the mortality of a loved one, one's own mortality also indeed comes to the fore.
Gyalse Rinpoche has said: "Planning for the future is like going fishing in a dry gulch; nothing ever works out as you wanted, so give up all your schemes and ambitions. If you have got to think about something—make it the uncertainty of the hour of your death."
The above is interesting advice at such a transitional time in life, when the stability, well-being and future of family structure is in question. How can one plan when the future is so uncertain? One can only ask for guidance and peace of mind to weather the storms of the unfolding days.
Gyalse Rinpoche has said: "Planning for the future is like going fishing in a dry gulch; nothing ever works out as you wanted, so give up all your schemes and ambitions. If you have got to think about something—make it the uncertainty of the hour of your death."
The above is interesting advice at such a transitional time in life, when the stability, well-being and future of family structure is in question. How can one plan when the future is so uncertain? One can only ask for guidance and peace of mind to weather the storms of the unfolding days.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Birthday Ruminations: Life, Death and in Between
Today is my 43rd birthday, and I am working from home, spending some quiet time with Tina the Dog and a hammock. Calls and emails come in from time to time. Lawnmowers and other daytime neighborhood comings and goings fill the air.
Even as life continues on its usual trajectory, death lurks in the shadows. We really do spend a great deal of our time ignoring death, avoiding death, trying to beat Death at his own game. Movies portray death in many guises: as the demise of a self-destructive addict, the heroic death of a firefighter, the needless accidental death of a child, the tragic death of hundreds due to natural disasters, wars, famine, and genocide. The media bring us news of death daily as famous celebrities die, dozens of people are slaughtered by car bombs in Baghdad, or bridges and mines collapse in our cities and towns. Eventually, news of death becomes so routine, so ubiquitous, we are almost immune to its import, its very impact diminished through repetition, our eyes glazed over in disbelief.
As a medical provider, my desire, of course, is to assist my patients in postponing death, improving their health and quality of life, as well as trying to ensure that chronic diseases are treated, prevented, or stabilized. Colonoscopies, mammograms, testicular exams, blood tests---these are all means to the end of thwarting illness and death. But even these scientific machinations cannot save us all, and cancer grows in parts not scoped, or disease manifests when some aberrant gene decides to turn itself on. We are all works in progress, and as the saying goes, nothing is more certain in life than death and taxes.
When terminal illness strikes a family member, the other members of that family are forced into an intimate conversation with mortality. Through the processes of denial and ignorance, we can potentially shield ourselves from some aspect of this reality, but when push comes to shove, Death will force himself through the door one way or another.
In Ingmar Bergman's film The Seventh Seal, the protagonist---a knight journeying through a a Europe gripped by the Black Plague---challenges Death to a game of chess, buying time while still knowing what the eventual endgame will be. This is a lesson for us all---we can buy time, we can stall, we can challenge Death at every turn, but even on a day which celebrates our birth, death must also be a part of the inner conversation.
I often want to ask a dying person what it feels like to know that one's life is so very close to its end. Is there a breathless panic that not enough has been done? Are there regrets of relationships still unhealed? Is there a kind of relief that one feels? Is there lamenting of places not visited, photos not taken, pictures not painted, songs not written? And what of acceptance and peace? How does one face one's imminent death knowing full well that there was so much more to be done, so much more living to enjoy? How does one reconcile that in one's mind and heart?
Obviously to me, one of the most effective ways to beat Death at his own game is to embrace life in all of its challenges and curve-balls, throwing oneself into each day with abandon and determination. Unfortunately, we all occasionally lose sight of our mortality, putting off until tomorrow what we could do today, knowing full well somewhere in the back of our minds that tomorrow may never come. As for cleaning the bathroom or mowing the lawn, I see no problem with putting that off 'til the 'morrow. But telling someone how much you love them, looking into the eyes of a child, smelling a rose in full bloom, or writing that long-dreamed of novel---these are the things that simply cannot wait. A dirty bathroom is one thing. An unhealed relationship is quite another.
So, as a birthday present to myself, I take this moment to reflect on life and death, and make a pact to continue to remind myself of the importance of each day and my ability to embrace it for all it's worth. Doing any less is only inviting Death to eventually rob me of something I treasure through the mechanisms of regret and remorse. We should all strive to deny Death that opportunity, and allow Life its share of victory and everyday bliss.
Even as life continues on its usual trajectory, death lurks in the shadows. We really do spend a great deal of our time ignoring death, avoiding death, trying to beat Death at his own game. Movies portray death in many guises: as the demise of a self-destructive addict, the heroic death of a firefighter, the needless accidental death of a child, the tragic death of hundreds due to natural disasters, wars, famine, and genocide. The media bring us news of death daily as famous celebrities die, dozens of people are slaughtered by car bombs in Baghdad, or bridges and mines collapse in our cities and towns. Eventually, news of death becomes so routine, so ubiquitous, we are almost immune to its import, its very impact diminished through repetition, our eyes glazed over in disbelief.
As a medical provider, my desire, of course, is to assist my patients in postponing death, improving their health and quality of life, as well as trying to ensure that chronic diseases are treated, prevented, or stabilized. Colonoscopies, mammograms, testicular exams, blood tests---these are all means to the end of thwarting illness and death. But even these scientific machinations cannot save us all, and cancer grows in parts not scoped, or disease manifests when some aberrant gene decides to turn itself on. We are all works in progress, and as the saying goes, nothing is more certain in life than death and taxes.
When terminal illness strikes a family member, the other members of that family are forced into an intimate conversation with mortality. Through the processes of denial and ignorance, we can potentially shield ourselves from some aspect of this reality, but when push comes to shove, Death will force himself through the door one way or another.
In Ingmar Bergman's film The Seventh Seal, the protagonist---a knight journeying through a a Europe gripped by the Black Plague---challenges Death to a game of chess, buying time while still knowing what the eventual endgame will be. This is a lesson for us all---we can buy time, we can stall, we can challenge Death at every turn, but even on a day which celebrates our birth, death must also be a part of the inner conversation.
I often want to ask a dying person what it feels like to know that one's life is so very close to its end. Is there a breathless panic that not enough has been done? Are there regrets of relationships still unhealed? Is there a kind of relief that one feels? Is there lamenting of places not visited, photos not taken, pictures not painted, songs not written? And what of acceptance and peace? How does one face one's imminent death knowing full well that there was so much more to be done, so much more living to enjoy? How does one reconcile that in one's mind and heart?
Obviously to me, one of the most effective ways to beat Death at his own game is to embrace life in all of its challenges and curve-balls, throwing oneself into each day with abandon and determination. Unfortunately, we all occasionally lose sight of our mortality, putting off until tomorrow what we could do today, knowing full well somewhere in the back of our minds that tomorrow may never come. As for cleaning the bathroom or mowing the lawn, I see no problem with putting that off 'til the 'morrow. But telling someone how much you love them, looking into the eyes of a child, smelling a rose in full bloom, or writing that long-dreamed of novel---these are the things that simply cannot wait. A dirty bathroom is one thing. An unhealed relationship is quite another.
So, as a birthday present to myself, I take this moment to reflect on life and death, and make a pact to continue to remind myself of the importance of each day and my ability to embrace it for all it's worth. Doing any less is only inviting Death to eventually rob me of something I treasure through the mechanisms of regret and remorse. We should all strive to deny Death that opportunity, and allow Life its share of victory and everyday bliss.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Caring for the Dying and the Self
When a loved one is in the (relatively slow) process of dying from a terminal illness, we can often lose ourselves in the minutiae of care-giving, ignoring our own needs vis-a-vis the grieving process. When someone is living at home and facing death with family at their side, those family members providing emotional and physical support can be consumed by the needs of the dying person, consequently being potentially cut off from their own feelings and the need to grieve and mourn an imminent loss.
Finessing the end of a life is a subtle emotional process for all involved. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross had very specific ideas about the "stages" of grieving and loss which radically changed the global conversation about death and dying. Stephen and Ondrea Levine also offer a unique spiritual perspective of this most intimate and ubiquitous human experience. Sogyal Rinpoche, often quoted on this blog, shares his own views of death and dying through his own spiritual lens in his seminal book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, one chapter being entitled Heart Advice on Helping the Dying.
I have found myself lost in the pragmatics of supporting my parents as my step-father faces death from metastatic pancreatic cancer. With no treatment options remaining, home hospice care is now the key to comfort, symptom management, and emotional and spiritual support for my parents. In this way, I hope to make room for my own grieving which has been sidelined by the need for practical problem-solving and advocacy. Those needs will not disappear, but when one enlists the assistance of professionals who are highly skilled in this delicate process, one can begin to let one's guard down and open to the winds of grief.
I now welcome those winds to blow through me, allowing myself to begin the process of letting go even as constant presence and compassion is needed. For if the caregiver goes uncared for, the caregiver's ability to serve will only suffer. To paraphrase an ancient physician whose name is unknown to me: "Unshed tears will make other organs weep".
Finessing the end of a life is a subtle emotional process for all involved. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross had very specific ideas about the "stages" of grieving and loss which radically changed the global conversation about death and dying. Stephen and Ondrea Levine also offer a unique spiritual perspective of this most intimate and ubiquitous human experience. Sogyal Rinpoche, often quoted on this blog, shares his own views of death and dying through his own spiritual lens in his seminal book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, one chapter being entitled Heart Advice on Helping the Dying.
I have found myself lost in the pragmatics of supporting my parents as my step-father faces death from metastatic pancreatic cancer. With no treatment options remaining, home hospice care is now the key to comfort, symptom management, and emotional and spiritual support for my parents. In this way, I hope to make room for my own grieving which has been sidelined by the need for practical problem-solving and advocacy. Those needs will not disappear, but when one enlists the assistance of professionals who are highly skilled in this delicate process, one can begin to let one's guard down and open to the winds of grief.
I now welcome those winds to blow through me, allowing myself to begin the process of letting go even as constant presence and compassion is needed. For if the caregiver goes uncared for, the caregiver's ability to serve will only suffer. To paraphrase an ancient physician whose name is unknown to me: "Unshed tears will make other organs weep".
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