Gismo:
I am a sound sleeper when I am nine years old. Yet when our beloved dog, a beautiful brown Cocker Spaniel, Gismo, comes into my room, late one night, I open my eyes. He gently eases his body down onto the rug. Liquid brown eyes gaze into mine. The look of pure love is there. His eyes then take me into deeper shores. Soon after, he exhales and is gone.
I lie there watching him. His big old brown eyes are now forever closed. I watch for a few moments careful to make sure his furry body is unmoving. Where once was breath, now there is none.
I lie there in witness to quiet interlude. I am too young to know those words then. Yet, Gismo’s peaceful dying remains in my heart and being.
Muriel:
I am one day away from boarding a plane for Hawaii. I’m eager for my osteopathic treatment that will help me release the sciatic pain, preparing me for travels. I have been seeing the celebrated Dr. Muriel Morgan Chapman for a few years. I know fully her miracle touch.
Arriving there, I have no time to sit under her sprawling oak tree. The door to her office is uncharacteristically wide open. Slowly, I walk over to it. I find Muriel lying face up on one of her treatment tables. Quietly she says, “I have fallen. I cannot get up.”
She requests me to help her get into her house. While her house is only yards away, momentarily I wonder how I will accomplish this, given my injury. As if on cue, another car pulls up the long driveway and parks. Together we help Muriel into her house.
It becomes clear speaking first with Muriel, and then her daughter, that no one is in place to care for Muriel during this stage of her life. She has cancer and the treatments are no longer working. Muriel is well into her eighties.
My first planned vacation in years is mysteriously rearranged. Overnight, I become a hospice caregiver. My trip to Hawaii is cancelled. I am privileged that Muriel calls on me to stay with her.
What I learn is more than I can convey. After all these years, nothing expresses the level of intimacy, stripped-down core encounter, that we shared. My life is redefined.
There is a quiet hush in the home that governs interactions. My years of meditation barely prepare me for this depth of connection. After all the communication, healing and death and dying training, I am invited to be wholly present. This is practicum. This is raw intimacy. The daily conversations are centered on real life and death concerns.
Every day I watch life around and in me move away from the mundane and into the subtle, still, sacred space. To be sure, there are conversations, dialogues, some easy, some not, risks taken, discoveries made. People daily come and go. We are also down to basics. But another aspect of life ushers itself into view as Muriel lies dying.
Daily, I take leave to drive across a bridge to work midday; it is shaping our letting go. These are not easy moments. One day, just as I am getting ready to leave Muriel’s bedroom, she shifts our dialogue from tentative leave-taking to true engagement.
“Good-bye,” she sings out in that singsong, lilting voice of hers. She is weak, yet her sparkling brown eyes twinkle as I start for the door.
“Good-bye,” I smile at her, singing our new song back to her, my hand slowly waving.
“Good-bye,” she sings out again, as I move into the living room.
“Good-bye,” I intone, voice quivering.
Over and over, our voices are singing out, one to the other, as I walk across the living room. There is no holding back this moment.
Our good-byes continue until her voice fades. I open the front door to the outside. My heart is wet with tears.
These experiences helped me be unafraid of death. They opened my heart. They opened me to deeper love. I know many people are fearful of natural dying experiences. I’ve been witness to traumatic deaths and their impact on families, friends and culture. I wrote this blog to start a new conversation, exploring a comfortable relationship with positive dying experiences.
Dear reader, do you remember when someone you loved died in a natural way and it opened your heart?
5 comments:
In my nursing career I was privileged to care for numerous people who were near the end of life. It was a profound experience that forever removed the fear of death from my mind. I witnessed a full spectrum of distress, fear, joy, peace and acceptance in those I cared for. I learned the most from those who accepted the end of life with grace and openness. Thank you Karla for your lovely post. It captures what is most real about being with a dying person and what an uplifting experience it can be.
Thank you Karla
Thank-you so much for your comments, Carolyn. I loved what you say about it being both privilege and a profound experience in your caring for people near to the end of life. Thank-you for all you gave.
I see the day coming when more and more have your wisdom and ability to lose the fear of death. We will be healthier as a nation.
Thank-you for your kind words....
Dear Karla - Muriel was my great-grandmother. I was 12 years old when she passed on, and still I hold many wonderful memories of her. That big oak tree in front of her house... was there ever any better place to be? I found your blog late one night when I decided to google my great-greatma's name. I had just completed a silly facebook 'get to know you' thing and one of the questions was, "If you could have dinner with any one famous person, dead or alive, who would it be?" I said my great-grandma, Muriel Chapman. Someone asked me what made her famous. I knew from previous searches, years ago, that there was a "Chapman Method" of osteopathy and for that, along with my own personal reasons, made her famous in my eyes.
I was told that she was found collapsed on one of her tables, and that it was breast cancer that final took over her body. I'm pleased to finally find someone, the exact person, it seems, that was there in her latter days.
I'll always remember with fondness, how she let us (her great-grand-children, and great-nephews) have our way with her house. I remember a little spot in one of the books shelves by her front door where I kept books, pull-out drawer in the kitchen that held the Sun-Maid raisin bread -a treat we only got at Great-grandma's, the bench at the bottom of the walk below her pool, sleeping in the yellow room. I have one very vivid memory of sitting in her dining room while it was raining. I was looking at the windows that, as I remember it, butted up in the corner of the room. I sat and watched rain drops fall on the leaves of the flowers planted there. I can still smell the leather of her car seats. I remember every inch of her home, in and out. Not because the structure, itself, was so amazing (thought it was), but because I was free to 'be' there. I could get lost steps, walk through the forest, sit at the organ and pretend to play. I could, and did, kill the ants that made their way to her butter dish - always in a cupboard to keep it soft.
I know I'm babbling, and I hope you can forgive me for that. My grandmother and mother have both passed on and I have no other family from which to gather information and learn of her life, and passing. Thank you for allowing me this time of happiness and sorrow. If you know of any stories, anything at all, I'd love to hear them.
Dear Great Granddaughter of Muriel:
I am touched by your loving reply about your great grandmother. I was indeed most privileged to be at her side, in those last months while she was in hospice with her body compromised by cancer.
It is a few years ago since you have written here. I certainly hope that you are able to finally see my reply. My life in these last years has been in a healthy transition. I moved away from Blogger and many other commitments and passions, as I healed from an accident.
Your great grandmother was indeed loved by many. Her nature was gentle and humble. She had gifts beyond what is commonly known in Osteopathy. I learned so much about life during my treatments with her, and of course, so much more in those last months while I was able to be at her side.
I can see you as a child moving about in her home, able to freely explore, finding a special place for your books, eating raisin bread, and feeling free and loved. Your great grandmother had a gift for allowing people to be themselves. Never one for pretense, she engaged others quietly, but with a certain presence that let you feel whole. I understood that often, after her lively and robust work schedule, she would often drive off for family affairs. I can imagine that she was a deep presence in many of your family member’s lives as well.
Your memory of sitting at your great grandmother’s dining room table is special. Rain seen in this way, falling on flowers, is a beautiful image. I can feel and hear your great grandmother living in you. You were very observant as a 12-year-old. That dining room table was a sacred place where Sarah, Muriel, and I would sit, reading cards sent her way, enjoying a slice of pie that made its way to her home. That oak tree where you sat on the bench; that was a special memory for two people who knew Muriel. They said that half of the healing came from getting to wait on that very bench, underneath that wonderful, sprawling oak tree. Another person shared that, as one of Muriel’s’ patients, she would often swim after her treatment.
One other special memory of her gifted hands is from another person I personally knew. This friend fell from a second-floor platform while she was working as a carpenter. Her orthopedic doctor told her, she would never walk again. But with Muriel’s care, she recovered and walked after six months.
I am so happy you are blessed with your memories of her love of you and what she gave to your childhood. I hope you are comforted in your loss of your great grandmother, your grandmother, and mother. That is a lot of loss. I likely met your grandmother during my time shared with your great grandmother in those last months.
I do hope you receive my reply and know how much it meant that you shared your special connection. If you want to reach out to me to explore more stories, you can email me consultingforpassion@gmail.com.
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