Done with Death?!? I Think Not...

Recently I took all my death and dying books, pamphlets, brochures, archives and articles and placed them at the back of my closet. It’s symbolic, but also a statement of fact: I’m done with death for now.

Not to say I won’t help – or listen to – someone who calls with questions, or make a referral to a hospice or the national Compassion & Choices organization. I will always do those things. But I’m done with setting up events, hosting them and encouraging people – mostly strangers – to talk about death.

Of course, I’ve already gotten all my final paperwork done, so I can afford the luxury of playing with a new beau rather than having to have those heart-felt conversations. 

I’ve done all that…

Have you?

If not, let me encourage you... 

(OK, so I am still at my death work, but only peripherally) 

...to fill out your Advance Directives. A Healthcare Power of Attorney, perhaps a Mental Health Power of Attorney, your Last Will and Testament (which is basically just making your wishes known…you’ll need further paperwork if you want things of value to go to the appropriate people with fewer complications.)

A good place to start is with the Five Wishes document. I’ve heard arguments both pro and con about it. It’s quite “user friendly” so people will actually do it, and you get it notarized, so it’s legal – at least in Arizona and several other states. But an argumentative relative can undo all your planning, so make sure you’ve spoken to them, too.

It’s not easy to do. But once it’s done (and reviewed every five years or so), you can put your death and dying fears and phobias at the back of the closet, too.  You can enjoy the remaining days, be they few or many, knowing that “if I die today”…all is well.

I have a friend whose body is shutting down. She has finally reached the place where she feels that “if I die today, I’m as happy as I can be” phase. I’m very happy for her. I feel that way every day.

So do your death work. Get it done, share it with docs and family and friends. And let it go. 

Live every day as if it’s your last…

and your first…

makes life lots more fun and fulfilling.

My memoir...gotta write this stuff down!!

Here is the "forward" to the book I'm finishing now.
It's a memoir that tells my stories briefly - literally - with Haiku poetry.

Memories, Mood Swings and Miracles^©

My much-abused mother did her best to civilize two savages: one a true savage, all that remained of an abused depression-era man turned warrior: wounded warrior. And one a savage by proxy…my brother; my “Bubba”… beaten into the shape and form of a bully boy by our dad’s brutal hand. Family secrets.

This, in the mid-20^th Century, when conformity was required. Mama, who also felt dad’s fists, did her best.

She also tried to civilize her tiny Heathen girl child. A born Pagan, I was confused by the rules, terrified by the violence all around me and always, always seeking to escape to my beloved desert, to books and to my cats.

A sun-burned scientist by nature, a smarty-pants show off who learned nothing of scholastic discipline and thus, never plied the scientific trades, I excelled in classes, experiencing reading, writing, math and biology as easily-described givens in my worldview. Science I understood. Emotions, connections to others…not so much.

My brother and I were neglected throughout our young lives and I found myself in situations that caused me harm, both physical and sexual. Abused by various friends and neighbors, I grew up highly sexualized. Always the rebellious little Heathen, I contributed willingly to the budding sexual revolution, eventually at the cost of my self-esteem and mental health.

My role models included my grandmother who embodied the angry, entitled female, illustrative of the character impoverishment of southern gothic novels; my mother, who was beaten down by life…and by my dad’s furious desire to make her be well; and my belligerent, violent dad, who, gratefully, mellowed with age. Even at the end of his life though, he still demonstrated hints of the scarred soul, all that was left of his spirit by The War.

Because in our house there was only one “War” and that was World War II.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: we all have it. Disconnected from everyone by fear and family secrets, our PTSD drove us (high-functioning dysfunctionals that we are) to prove ourselves by working too hard, ignoring or seeking to control those who love us (as we had been similarly treated), worshipping work, seeking approval and, at least in my case, continuing to abuse sex, drugs and alcohol well past adolescence.

Fortunately, my circumstances led me to become involved in Twelve-Step recovery, which brought me around to many other venues of self-care and helped me overcome my addictive behaviors. With a family full of deep gratitude, my parents also found the Twelve-Steps and the recovery therein.

My mother died young, only five years sober. Daddy, died sober twenty years later. We all became good friends in recovery, amends made, forgiveness granted.

That’s the miracle in the book title.

Watching my dad soften, watching my own parents discover and learn to love each other in middle age.

Miracles.

Happily learning that I – a dysfunctional adult child of alcoholic parents – was not alone …though let’s face it, still and always unashamedly eccentric!

There are family photos to accompany some of the poems and some go unillustrated. There are places you will be called upon to see the images behind your own eyes and some places where there is no way to show the pain; images nobody needs to see.

Then there are images created by loving friends, as noted in the acknowledgements.

Which brings me here. Now.

Practicing that hard-won discipline by writing my stories… 17 syllables at a time.

Bearing the unbearable...

A friend and I were in conversation about a business subject when she reminded me that her grown-up son had died recently in a motorcycle accident. Although I had sent a short condolences note (via email)…I had forgotten. How could that happen? How could I have forgotten something so traumatic to her and her family so quickly?

Because my mind was protecting me. As a mother I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate such a thing. Even though my daughter and I don’t see each other due to distance and estrangement, she is alive. I grieved my way through her countless rejections and even focused on the roller-coaster ride of estranged parenthood in my memoir for a chapter or two, but I heard her voice not that long ago. And it was a pleasant conversation. Alive. Gone from me physically, but present on earth.

Though my friend and I were in the midst of discussing other things, she asked if I’d done grief counseling in my work with death and dying. Not as a professional, I told her, though I do “grieve like a pro” as I mention in my memoir:

I can work with Death

Tender heart, but tough enough

I grieve like a pro

And being “tough enough”, I know, is how she remains standing. We reach the age where things knock us down, but no longer hold us in an eternal grip. In our 60s and 70s we learn that we can muster the courage to stand back up metaphorically, though we may collapse several times before we get our feet under us…we keep getting up. It’s impossible to explain to young ones who can’t help but feel that every knock to the back of the knees is unbearable…bear we do. When our life expectancy is down to single digits according to the actuaries, we soldier on, shouldering a lifetime of grief, some of it searing us with every step.

Some learn this lesson a bit earlier than others, but it seems to be a design of nature to bless us with this ability to bear the unbearable in later years. I’ve even seen notations in death and dying literature that people who live very long lives are specifically able to withstand grief better than most. Genetic adaptation for long life.

Personally I’m not seeking a long life, though I am good with grief. Approaching age 65 I am happy, content, in a loving relationship and satisfied with the scope and nature of my life. But I work part-time helping folks who are older than I am find resources…and I promise…I have no intention of living as long as some of them. I will be done with this earth sooner rather than later.

My lack of fear of death makes me good at the bedside of those facing death and perhaps even gives me an ability to counsel – mostly just listen – in grief situations. And so I will offer to listen, to lend a shoulder or an ear. But I thank the gods that my child exists, albeit far, far away on another continent and happily content without me in her life. Still, I’ll be here when my friend calls. I’ll help her bear the unbearable. It’s the least I can do.

So Many Questions, So Little Time…

My dad started having strokes about four years before he died. The first big one damaged his eyesight but he could still read what was on TV (across the room) without glasses whereas I could barely make out that there was a TV without my glasses, no stroke necessary. Even without his full faculties, he was still the guy in charge. 

Alas, another stroke a year later took his ability to reason, but somehow made him quite cheerful; jovial even. But it also opened the doors to all the questions he’d always wanted to ask, or felt compelled to ask.  Sometimes over and over and over. I told my brother that Dad didn’t have dementia. He just had a lot of questions.

I can relate. My first few years on earth felt like that. I could not figure out what was going on at my deeply dysfunctional home…and nobody else seemed to know either. I felt I should be doing something to make things feel better, safer; blaming myself for everything as children do. So I asked a lot of questions:

“Why is Mommy crying?”

“Why is the kitten laying so still after I gave it a bath?”

“Why is Daddy hitting my Bubba?” 

“Where is my Mommy?”

“Why is Nanny touching me like that?”

I got no answers. Shushed at best, slapped or threatened more likely. Or ignored. I certainly had no voice. I’m sure lots of kids feel like that at some level. But there was danger at my house if you didn’t know what was going on. So questions helped distract me and, on occasion, the perpetrators. 

I saw that in my dad toward the end as he strove to figure out what was going on.

His efforts to question everything seemed to be focused on “Don’t notice that I’m dying…” but I wouldn’t let him off the hook. I talked to him about dying. It’s who I am. I talk to everybody about it.

So there he was, my big, strong Daddy. Unable to take care of himself, or as he had once said to me, “I never thought I’d be unable to take care of myself…and you.” We had become friends in later years. I knew he loved me and wanted to make the world better for me. His way of making amends.

And his lovely, cheerful demeanor toward the end was nice, too. For the first time ever, he allowed others to take care of his needs. He was, finally, the beloved child in that role. My cousin, my aunt, the staff at the nursing home and the hospice angels…they took good care of him, even if they were smiling at his antics. Or frowning at the perpetual questions.

He didn’t stop. He asked questions until the last moment.

I, on the other hand, learned to stop questioning, just to be silent and as invisible as possible. It was a survival technique when I was a child. In the Twelve-Step Program of Adult Children of Alcoholics (and other resources), that’s known as being the Lost Child. It’s a role I used to stay safe, or at least as safe as I could under the circumstances of my young life.

As with many challenges, of course, it also was a gift. I learned the value of solitude, which allowed me to blossom as a writer. I use that mechanism to ask myself – and the Universe – questions. And more often than not, I find answers on the paper, or through the keyboard.

I have fewer questions now. Not that I know all the answers; just that I’ve reached the point in life where all the answers seem to be: …and so it is.

By living the best life I can, being helpful where possible while maintaining self-care, I’m almost certain that I will have far fewer questions at the end of life than my dad did. I wish the same for us all.

10/25/2014 11:48:00 AM Darby named Hospice of the Pines Hometown Hero

Deb Darby receives the plaque for the Hometown Hero award. By Julie Keeney This month's Hometown Hero award goes to Deb Darby for her long-term efforts in bringing awareness of the need for end-of-life planning. Deb has been an advocate for seniors and for hospice in our community along with being a volunteer for several years with various organizations to help our seniors with life-changing issues. Deb stated, "Hospice is the part of the healthcare system that gets it right." She is committed to helping anyone facing end-of-life decisions and planning. When asked why she does the work with death and dying, Deb's answer was, "Death was part of my life early. I lost numerous friends within 10 years after high school for various reasons and it was a real eye opener." Deb knew even then that talking about death was critical to overcoming fears and facing the fact that all of us, young or old, will eventually die. That's how she began her journey as an advocate and voice for people of all ages facing end-of-life issues. Deborah volunteers for a group called Compassion & Choices, which supports Death with Dignity, serving as president of the Sedona chapter for eight years. Deb has a blog online at letsdiscussdeath.blogspot.com where she has posted several articles on the subject of death and dying. One of Deb's most read articles is "It Won't Kill You to Talk About Death." Deb says, "After many years of advocacy and activism, we are finally seeing more and more people who have become willing to talk about death. One of my personal missions is to make sure people prepare their advance directives, putting their end-of-life wishes in writing, for example completing the '5 Wishes' document." Deb has lived in the Verde Valley for more than two decades and loves the area. About 22 years ago while living in Texas, she visited the Verde Valley and fell in love with Cottonwood. She says she knew instantly that Cottonwood would be her home forever! Deb is currently employed by Verde Valley Manor, an Independent Living Apartment complex for low-income seniors where she serves as resource coordinator. In addition, she also has her own business, WordCraft, where she a freelance writer specializing in business copywriting and public relations. Deb is no stranger to researching and writing news/feature articles on topics ranging from business to healthcare concerns. In her work she often does brochures and ads to raise awareness for clients and for worthy charitable causes. In the past she has worked in many areas in the Verde Valley including the Yavapai College as well the hospital when it was still named Marcus J. Lawrence Hospital. Deb told me that she plans on working for about another 10 years and then she plans to move into the Verde Valley Manor for her retirement. I asked Deb to describe what the beauty of death and dying means to her. Deb's response was, "At the bedside, I've witnessed many people accept that this life is over and literally surrender to the next life. I want to empower people to be independent and proactive about taking care of their end-of-life needs, which includes living every moment to the best of their ability." I was curious to know what would be the one thing she would like people to know about her, and her response was, "The Verde Valley is the Love of my Life." I lastly asked what her vision is for our community. The response was "...that death becomes dinner-table conversation. We plan for babies being born, weddings and anniversaries but we don't plan for death. We can't plan until we start talking about it." Please join me in congratulating Deborah Darby on her commitment to our seniors and helping our community to be more proactive about making end-of-life decisions, and for the many wonderful things she does in the Verde Valley! For more information regarding Deb's services, please contact her at wordcraft@q.com. Lik: http://verdenews.com/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=62984&SectionID=102&SubSectionID=163&S=1

Elvira

My friend Elvira died this morning. I had talked to her a couple of weeks ago and could tell that she was much sicker than before, although I wasn’t sure if radiation was causing her to be out of it, or if, in fact, the cancer – now metastasized into her brain – was the cause.

She was a classmate from Texas. We had attended the same small school for all twelve years. Her school photo is on the first page of my high-school scrapbook. I hadn’t looked at the scrapbook in years, but pulled it out to share it with her during a recent visit. We laughed that day. Her husband drove us up to the scenic overlook at the top of Oak Creek Canyon, snapping photos all along the way. We had fun and her energy was unflagging.

She’d been undergoing treatment in Phoenix at the Cancer Treatment Centers of America. By the time she got there, it was clear that her various cancers were going to kill her, but she wanted to stay alive long enough to see her son get married. It wasn’t her stated goal to live until then, but within a few days of returning from his wedding, she had to be hospitalized for various ills. Dehydration. Exhaustion. She attributed everything to causes that were not cancer related. And I believed her.

But then she called to let me know she was having radiation. The cancer had spread to her brain. The chemo that had held things in abeyance for about a year had given up. She was literally playing tennis until two months ago when she broke a bone in her leg. That sounded ominous to me, but again, she blamed it on, well, everything but the cancer.

I visited with her during one of her chemo sessions in Phoenix. She was a huge fan of CTCA where, if you have the right kind of insurance, you can be treated with the latest methodologies by people who do, in fact, really seem to care. It’s more like a spa than a hospital, part of their appeal – and no doubt a therapeutic modality as well. For more than a year she visited routinely, and for much of that time, the cancer was cooperating.

But the time came. Her son told us they had put her into hospice yesterday. And, yes, she and I had talked at some length about hospice along the way. She was sure that was what she wanted. Only a few hours in the program and she was gone. Her dear son wrote, “It was truly the hardest thing I had to do was see my beloved mother slowly pass.”

It is, in fact, one of the hardest things we ever do, whether we are children or adults. Seeing our parents die. It’s a fact of nature, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Being prepared can help ameliorate the process, but it’s going to hurt. As well it should.

Elvira had made arrangements, including an early DNR (do not resuscitate) once she got the diagnosis even though she was still working, driving and playing tennis. She did what was expected of her – the year of chemo and a few sessions of radiology – and refused to discuss the disease in any depth. Her husband referred to it as the “ignorance is bliss” approach to cancer treatment. But she was prepared for the end result.

We can make the process go more smoothly by being prepared. 

This blog is about talking to your family, friends, doctors and significant others about what you want – and don’t want – at the end of life. 

It will never be easy to let go of those we love, either because we are dying or because they are, but we can become informed to the extent that we overcome much of the fear. She had done that. When I last spoke to her and commented that radiation sounded pretty scary she said, “What else can I do, Deb?” She didn’t sound the least bit hopeless. She was just following the rules. I replied, “Do whatever feels right to you, Elvira.”

That was less than two weeks ago. It was her time. She fought for as long as she wanted (although her family and friends wanted her to “keep fighting” per a post I saw on her Facebook page last week)…and she closed her eyes to this world.

A devout Catholic, she’s on her way to that version of heaven. She was a lovely person who lived life well and with great integrity. I’m sorry for her husband, her son and her dozens of other family members. And I’m happy that I knew her. Rest in Peace, pretty lady.

Heaven on Earth...Are You Paying Attention?

Heaven on Earth...

Keynote presentation at Yavapai College during the induction of

“Women Who Make a Difference” in the Verde Valley

I have experienced Heaven on Earth. Or Nirvana. Or Dharma. Whatever you need to call it, I have experienced it…and so have you.

Shortly before spring began, for example, there was a gentle breeze and some rare puffy white clouds, tinged with the gray that can precede a looming storm, but at that point reflected only the specter, not the reality of rain.

Around me curtains billowed making pregnant bellies with their middles, then popping into a swirl and settling back waiting for the next breeze.

  

It was too early in the spring for the birds to return in great numbers, but I heard some tweeps and even recognized the sweet mourn of a nearby dove. A neighbor’s wind chime bumped into itself without much enthusiasm; a few dings and dongs wove their way soundward. The ever faithful neighborhood canines declared their joy of the day (or is it their intent to gleefully tear out your throat if you step on their property?!?); whichever, it the sound of pure, unadulterated joy.

These moments of Heaven on Earth are a feast for all the senses and the spirit. It reminds me of my Philosophy of Life, which is “Love your Neighbor” (unless you are the product of a 1950s Methodist Sunday School; then you’ll probably say Love THY Neighbor. I guess that makes it more official!)

At any rate: “Love Thy Neighbor, Keep Your House Clean” (nope, not keep THY house clean), just keep it clean. Your house here, of course, represents your physical house, your spiritual house, your emotional house and your mental house. It’s all gotta be clean for you to become a regular visitor to Heaven on Earth.

So…”Love Thy Neighbor, Keep Your House Clean and Be Kind to Animals”. That’s it.

When I gave this presentation, I saw a few people taking notes.

No doubt they thought this philosophical discussion was going much deeper.

While we’re on earth, we’re all bound, more or less, by the constrictions of gravity and physics in general. It’s how it works on our planet. But a few blissful moments spent in a hot tub on a quiet Sunday morning with the sun shining just enough and earth warming just enough to encourage a few errant irises to raise their purple beards, and we’ve got a touch of heaven. Right here, right now. And we’ve got work to do.

You may not be like this, but there are people like me who are comfortable with the topic of death. It’s the work I was put on earth to do. I’ve gotten some training in order to be of assistance because when I experienced a long- ago heavenly moment, I was shown, clearly, that working with death and dying is my life work.

Nope, not what I do for money. My Work, with a Capital W.

And when I sat with my friend who was in the process of making hard end-of-life decisions and discussing them with her family a few years ago, I felt my mood lift. The entire time I was with her, listening, answering questions, being helpful where possible, I felt just fine. Not sad at all. I made eye contact with my friend, a smart lady who had spent the last year of her life confined to her bed and had decided to quit eating and drinking to allow her body to die.

We have a bond, then and still. Why? Because I understand what she wanted. I can speak death. And it won’t kill me! Or you.

Now, I’m not going to suggest that everybody go out and learn to speak death. Not at all. That’s my Life Work. Yours is something else. It could be helping kids who have abuse issues or helping women find out who they are, empowering them to be in charge of themselves. Perhaps you teach people to read, or grow a garden or volunteer or simply and lovingly make sure your children are taken care of and nurtured. Whatever your Life Work is, you’ll know it.

How? Well, it’s those times when, even in the face of pressure and stress you don’t feel overwhelmed (though, yes, you may feel sad or lonely or even experience some reluctance to take the actions)…and  you follow through. You’re good to your word. You show up and you do your part. Sometimes you even volunteer for the tough duty…because it’s your Life Work, after all.

And in the doing, we each experience tiny touches of Heaven on Earth. Moments when the Universe is in order. When everything feels just right and our oxytocin flows.

In those moments we are living life in such a way as to experience Heaven on Earth. Hopefully we are savoring each moment of it and being grateful. Then, rolling up our sleeves and once again doing our part to make the earth a better place to live, even in those not-so-heavenly moments.

An artist friend of mine recently said, (although she swears that words aren’t her medium): Heaven on Earth is when one’s felt rhythms feel part of the pulse of what keeps us together – in one piece, in motion – yet each moment different, special unto itself. And also when your five year old grandchild, with big serious eyes asks you, “Do carrots cry?“

Yep, I’ve experienced Heaven on Earth…and so have you. I hope we’re all paying attention, recognizing and enjoying it.

On the Beach - A Movie About Choices at the End of Life

On the Beach is a beautiful movie about making decisions at the end of life. I saw it first as a child and it affected me profoundly, probably giving me my start on knowing that we must all have the right to make the decision – when the time comes – how, where and with whom we die.

If you haven’t seen the film in decades, you’ll be surprised at its modern look and feel. If you’ve never seen it, find it to see how the 1950's world sought to deal with the “end of the world” as wrought upon us by what is simply referred to in the film as “the war.”

The war has caused a nuclear holocaust and every living thing is going to die. When we join the characters (and, okay, some of them are pretty standard issue: the hysterical young woman, the older woman with a past and a heart of gold, the silent but deep Naval Captain!), everyone except those who live in Australia are already dead, save a group of intrepid American sailors who were underwater and managed to survive the radiation poisoning. Until now.

In Australia, the government has issued everyone a small handful of pills to take when the end is near. The people line up to receive their magic medicine so they won’t have to suffer too much. Husbands and wives have to decide when to take the pills; when to administer them to their children. Strong men have to face the fact that they can’t conquer this massive loss of life caused by their own macho, nationalist folly. A death of their own doing.

It slips into melodrama from time to time, but the cast is so beautiful (most of them dead now: Ava Gardner, Gregory Peck, Anthony Perkins, Fred Astaire) that we can forgive them for histrionics as they face extinction that we’ve not had to face on a global scale.

It’s the small stories that inspire. A young sailor jumps ship to spend his last few days fishing from his favorite pier near his home in a totally deserted San Francisco, telling his captain that there are “more than 200 drug stores” in town so he’s pretty sure he can find the right drugs when the time comes. His decision is solid. He knows what he wants.

The young married couple is able, finally, to face their greatest fears. He chooses not to go back on the submarine, which is making a final trip back to America, just so that he can hold his wife in his arms as the medicine works, just after their baby has slept her final sleep.

The captain of the submarine chooses to leave his new love to be among his men when the time comes. Ava Gardner plays the love interest and she is, finally, strong enough to let him go, made better by knowing him and better by knowing how she will die, among her friends, at home.

Though the movie was an allegory for what might happen due to the Cold War, it resonates with inspiration as the characters choose how their lives will end. (Not all choose the drugs, by the way, a fiery car crash is how one character wants to go.)

This movie will generate lots of discussion if watched in a group. No doubt there are those who still believe that mankind should suffer to the last moment, but those of us who voluntarily work with individuals who are dying have overcome that way of thinking for the most part.

And you’ll never, ever hear Waltzing Matilda in the same way again.

The Will to Live...Not my Natural State

When I Lose the Will to Live

I don’t have any gray area…despite an amazing recovery from a life-long depression, I still go straight from “everything is fine” to “I want to die.” Though I keep a long list of "Reasons to Live" right beside my desk...my tendency is to lose that will, sometimes suddenly. Fortunately I can usually remedy it these days with...a nap.

This feeling could be brought on by something catastrophic such as the loss of a close friend or I say, only half-jokingly something as simple as a bad hair day…or a hangnail. My awareness that it passes quickly helps me cope these days. For much of my life it was a challenge to survive such times, as I would totally lose the will to live in a flash.

Fortunately the Universe saw fit to ignore my many pleas for death as I waded through a lifetime of depression; either low-grade chronic or acute episodes, it didn’t matter. My connectedness to this life is tenuous on the surface and only slightly less flimsy on the metaphysical level. 

Today, with depression in the rear view mirror, I can joke about it. But for 40 years of my lifetime, it was the set of circumstances that ruled me. Even now, in the best of times, I’m ready and willing to die when my time comes. Some might say eager. To me, after intensive physical and metaphysical study, it’s just going home...and sometimes we all get homesick.

While that serves me in my work with those who are actively dying – my lack of fear seems to buoy them up to face their fears – it has been a struggle in other areas of life. For example the sudden draining away of life energy for seemingly minor problems. A curse…and a gift.

Talking to a lovely friend who is, in fact, facing end of life issues and illustrating this analogy as regards going into hospice, I said that hospice is there for you when you lose the will to live. "Hospice", I said, "is the best way to stay alive when you're dying." 

People who go into hospice early in the process feel better and even flourish as they continue their path to end of life. Many who were overwhelmed by the simplest tasks find renewed energy when hospice is present. 

Hospice, as I said to my friend, will “clip your potentially fatal hangnail” before you even notice it.

When my time comes, I’m calling hospice the first moment. I know that they can help with pain management and emotional stability as well as the myriad of things we need to decide upon when there is, in fact, time at the end of life. Though we all want to “die in our sleep” after a long and healthy life, I may be a little disappointed if I drop dead suddenly and miss the chance to be in hospice. I want to be pampered to death by that amazing program. The level of care, of pure humanity in those organizations is as close as we come to getting health care right.

Maggie

She started out as an individual who needed more information about dying. That’s why she contacted me. She was angry and had an attitude that caused her to literally be dismissed from so-called support groups! Too young to die at 63, but with a diagnosis that promised no hope beyond a few months, she told me that she was foregoing treatment at the recommendation of her doctors. 

But as the months rolled on, it became apparent that she was not going to die on schedule. The three-to-six months’ prognosis found her still standing, still angry, but ready to discuss it. And that’s when I met her.

My views of death are profoundly my own. For whatever reasons, I have never experienced a “bad death” and I’ve been working with death and dying for decades now. The people I talk to and/or volunteer with seem to find a sort of peace, often even willingness once the end is near. I admire that and am encouraged both on a personal level and for those with whom I work.

Ah, but my dear Maggie. She was simply not interested in dying and had refused to study it, though she researched every topic in which she had even the most remote curiosity. When I have tried to wax rapturously on (what I perceive to be) the beauty of the experience of death and dying, she sent my philosophy packing and continued to address the practicalities of wills, trusts, care for her aged mother, helping provide for her grown-up sons and being there for her still-employed husband.

Because we stayed in touch and because I would listen to her when she needed to discuss death on her own terms, we became fast friends. When I got a new boyfriend, she told me that our budding relationship would probably be the “most exciting” thing to “happen to her” until she died. I shared everything with her. She advised me. I listened.

We emailed every day, usually more than one, and spoke frequently. I made her laugh. She made me think. I encouraged her to feel her feelings. She encouraged me to overlook some of the things that “men do”. Because of her, I stayed with my new beau long enough to begin to fall in love. She helped me change my life. I helped her prepare for death.

But last night she finally finished dying. It took her three years, not three months, and no doubt she had plenty left to do to keep the world running smoothly once she was gone, but her body, which had supported her well despite being on task to die, finally stopped and let her rest.

Her husband just called and I cried. Then we found something to laugh about. Then we spoke with our hearts. Then, after hanging up, I cried again. I’m happy she’s done with all this, but sad she suffered toward the end. Hospice helped, but she put it off until the very end. In fact, she never actually laid down until the cancer got to her brain. She was still flying around the country until less than a month ago, clutching her (never used) meds to use to die on her own terms. But she waited too long.

That was probably for the best. It gave her sons and her husband time to spend at the bedside, actually saying goodbye. I’m a big proponent of dying on your own terms, when and how you want to. But I have personally experienced the value of letting your family gather to say goodbye.

Maggie and I had a profound connection based on mutual admiration and respect. Plus I loved her shining soul. She didn’t show it to many; I was among the honored few who looked into her eyes and saw her spirit. Not her spirited Type A personality. Everybody that knew her encountered that. I saw her vulnerable, hurting, scared, wickedly funny inner self. Thank the gods she showed it to somebody. We bonded deeply. I will miss her immeasurably.

Bon voyage, Dear Maggie. See you there, wherever there is.