life – Page 62 – One Woman's Quest

Learning About Death

Taylor was diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of twenty-one. Although he never smoked a day in his life, his father’s family were heavy smokers, and he suffered for it. He was my cousin Lynn’s only son.

I belonged to a weekly meditation circle at the time, and Taylor, who was studying to be a physicist, asked if he could join. I told him that we not only meditated, but liked to explore the realm of intuition as well, and he said that was fine with him. So week after week, Taylor would join in and add his scientific musings to our experience. He told me that while he was skeptical, he was sure physics was going to bridge the gap between the rational world and the irrational. He said that I needed to involve myself in research, if I was ever to prove the existence of anything beyond the accepted norm. I would laugh and tell him that I was a Literature major, and research was outside my norm.

Taylor’s bald head, and limping figure became a fixture at our weekly meetings, and we all came to love his gentle banter. Unwilling to accept anything at face value, he brought a healthy balance of skepticism to our circle.

Then one evening, he did not attend. Nor the next.

His mother called me. “Taylor is in the hospital, and they think he has three more weeks to live. He is asking for you.”

He was asleep when I entered the room. His girlfriend greeted me and told me that he slept most of the time, but that if I could wait he would wake up. She excused herself and left us alone.

Taylor’s body look so fragile and boyish lying in that bed. An oxygen mask covered his face, so that only his closed eyelids could be seen. His head was still bald, and he looked more like an infant than the young man I had come to know. At this point in my life, I had not been this close to death, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

Taylor’s eyes opened and I saw him register my presence.

“Hey, Tay!” I tried to sound cheerful, compassionate.

He reached up and pulled the oxygen mask down. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.”

“I asked you to come, because I want to talk about what’s happening to me.” His words were laboured. I could see it was an effort for him to talk.

“Okay,” I began. “Are you sure it won’t be too much for you? Are you okay without the mask?”

“Oh, yes. It just keeps me comfortable.” He replaced the mask and took a few breaths. “I fall asleep a lot. Even mid-sentence.”

“That’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’ll just wait.”

“Thank you,” and he was gone again, sleeping behind the mask.

I looked around. The room was spacious with a large picture window overlooking the southwest part of the city. A recliner sat in the corner by the window, and several other chairs allowed for many visitors. The blue walls reminded me of the night sky just as the last rays of light are vanishing: a blue tinged with indigo. So this is where people came to die.

“I want to talk about my dreams.” I understood now why he had invited me. I had enrolled in a course at the university that explored the meaning of dreams. It was actually a religious studies class, and examined how God speaks to us through our dream messages. “Everyone else wants to talk about things that have no meaning for me anymore, like getting their cars fixed, or the weather. I don’t have time for small talk.”

He closed his eyes again. I waited.

“I have been dreaming about horses.”

“Interesting. Horses were the original mode of transportation, so they are seen symbolically as the vehicles that transport us from one realm to another. Apparently horse dreams are common at the end of life.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I am dreaming or it’s real.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am so emotional. I can’t seem to turn it off.” I had to smile. My highly rational, intellectual cousin not being able to control his emotions.

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m going to guess you are going through one hell of an emotional time.”

His eyes met mine and we both laughed. “You’re right about that.”

We both fell silent.

* * * * *

Our visits became a daily occurrence, but I never stayed long as it tired him too much. We talked about his dreams, his emotions, and as it got closer to the end, we talked about his fears.

“I’m not sure if I’m actually dreaming,” he told me one day. “More and more I feel like what I am experiencing is real.”

“Describe it to me.”

The silences were growing longer. Speaking, or even staying awake, seemed to take great effort now. I would hold his hand to let him know I was still with him. I felt such reverence towards my young cousin for letting me share these moments with him.

“I see figures. Grey figures.”

“Do you know who they are?”

His eyes stared, unfocused, into the space before him. “No. Can’t really say they are people.”

I pondered this revelation while he rested. I thought back to a story my mother told me about my birth. During my delivery, she suddenly lost physical consciousness, and found herself, disembodied, floating above the delivery table. She said she saw her father beside her reaching out his hand, and as she went to take it, she realized what was happening and pulled back, being jolted back into her body and the labour pains. She claims that she had refused death in that moment, and remembers telling her father that she had five babies to look after and couldn’t go with him.

Taylor’s eyes were open again. “What if the figures that you see are here to escort you to the other side?” I asked. “How do they make you feel?”

“Afraid.”

“Maybe your fear is what is clouding your ability to see them.”

He didn’t wake up again that visit.

* * * * *

The next day I arrived at the hospital later than usual. Taylor’s mom met me in the hallway. “He’s gone. He tried to wait for you, but didn’t make it. He did leave a message for you, though. I don’t know what it means, but he said to tell you that you were right, that all came out clear in the end, and not to worry about him.”

As I hugged her in condolence, I thought my heart was going to burst.

In his short life, this beautiful young man shared so much with me: his theories and questions, his deepest vulnerabilities, and his experience of the beyond. Together, were we able to strip away all the noise and distractions of everyday life to touch something much more sacred and real.

Shaken

The year my second daughter was born, it seemed to rain eternally. I can’t say when the depression set in, but by February, I didn’t want to leave the house. I prayed a lot to God, asking what was wrong with me. By all accounts, I had everything anyone could want: two beautiful children, a brand new home, friends and community. The more I tried to rationalize, the greater my gloom. Is there more to life than this? I asked.

During this time I had a recurring dream, in which I visited my childhood home:

I walk in the front door and notice that the carpet leading upstairs has been changed to one with geometric designs, and that the once blue carpet in the living and dining area is now red. Upstairs, I see that one of the walls in my sister’s old room has been bricked over. As I pass through the house, the inhabitants are unaware of my presence. Only the family cat swishes her tail in annoyance at my presence. Stepping out the backdoor, I fail to see that the step is missing, and fall, jolting myself awake.

Haunted by the dream’s insistence, I decided to drive by my old home. A “for sale” sign on the front lawn revealed that this day was open for agent viewing. Curious, I walked in. A quick glanced revealed red carpets throughout, with a geometric pattern running up the stairs. I rushed up the stairs and down the hall, where I found the room with the bricked wall. How odd! Descending the staircase, I glanced at the photos on the wall to see the faces from my dreams staring out at me. In the kitchen, I spotted the cat’s bowls. The agent on duty asked me if I wanted to see the back yard. Remembering my dreams, I said no and made my exit back through the front door.

I drove a block before the trembling hit me. Shaken, I pulled over. What had just happened? The house was exactly as I had dreamed it. But why? Everything suddenly seemed so surreal. What did it all mean?

I felt as if I had just been hit over the head with a giant frying pan. For months on end I had prayed to God and asked if there was something I was missing in my life, and now this. I decided that God had answered my prayers, with one resounding “YES!”. There was obviously more to life than what I was experiencing, but I would need to look within to find it.

Needless to say, that day changed my life.

Saying Goodbye To Father

My father fought against death at the end, even though he was wracked with pain, had difficulty breathing, and spent many of his nights in hospital.

“At what point do we stop all this intervention, Dad, and talk about keeping you comfortable?”

It was the early hours of the morning after another night spent in emergency.

“Now,” his voice cracked as he spoke. Dad was so clearly in distress it was alarming. Involuntary spasms of pain kept him from resting, and the strain was telling on his ashen face.

I took his hand in mine. “Dad, all I want for you is peace,” I hesitated. “To be honest with you, Dad, I have never known you to have peace in your life.”

He squeezed my hand. “Not a lot.”

“Do you believe that there is something for you on the other side, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Honey. I don’t have the faith that you do. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Some say that our feeling about God is related to our relationship with our own father.”

“How so?”

“When you were a boy, huddled in the coat closet, hiding from your father, what were your thoughts? Did you ever think about God in those moments?”

“All the time.” My father closed his eyes and laid back. “I remember asking God over and over, what I did wrong to deserve the beatings. I thought God was punishing me.”

“Exactly, Dad. Maybe your fear of death is because the little boy in you thinks God will reject you, or inflict more pain.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “You could be right. I know I’m afraid.”

“God didn’t punish you, Dad. Your father did. I have to believe there is something better awaiting you.”

He closed his eyes again, processing what I suggested. “You were a child, Dad. It wasn’t your fault. You need to forgive yourself.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

We didn’t talk about it further, but we did speak to the doctor on duty about changing Dad’s care. Plans were made to transfer my father to palliative care. The day he was to be moved, my father announced that he didn’t want any visitors. He said he needed time to settle in. They moved him mid-morning. He died within hours. I rushed to his side, but it was too late.

“Good for you, Dad,” I cried. “You finally made it.”

Path Rights

Born underweight, and with a hole in her heart, my oldest sister seemed doomed from the start. By the time I was born, her condition had deteriorated, and she spent most of her time in hospital. My parents were told to expect the worst. Open-heart surgery was the great new procedure that saved her life at thirteen. She got better.

Two years behind her peers at school, she was hell-bent on catching up. Years of being pampered had not helped her emotional development, and she was not afraid of acting out. She loved being the center of attention, and didn’t care if it was for being good or bad.

Eleven years her junior, I found my sister’s volatility scary. It was almost a relief when she would lock me out of the house, or ignore me for long periods of time. Our relationship didn’t really develop until she gave birth to her own daughter, then she needed me. I was a built-in babysitter.

I watched my sister jump from one bad relationship to another. I witnessed my parents rescuing her time after time, and I was dumbfounded at her disrespect and lack of gratitude in return.

She could be sweet as anything when she wanted something, but if she wasn’t interested, or changed her mind, look out.

When she got sick again, I decided to explore ways to help her. The more I learned about the body-mind connection, the more I was sure I could save her. She laughed in my face. You are so naive, she would say. Or, You are playing with the Devil. Personally, I’d always thought she was the devil.

One day, I decided that I would just let her be, and stop trying to change her. I told her as much. She tried to fight with me. I stood my ground. She cried. Then finally, we talked.

“Everything I’ve been studying and doing is to help you,” I explained. “But it’s not working, so, I’m not going to push anymore. You are sick, it is your life, and you have to do what is right for you.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. She was right, I didn’t. “I don’t know how to be any different.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I did what you say, and got better, then what? Being sick gives me power. It lets me get away with whatever I want. How could I do that if I got better.”

She had a point. Being sick gave her enormous power. How could I argue with that.

In all the years that I had judged, and fought with my sister about her life, I had not appreciated that it was working just fine for her purposes. We all have the right to our own paths.

On Wisdom

The difference between knowledge and wisdom is experience.

A young man once asked me if he could shadow me for a summer, so that he could learn from me. I asked him to tell me about his life.

“It’s good,” he replied.

“Tell me about a hardship that you have overcome.”

“None that I can think of. My life has been easy.”

“Are your parents together?”

“Well, no,” he explained. “They separated when I was fifteen.”

“That must have been hard.”

He shrugged. “That was about them. It wasn’t about me.”

He was a nice young man, and I believed him to be very sincere. “What will you do with your summer, if I say no.?”

“I was thinking I’d try to get a job at a resort up north.”

“That’s what I would recommend!”

His disappointment was visible. “But I want to help people; I want to do what you do.”

“Let’s look at this hypothetically. If someone came to you suffering from deep depression, how would you help them?”

“I would meditate on it and look for answers.”

“I see. And if none came?”

He had no response.

“Let me explain something,” I was starting to feel a little bit like David Carradine talking to Grasshopper. “Much of my ability to help another comes from life experience. In the case of depression, who do you think would be in a better position, someone who has lived through it and come out the other side, or someone who has meditated on the possibility?”

He didn’t need to answer.

“The best thing you can do for yourself right now is gather experience. Learn all that you can, too, but when your intellectual knowledge, meets your experienced knowing, then you will be ready.”

“How long will that take.”

I had to suppress a smile. I was impatient once too. “That depends on you. From where I stand, you have a ways to go.”

“Why’s that?” He looked offended.

“You haven’t even recognized the pain of your parents’ divorce. How can you help another deal with their wounds, when you haven’t looked at your own?”

“There is time for everything,” I said more gently. “Now is a time for gathering. Go North. You’ll learn much more there than I can ever teach you now.”

Focused Intent

For years a padded treatment table doubled as our dining room table. The height was right, but the width was too narrow, and it felt awkward to sit guests around it in the center of our large dining area. Replacing it was not a priority, but I knew if I didn’t move it out, I’d never get a proper dining set. So, one Sunday morning, I packed it away and started to polish the hardware floors.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for our new dining room set.”

“Is there something I don’t know?”

“No, but it’s never going to happen if I don’t make room for it.”

“So, we’re not going to eat in here anymore?”

“Not until the new table comes.”

In the midst of this exchange, my parents arrived unexpectedly. “Guess what we did today?”

I had no idea.

“We bought ourselves a new table and chairs. Would you like our dining room set?”

* * * * *

I shared this story with a friend. I had learned about it in a workshop. Set your intent by specifically asking for what you want, and clear any blocks that might stop your wish from manifesting. Then let it go, and let God.

She and her husband were struggling to get by, with one income, and three children; the youngest having a lot of special needs. Their old car was on its last legs, and they couldn’t afford the vehicle that would make their life easier.

“Believe me,” she said. “If that worked, I would have done it long ago.”

When she called me the next time, her tune had changed. “I thought about what you said,” she explained, “and I realized that my block was my attitude. So I asked for a van in which we could transport our family, and I set aside my disbelief. The very next day, I was walking to work and ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen since high school. We talked over old times, and then you won’t believe what happened. She said she had heard about our daughter, and she wanted to help. She said she had come into some money and she would like to either buy us a new vehicle or give us the money to pay down on our mortgage. We pick up the van next week!”

* * * * *

The system does not always work so well. One friend asked for abundance for years, but nothing happened. She even tried to get specific, asking for a set amount of money, but somehow, it never manifested.

I do believe that we get what we ask for, and I also believe we have to be careful about what that is. For years my sister “just wanted to be thinner”, but she didn’t do anything to make that happen. Her wish came true, but the cost was not worth the prize: cancer ensured she shed the pounds rapidly.

Picture what you want, then be open to receiving it. Anything can happen, but you have to be able to picture it first.

Mapping Life

If you could make a map of your life, what would it look like? Have you walked one path, or several? Has the terrain been flat or rocky? What would the road ahead look like?

Let’s see if I can describe the map of my life.

My beginnings were in the east, at the edge of residential land, bordering on industrial. The path I was born on was bordered by rosebushes, but despite the flowery hope, the thorns were painfully evident. Not yet able to carve my own path, I was often passed over fences and imposed upon others.

At four, we moved west as a family and the path seemed to open up, and brought the fertile promise of new topsoil. It was here that I began to picture a direction of my own, and dreamed of writing, teaching, and fighting for children’s rights. But the richness of the soil proved superficial, and the foundation started to crack, and suddenly, we veered off course.

The new road took us out of town, away from the familiar, and on the edge of an escarpment. The way was marked by rocky crevices, and treacherous footings. As strong and independent as I tried to be, there were too many dark places here, and my confidence was shaken.

By the time we ventured back to my hometown, I had already disengaged myself from my parents’ path, and began to carve my own. The beginnings were not auspicious. I was headed into a dark, overgrown forest, which would trip me up many times over the next couple of years, causing me to grasp at any beam of light, desperately looking for a way out.

I came to clearings from time to time, and if you look closely, you will see the areas that I clear cut myself, out of sheer determination to make that time of my life count.

Then there are the moments where the path lifted me out of the woods and onto the sunny, green hilltops, and life was good again. And I resumed my dreams, and pursued my studies, and became a mother.

Until the earth opened up and swallowed me momentarily, but I climbed out of that, and for awhile I walked along the beaten path, not really sure if I belonged, but not wanting to miss out either. See my footprints there, hesitant, beside the road?

And see where I started to carve out yet another new route? There, where the trees are not so dense, and the wood is new, and spring green. Notice how the path begins to develop, wobbly a bit, at first, then straightening out, making it’s way in a slow ascent along that mountainside. There are the plateaus I have talked about, and look there, where I took a steep climb. Those were good times. I had purpose then, and felt so alive.

The path goes underground for awhile. You can’t see it, but it winds its way through the caves. I can tell you, I tried a few different trails while I was under there, but eventually settled on the one I’m on now. You can see it emerging, there at the top of the map, where the mountain opens up to a green valley. I’ll be resting here awhile, but the journey is not over yet.

Just over that next hill there is a village, and beyond that village, on the horizon, an ocean. Looks like there will be a few more peaks to master, and that the road might double back once or twice, but I am hoping for a beautiful landscape ahead, and a lot more ease of travel.

Try it yourself. Draw a map of your own life.

(Image: yourlifemapping.com)

A Witness To Death

My mother told me that when she was a child, she would wake up in the middle of the night to find her mother slaving over the woodstove. Grandma was a midwife. Mom said Grandma’s dreams would tell her when a baby was coming, and she would get up and cook for her family, knowing she would be away.

Grandma’s gift passed on to me, with a slight variation.

I first learned about it the night my four cousins perished in a fire. I awoke in the middle of the night with an awful chill. When my mother told me the news, I realized that I’d already known about their passing.

Walking home from school one day, at the age of eleven, something unseen stopped me in my tracks. The image of my paternal Grandmother filled my mind along with the sensation of her love, and a farewell. I arrived home to find my family gathered around. “I know,” I said, before anyone could speak. “She told me.”

Lying beside my ailing sister one night, I had a vision of a spirit. He told me to listen for the howling of the wolves, and that my sister would pass through the fire on her way to the other side. I was with her the night an unexpected storm came in. The wind it brought sounded like a pack of wolves howling outside the window. I had been holding her hand, but the heat from her body was so intense, I had to let go. The nurse said her temperature was higher than her thermometer could measure. She passed away ten minutes later.

Do I believe in life after death? Yes. Does that lessen the grief of losing a loved one? No.

Grief is the natural response to loss. Life may go on, but the relationship has been permanently altered, and that is loss.

When Dee found out she was dying, she made me promise I would be there to hold her hand. Death, like birth, I told her, is not something we have control over, but I would do my best. The call came at 6:30 one morning.

“Dee says it’s time,” her mother told me. “Can you come?”

I had children to get off to school, and so it was two hours before I arrived at Dee’s bedside. She was already well on her way. With one hand I grasped hers, then placed my other over her heart as I leaned in to whisper: “I’m here.”

Dee’s eyes opened and she took one last gasping breath and died. Her spirit, like a breeze, flowed through the house, flickering all the candles her mother and sister had lit to mark the occasion. She was free!

I witnessed the miracle, and then I grieved.

Humility

Good, better, best. Never let them rest. Till your good is better and your better best.

Dad made us recite this whenever he thought that we were giving less than our best effort. Like the time I came home with a 96% in OAC Relations and Functions. If I could get 96, I could get a hundred; I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

The message I heard was that if wasn’t the best, I wasn’t good enough. I told myself that there was no point in trying, but under it all, I just wanted his approval. Of course, I couldn’t be the best, so I learned to act like I was better by putting others down. As a young woman, I was constantly angry and intolerant of stupidity or lack of common sense. I had no patience for weakness, and though I hate to admit it, I found fault with anyone who I thought was better than me.

Lucky for me, I learned the importance of humility. Not all at once, but over a progression of events.

The idea of humility was first introduced to me by my Religious Studies teacher, in university. He said the humble man was the happiest man, because he could just be and appreciate life. I didn’t quite understand, but the idea intrigued me.

My second child added to the learning. Baby number one was a calm and very manageable baby: a testimony, I thought, to my excellent parenting skills. Other people clearly didn’t know how to parent, I told myself when I would see a screaming child. Then Ester came along, and shattered that illusion, humbling me in the process.

Perhaps the greatest lesson came at the age of thirty-one, when my mind snapped. A mother of three, I was working full-time to support the family, taking courses at the university to improve my qualifications, caring for my dying sister, and trying to find time to work out and diet so I would be more appealing to my husband. I thought I could do it all. I couldn’t it. The walls of my carefully constructed existence came tumbling down, and I was lost in a black abyss of nothingness, unable to function.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Clawing my way out of the pit of despair, I came upon this quote (author unknown):

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to find that God was shaking my foundation.

“Get off your high horse, and come down to earth where you can be more useful!” Not God’s words, but my interpretation.

Do you know what I discovered? Letting go of having to be the best meant I could start to celebrate the successes of others rather than try to bring them down – a much more rewarding use of my energy.

Oh, and I let go of the fear of not being good enough.

In fact, I decided that I am good enough.

No, scratch that. I am good.

Wait, even that is overstated.

I am!

First Glimpse Of ME/CFS

Hesitantly, I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door ajar. A waft of warm, stale air accosted me.

“Hello?” I’d been told there might not be a response.

Something was resting against the door, so I pushed harder to let myself in. The beam from the light of the open doorway was thick with dust and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I was walking into a little foyer, with stairs ascending to the main level. The walls on either side of the entrance were stacked high with boxes, and laundry baskets full of stuff. Something lay on the floor at my feet – a coat, or a blanket, I couldn’t tell – the object of resistance. I stepped over it and closed the door behind me. The smell of the place accosted me then, a smothering aroma of dust, and cigarettes, and cat fur. I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

“Hello?” I called again, more desperate for a response. None came.

She’ll be in the bedroom, at the end of the hallway, her mother had told me. She likely won’t awaken.

It was the middle of the day, but dark blankets covered the windows, allowing for minimal light. I waited for my eyes to adjust before climbing the steps to the kitchen. The rows of boxes and debris continued and flowed into the kitchen, where dirty dishes and takeout containers littered the counters and floors. Who could live like this?

I felt my way along the hall, carefully stepping through the hordes of items stashed there, until I reached the last bedroom.

Politeness made me knock again. Again no response.

The situation was worse than I thought, and I seriously doubted my ability to be of help. It all started when she was seventeen, her mother told me. She had a terrible case of the flu, followed by encephalitis, and then one thing after the other. She rarely gets up, and has trouble putting a sentence together. The doctor’s have given up on her. She hasn’t been out of the house for ten years, and we can’t get anyone to go in. We’d really appreciate if you’d go see her.

Two tabby cats greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, as did the fetid odour of a litter box. Shooing them aside, I approached the bed. Rumpled bedding was tangled up in the middle of full size bed, but no sign of any thirty-three year-old woman. Now what?

I decided she had to be somewhere within the mess of sheets and bedding, so centering myself, I began. I ran my hands just above the bed, hoping for some sense of heat, or thickness, that might indicate there was a body inside. Instead, I just felt foolish. So, I stood at the foot of the bed and took some deep breaths, re-centering in hopes of some divine inspiration.

“Well?” A thin, croaky voice emerged from under the covers.

“Hello,” I said again, beginning to feel like a parrot.

A thin, waif-like hand appeared, followed by a matted head of hair. She was tiny. “Any hope?” her voice sounded as if it was coming from under water: slurred and thick.

I was at a loss for words. Here was this wisp of a woman, holed up this house with no daylight, and no fresh air, locked away from humanity, and all I could think of was how could she possibly survive. I would have committed suicide long ago if it had been me. What could I tell her about hope?

Then I remembered something both Joan Borysenko and Bernie Seigel had said during their workshops: There is something to love about everyone. Find it and you can help them.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe there is.”

“Really?” The word came out stretched and squeaky.

She had survived this long. She had beaten odds, and continued to live. It wasn’t much of an existence, but something kept her going.

“You have an incredible will. Now, you just have to learn to channel that to get better.”

* * * * *

Patty’s story is for another day. Meeting her taught me the importance of an idea that works. There is something to love about everyone. I use it everyday in my teaching practice.

(Image: www.experiencewellness.co.uk)