Long Goodbyes
February brings bittersweet recollections, as grief always returns. My intimacy with death begets much of my writings, and the griefspace speaks the loudest, where the veils are even thinner...
As a very young child, at the time of my brother’s death, I began to sense that time here was just part of the package. Death was not really the end. My spiritual ponderings were richly informed by both lucid dreams and conversations with God. Spirit guides were plentiful, and my lifelong animal guide, Wolf, was a reassuring and reliable friend. Although those around me did not always share my enthusiasm for the mysteries of life and death, and I was often simply smiled at and hushed, the whispering between worlds continued.
Death was a difficult, but very giving teacher. February always brings me back to the long goodbyes. It is the month I had to tell my mama she was dying, it is the month my Pops died.
Much of my writing speaks of a lifetime of inquiry with Spirit, and offers many glimpses into how life and death are longtime friends, and how conversations can continue beyond death. It also speaks of the unending bond between myself and my father, and offers a memoir of how we were both broken and healed by our tumultuous earth walk. Our conversations continue.
My whole lifetime has been filled with both the heartache and honor of sitting beside dying humans, dying creatures. Holding hands and hearing stories from those that are about to die, and receiving messages from those that are departed has been my way of being. I have felt for many years perhaps my gift to this world would be to help others befriend death and see it as the crossroads that it is, and to encourage the whispers between the worlds, letting people open to continuing their connections with their dead loved ones. What was a quieter way of being for me has welled up and been called forth in the past few years. The call to share this has greatly risen as I sat beside my father-in-law, my mama, and my dad as they left this world.
Caring for the dying helps us see both the precariousness and the richness of our time here.
“I’d like a tiny bit of apple juice with a long straw.”
Said with a sly wink, these were the last words my beloved mama said to me.
Although her final weeks were ripe with much pain she never lost her humor.
Watching her sip her apple juice that day brought years of flashbacks to me. I studied her once strong hands, now much thinner and frailer. These beautiful hands were the same ones that held me so often, were now like a softly shrouded skeleton.
I longingly touched every vein and stroked her now protruding knuckles. They were still so beautiful in their rawness. Holding them to my face I could still smell her from 30 year ago, when her skin would smell like coffee and chopped garlic, and slightly of bleach. She was always cooking or cleaning, always nurturing. I used to wonder why she never seemed to take better care of herself. Her hands were always cold, yet softly comforting. Soon enough she would be gone. These hands are literally disintegrating before my eyes, and watching my mother physically fade was a brutal test. For even with my years of walking beside the dying and speaking to death, my earthly presence was rattled by this impending loss.
I think that in the hormonal beautiful mess of welcoming my 4th child into the world, the joys of mama-hood were being overshadowed. Daily was the emotional rollercoaster, the bliss of my beautiful son being crowded out by the knowledge that my sweet mother was dying.
Here are some of my most vulnerable musings, of how the pain and grief of death can also be explored and befriended. Frank Ostaseski eloquently says it.
“The reflection on death is life-affirming. When we come into contact with the precariousness of life, we also begin to appreciate how precious it is, and then we want to live more fully.’’
Holding the straw to her still so full yet now cracked lips made me smile. I recalled the way she always donned her lipstick, never using a mirror. She’d say, “If I can’t see my own lips at my age I haven’t been paying enough attention.’’
Here she was, her final time here and beyond her pain, beyond her fear, was the monster she had to face: letting other people care for her.
My dad was broken. His heartbreak at losing the love of his life was glaringly apparent. Suddenly thrust into the role of her caretaker after nearly 60 years of being cared for by her was the hardest thing he ever did. Pops did it so clumsily, and his angst was ever apparent. He did it though, however uphill and heart wrenching it was for him. He was pissed at God, angry at the doctors, and hell bent on making me feel like shit for having to go home sometimes and nurse my newborn son. He wouldn’t accept much help from me or hospice, and he awkwardly yet lovingly brought my mama home to die.
The night of the apple juice was the last night she ever spent on earth. I knew her departure was imminent and begged my dad to let me stay the night. I wanted him to get some rest, I wanted to help, and damn it, I wanted to be beside my mama.
“Let me stay tonight, Pops.”
Silence.
Long breath.
He did not even look up from his desk. He was all disheveled, his hair sticking up, and his shirt was stained from his morning attempts at making my mama soup. Here was a man who was so sharp, so well dressed and put together that now was a blob of inner devastation, covered up by some ridiculous pride and misplaced anger.
“Are you gonna come and stay alone?”
Here we go. I was so rattled by his demands. How dare he make me choose between my dying mother and my newborn son. Cruel bastard. Before I could open my mouth and argue, I heard my mama gasping for air and coughing. Lung cancer can be loud and rattling way to exit. I stopped my mouth and remembered the last thing my mother needed was to hear me fighting with my dad. She needed the reassurance that it was okay to leave, that peace and love would prevail beyond her death.
We are never really over, just moving on. May these conversations around death help bridge the gap that is forged in fear, and offers the chance for readers to witness and welcome conversations with the dying and death itself. My own experiences create a story that is full of both everyday longings and difficult relationships. How facing the pain and opening ourselves can shift us, can heal us. The bond between me and my pops is both hugely personal, as it has some rich and interesting stories of why and how I chose to stay connected to such a difficult man. Yet it also feels universal, as we all have people on this earth walk that both challenge and enrich us. It reaches into the depths of primal pain and ultimate forgiveness. I believe my Dad was a gift to me, and walking him home was the greatest healing of this life, and perhaps many lifetimes for us both. I think many people will benefit from us sharing our story (I say us as my dad often channels through me and encourages me to share).
I was surprised that my Dad made it here almost 2 years without mama. A huge part of him died when she did, and he was never the same. Tough old bastard, he thought he was invincible. Funny, when my mom was alive, he kind of was.
My Dad’s final lap took over a year. He was, even at 78 a physical force. After family and doctors tried to cajole him into slowing down, he became more defiant than ever. His body was slowly breaking down, yet he was as tenacious and stubborn as a 25 year old. When he was getting close to his exit, I moved in with him. Oh, what a wild ride it was, ripe with tears, laughter, and some good old cursing and hollering. I would not trade those last months together for any money in the world. His last lap here he became like a child to me. I mean, I believe I could finally open myself up so huge to see his frailness and his innocence.
Pops was getting up less and sleeping more. I would curl up beside him, sometimes just to watch him breathe and imagine what it would be like for him when he left. I could hear my Mama waiting, and I never for one minute doubted he would get to heaven. Shit, my mother was such a saint he probably earned a free pass! But more than that, I had been shown over and over that our concepts of heaven and hell are all screwy.
One day very early in the morning he woke up with a jolt. He grabbed my hand and was all teary eyed.
“Pops, what’s wrong?”
“I saw her. I saw your mother. She is beautiful as ever, all in white, and those sweet lips, still so beautiful.”
“She is waiting for you Pops. You’ll get to be with her again soon.’’
He got all wide eyed and appeared drenched in fear.
“But I won’t be allowed to go there, will I?”
Suddenly it hit me so hard, and I felt like I came to understand my father completely.
I could at once see, feel, smell, hear and taste a hundred different places, his places.
I felt his fears so strongly I began to tremble. He felt he was not welcomed to the heavenly realms. He was so terrified by all of his regrets that he believed he was not even allowed to enter where his beloved was, yet he could hear and see her. He was deeply remorseful for a lot of crap in his life, and in the past few days, he had asked for forgiveness from his family. I tried my best to reassure him, but his lingering fears were almost insurmountable. He drifted back into a fitful sleep, and every time he would open his eyes I told him:
“You’ll be okay Pops. I promise.’’
I prayed fervently. I asked Spirit for clarity on this, and hoped it would arrive soon as I felt a bit worried. I sensed he would be dead soon. The last thing I wanted him to remember was love not fear.
‘’You must help him die. Journey for him”
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