HOW DO YOU SAY GOOD-BYE IN THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE?

                 You matter to the last moment of your life, and we will do all we can,
                 not only to help  you die peacefully, but to help you live until you die.
                                                                                         Dame Cicely Saunders

HOW DO YOU SAY GOOD-BYE IN THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE?

Everybody adored my grandfather. Full of love, still waters running deep; he made me laugh. That is, until the last stage of his life.

His doctor gave him three months to live. He told him he needed a year. Shortly after Christmas in January, just after that year, he entered the hospital.

Our family had been summoned. We approached the hospital elevator. “No one under 12 is allowed in the critical care unit,” the sign read. My parents told my youngest sister that she could not visit. My father would stay with her. Later, I would relieve him.

I saw the crushed look on her face. It haunted me all the way up the elevator and down the long, dark corridors. I watched my other sister tremble as we neared his room.

Our grandfather met our gaze. His sunny smile greeted us. Protruding tubes were out of place on a body that had always been a call to comfort others with hugs. Delighted to see him, we smiled and rushed to hug him anyway...taking care, as much as teenagers can. Dying did not seem present. Love was. Once engaged, we stepped back and met his eyes. Where’s Sam? I flinched as our mother told him that she would not be coming. Wendy looked down at her shoes.

Our mother left to get water for him. Though not groomed to be friends, my sister and I shot each other a glance. A plan was made.

“Did you see the stairs outside his room?” My sister said, “Yes.” “I am going to run down and get Samantha. We’ll run upstairs and be back before there’s trouble.” My sister lit up. My grandfather gave us each a conspiratorial look.

Downstairs, I said I would stay with Samantha. Not exactly a lie. I waited until the elevator closed and asked, “Do you want to see Grandpa?” An emphatic nod ushered a beaming smile across Samantha’s face. “Then grab my hand.” We sprinted up the stairs that opened only two doors away from my grandfather’s room. Inside, my grandfather’s body heaved a sigh of relief. Samantha was doe-eyed with wonder. She was so happy to see him and he laughed upon seeing her.

Moments later my father entered. No scene, no drama. My grandfather had a calming effect on my parents. Today was no exception. The love between a grandfather and his granddaughters was so overflowing that the promise of an enduring connection, transcending all, would remain.

Two days later, we learned that our grandfather had just died.

It brought such joy, that ending revolution; living close to the edge of intimacy as it unfurled, sharing our last goodbyes.

FIRST, DO NO HARM: THE QUALITY OF CARE

Recently, I was asked to say more about what it means to care. Imagine my surprise when I “Googled” the Hippocratic oath:

I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to 

my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone.

I will give no deadly medicine to any one if asked.

As a child, I knew two doctors who abused this oath. In college, I found a caring physician who listened to my needs BEFORE prescribing treatment, putting me on extended bed rest. Late in life, I was privileged to work with a doctor who, through guided imagery, helped me resolve chronic health issues.

I’ve worked with many gifted doctors and healers. Cranial osteopaths helped me heal brain injuries and a spinal issue, thus avoiding surgery. The Osteopaths’ oath adds this to “caring”:

…keeping in mind always nature's laws and the body's 

inherent capacity for recovery.

                                         (http://www.osteopathic.org/inside aoa/about/leadership/Pages/osteopathic-oath.aspx)

After having been misdiagnosed for years, acupuncturist Dr. Yet Ki Lai moved me to tears. He knew my symptoms AND DIAGNOSIS. Without prompting, he described exactly what it was like living inside my body.

While many Western doctors were confounded, others invalidated me saying that I was not ill. Dr. Lai diagnosed me in the late stages of my illness. He told me to get a Lyme test. He knew that a confirmation would allow me to be taken seriously. Dr. Lai embodies Sun Simaio’s Oath of care:

I will be devoted to the task of saving the sacred spark of life in 

every creature that still carries it. 

Not to be left out in the conversation of care, the AVMA (American Veterinary Medical Association) revised its Veterinarian oath, committing to greater animal welfare:

I solemnly swear to use my scientific knowledge and skills for the benefit of 

society through the protection of animal health and welfare, the prevention 

and relief of animal suffering and the conservation of animal resources.

                                                                       http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veterinarian's_Oath

I give teary thanks to many gifted veterinarians and animal healers of Western, Osteopathic, Holistic, Acupuncture, Chiropractic and Psychomotor Therapy medicine. My beloved dog, Namaste, my niece’s beloved dog, Gertie, and my sister’s beloveds, Blue and Lancelot, would each have died prematurely were it not for many doctors and healers. Namaste and Blue received spiritual end-of-life care that few humans receive. Three of the dogs were in true hospice care, dying by natural means, in a loving environment.

Today I was with a client who has an injury. We had to forgo our equine leadership round pen work. This client did, however, make a commitment for personal health care; she realized without it, she would break her promise to the community of women in her care.

I asked her what she had previously learned in her equine work that helped her today. She said, “It’s simple. The horses are attentive and caring about each other in the herd. If I attend to my own personal health care, I will be able to listen and be empathic with others. I will be part of the caring herd.”

So, reader, what has emerged from your commitment to personal care?

TRANSITING SPIRIT

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?