Being with death
It's been a long and necessary break. Much needed to happen for me to make my way back to posting here. Time, tears, healing. I am finally posting again after 3 months.
We are all always walking towards our own death. And, we walk each other there.
Death has been close to me for nearly a year now, it's presence big in my day to day life, whether I like it or not. Last March, a young woman we knew and had grown to love, died after a year-long battle with a rare cancer. She was only 27, vibrant, very much alive and then, she was gone. I was honored to walk with her to the end, to sing to her, sound bathe her, talk with and be present for her and her partner and family.
I've been with death many times in my life. More than most folks I know. And, this one was different. There was great pain and also, power in the process of her letting go of her physical form. She certainly suffered, there's no doubt. And she also chose her exit in ways that many people never get to. She knew her end was coming and although she very much wanted to live, she surrendered and also prepared, doing what to me was incredibly brave: she invited her community into the experience, let those who loved her say goodbye, and quite literally walk her to the completion. I personally left that experience with a sense of peace that I had yet to feel losing any other person I've known. I will forever be thankful to Gennessis for allowing me and others that closure.
Just two months later in May, another young woman in our friend group lost her fight with cancer as well. As I understand it, hers was a five-year long journey and she fought so hard. She suffered immensely. Her husband, ever-faithful, was her caregiver, her champion, her best friend and the love of her life. They had been together for many years, yet only officially married not long before she left us. It was her dream and he manifested it for her. So much love between them. I watched the pain in his eyes and wondered how he was holding together. I spoke with him about how difficult it was and I knew in each conversation that I would never really know the depths of his pain. I did what I could as a friend to help both of them, to do as many of us did - find little ways to show we cared, make them laugh, create joy in the space of so much sorrow.
Jason loved his wife Min deeply, and she did not want to die. She told me that just a couple of months before she passed, saying that she was angry and truly wanted to stay. It's heartbreaking to look into the eyes of someone you care for and see the light going out and the fierce desire to live when the end is drawing near. There is nothing to do or say at that time other than just to be with that person, to witness them and their pain, their journey. I told her, "I hear you and I know you don't want to die. I don't want that, either. And I am here with you." That's all I could do or be for her.
Jason was her full time care giver and his life literally revolved around helping keep her alive as long as possible. He gave up his job, did very little socially and spent his days and nights loving Min and easing her pain where he could. He rather helplessly watched his wife die and in the 7+ months since she left, Jason suffered anew, not quite knowing how to go on living without her, or what to do in the absence of caring for her. His heart was broken and he made valiant efforts to claw his way out of grief and despair. He needed time. He went on a road trip, saw family and friends he had not connected with in years, then he came back home to try and put the pieces of his life back together. He could not. In an act of desperation, for reasons both clear and mysterious (we all thought he might just be ok), he took his life 2 weeks ago. Alone, in the bed Min died in, he lay down and never got back up again. The community was rocked once again.
I was stunned and saddened but not terribly surprised. And I was also (at first) surprised by how little this triggered me. It should have sent me off the edge somewhat, given the fact that my mother committed suicide when I was a child and then my father, much later and by a slower and more painful means (drugs/alcohol). I lost 2 friends to suicide in high school. I have been closer to it than I care to remember most days. Yet when I got the news, I was able to step in and be there for others, and then show up at his apartment and help disassemble his and Min's lives, packing their clothes and memories away. I wanted to help and I did. Then I came home and fell apart. My own pain came back to visit me and I was forced to face my old trauma. The memories, questions and feelings around my mother's death in particular demanded to be felt and heard and seen and answered. As I was processing it all, as if the universe was saying, "Hey, here you go, let's really play," my grandmother - her mother - died within days of Jason. Her name was Phyllis and my relationship with her was strange, unsettled, full of old wounds. My feelings when she passed were all at once grief, relief, anger and surrender.
There is a finality to knowing that she is gone now and that she carried to the grave with her the answers to questions I could never seem to ask. And to some I did ask, but she refused to answer. The flip side of it is a feeling of peace that I no longer have to navigate that relationship in the living world. The last holiday card she sent me said, "Come see me." She had sent many of them through the past several years, trying to reconnect with me and I didn't know how to meet her. There was to much pain. And then she died.
I don't feel regret at not having visited. I allow myself not to. I chose not to go and visit her, for many reasons, the greatest of which is simply self-care. It was painful to be with her. Our history was dark and bathed in denial and secrets.
More on that in another post. Much more on it in my memoir I'll finish and get out into the world one way or another very soon.
This post is messy but that's where my heart and head are right now. Clarity is coming, I feel it. I'll allow myself to let this one be as it is. Glad to be back and happy to being to sharpen my writing tools that have grown rusty.
For now, I'm happy to be alive and thankful to get to have deep experiences that show me just how strong I am. This past year surely has done that.
We are all always walking towards our own death. And, we walk each other there.
Death has been close to me for nearly a year now, it's presence big in my day to day life, whether I like it or not. Last March, a young woman we knew and had grown to love, died after a year-long battle with a rare cancer. She was only 27, vibrant, very much alive and then, she was gone. I was honored to walk with her to the end, to sing to her, sound bathe her, talk with and be present for her and her partner and family.
I've been with death many times in my life. More than most folks I know. And, this one was different. There was great pain and also, power in the process of her letting go of her physical form. She certainly suffered, there's no doubt. And she also chose her exit in ways that many people never get to. She knew her end was coming and although she very much wanted to live, she surrendered and also prepared, doing what to me was incredibly brave: she invited her community into the experience, let those who loved her say goodbye, and quite literally walk her to the completion. I personally left that experience with a sense of peace that I had yet to feel losing any other person I've known. I will forever be thankful to Gennessis for allowing me and others that closure.
Just two months later in May, another young woman in our friend group lost her fight with cancer as well. As I understand it, hers was a five-year long journey and she fought so hard. She suffered immensely. Her husband, ever-faithful, was her caregiver, her champion, her best friend and the love of her life. They had been together for many years, yet only officially married not long before she left us. It was her dream and he manifested it for her. So much love between them. I watched the pain in his eyes and wondered how he was holding together. I spoke with him about how difficult it was and I knew in each conversation that I would never really know the depths of his pain. I did what I could as a friend to help both of them, to do as many of us did - find little ways to show we cared, make them laugh, create joy in the space of so much sorrow.
Jason loved his wife Min deeply, and she did not want to die. She told me that just a couple of months before she passed, saying that she was angry and truly wanted to stay. It's heartbreaking to look into the eyes of someone you care for and see the light going out and the fierce desire to live when the end is drawing near. There is nothing to do or say at that time other than just to be with that person, to witness them and their pain, their journey. I told her, "I hear you and I know you don't want to die. I don't want that, either. And I am here with you." That's all I could do or be for her.
Jason was her full time care giver and his life literally revolved around helping keep her alive as long as possible. He gave up his job, did very little socially and spent his days and nights loving Min and easing her pain where he could. He rather helplessly watched his wife die and in the 7+ months since she left, Jason suffered anew, not quite knowing how to go on living without her, or what to do in the absence of caring for her. His heart was broken and he made valiant efforts to claw his way out of grief and despair. He needed time. He went on a road trip, saw family and friends he had not connected with in years, then he came back home to try and put the pieces of his life back together. He could not. In an act of desperation, for reasons both clear and mysterious (we all thought he might just be ok), he took his life 2 weeks ago. Alone, in the bed Min died in, he lay down and never got back up again. The community was rocked once again.
I was stunned and saddened but not terribly surprised. And I was also (at first) surprised by how little this triggered me. It should have sent me off the edge somewhat, given the fact that my mother committed suicide when I was a child and then my father, much later and by a slower and more painful means (drugs/alcohol). I lost 2 friends to suicide in high school. I have been closer to it than I care to remember most days. Yet when I got the news, I was able to step in and be there for others, and then show up at his apartment and help disassemble his and Min's lives, packing their clothes and memories away. I wanted to help and I did. Then I came home and fell apart. My own pain came back to visit me and I was forced to face my old trauma. The memories, questions and feelings around my mother's death in particular demanded to be felt and heard and seen and answered. As I was processing it all, as if the universe was saying, "Hey, here you go, let's really play," my grandmother - her mother - died within days of Jason. Her name was Phyllis and my relationship with her was strange, unsettled, full of old wounds. My feelings when she passed were all at once grief, relief, anger and surrender.
There is a finality to knowing that she is gone now and that she carried to the grave with her the answers to questions I could never seem to ask. And to some I did ask, but she refused to answer. The flip side of it is a feeling of peace that I no longer have to navigate that relationship in the living world. The last holiday card she sent me said, "Come see me." She had sent many of them through the past several years, trying to reconnect with me and I didn't know how to meet her. There was to much pain. And then she died.
I don't feel regret at not having visited. I allow myself not to. I chose not to go and visit her, for many reasons, the greatest of which is simply self-care. It was painful to be with her. Our history was dark and bathed in denial and secrets.
More on that in another post. Much more on it in my memoir I'll finish and get out into the world one way or another very soon.
This post is messy but that's where my heart and head are right now. Clarity is coming, I feel it. I'll allow myself to let this one be as it is. Glad to be back and happy to being to sharpen my writing tools that have grown rusty.
For now, I'm happy to be alive and thankful to get to have deep experiences that show me just how strong I am. This past year surely has done that.
Blessed be....
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