I generally encourage people to talk about Death. But in this instance, I'm suggesting that we talk TO Death. I wrote this for a friend who is in hospice and debating whether to let go. I've encouraged her to "make Death her peer" and have an honest conversation with it/her.
If
Death approaches, speak to it, recognize it. Ask questions. Tell it what you
want. To the extent that you can, relax. This will well and truly be the
adventure of a lifetime, to quote a friend. So be with it. Be there. But you
don't have to be awake.
If
you’re not conscious of this world, it may be easier to interact with the
others. Ask those who come whatever you want to know. Whether they are fading
off or coming near, encouraging you, ask, if you want to. You can say it out
loud or to yourself. This is not the time to worry about what people with you
think.
Speak
to Death. Here’s an example. I’ve been having a painful twinge (OK, sometimes
more than a twinge) in my side. Started at or near the scar from the removal of
the lymph glands. Those twinges felt like bumble bee stings. A bit more than a
twinge. It has moved and is now behind my armpit. Doesn’t hurt as much there,
but it disturbing.
Thus
I spoke out loud (to whom-or-whatever) and said, with arms lifted straight over
my head toward the sky. I said, “If you are here for me, I’m willing to go. If
you’re not, I just want you to know I don’t like this pain.
I
shook my finger in Death’s face as it were.
Letting
Death be my peer takes a great deal of the fear out of the experience. It forestalls
panic in almost every case.
Of
course, you’ve got to be ready to actually go with Death if She asks, too. That
means living every day. Oh-so trite and so seldom done…but give it a shot.
Rearranging knickknacks and pulling a few weeds may be all I do in any given
day. Maybe I take a nap, too. That, as a retired woman who loves housework and gardening…is living...so much more than skydiving or running a
Fortune 500 company.
Once
you’ve reached a certain age, to be ascertained by your own personality and
ideology, it’s time to go. It’s our job to move on.
I feel so bad for my peers
who are still taking care of parents. Even those who aren’t involved in it are
frequently impacted by it in some way. And it’s my (not original) idea that
none of us grow up all the way until our parents are gone. For some, like my
friend Joan, that was at an early age.
But
for others, people I know who seem elderly to me…and I’m well into elderly
territory myself…are still talking about their parents. Of course by that time,
there is hardly any good news. It’s about healthcare and the ills of advanced
old age.
Nobody
wants that.
Even
the parents (or the seniors I see where I work part-time) in their 90s who are relatively healthy usually can’t drive
anymore. They can’t see well or hear without assistance. At least partially
dependent except in rare cases. They are, by remaining alive, simply not doing
their job.
It’s
no secret that I envy people who die. Especially the ones who do it without
making a big splash. Lots of tears, of course, but no need for hysteria (until
later, during the actual grieving work). Sadness. Bereft.
Death comes. Some of
us stay for a while. Some go. We who are left are the ones who feel the pain.
We
survivors should talk to Death, too. Perhaps that’s why I did today. Having
just had another episode of the pain that literally runs along my ribs toward
the back now, I’m serious.
And
Death will do what needs to be done, no matter how hard we fight or practice
denial. No need to be Invictus, there is no horror. No need to rage, rage. Just
go gentle.
Speak to Death.
