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.
