Life gives us pain
"Life gives us pain. Our job is to experience it when it gets handed to us. Avoidance of loss has a cost. Having our pain seen and seeing the pain in others is a wonderful medicine for both body and soul"
- David Kessler, Finding Meaning
When I was eighteen I became fascinated with death and dying. I read Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and "Last Letter to the Pebble People"-- a book about a family choosing a conscious dying process for the author's husband. I entered college wanting to be an oncologist to work intimately with healing and dying but quickly realized I lacked the confidence to get through all the pre-med classes. Whenever I visited my dad in Portland we talked about his explorations of past lives, alternative realities, what happens when a person dies. I had my first experience with a medium when I was 19 or 20 and found it weirdly fascinating, mind-bending and door opening. Then, in 1982, I was living in Barcelona and teaching English. One night my grandmother came to me in my dream and when I woke up I knew she had died. We'd had a falling out and I still find it strange that she came to me like this. Later in the day, my mom got in touch with me to tell me the news and I simply said, "Yes, I know." I never doubted this knowing.
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Fast-forward ten years. I'd just turned thirty-one and had recently returned from an epic nine-month trip through Asia. For two months I'd be in training at the Dougy Center-- a refuge for children who have lost a family member. I had learned about the experiences and choices a family has to make when someone dies, we toured a funeral home, discussed grief, and how children process differently than adults. On the final day of class, I had a massive headache, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before, and had to step out for a bit to try and manage the pain. Around 10:30 that night my brother called to tell me that my dad's wife had found him in a coma and that he'd been rushed to the hospital. As my fiancé sped down the highway I found myself praying something like this, "Please Dad, don't die... but if it's your time, oh god, please don't let that be true, but if it is, please go with grace and ease, Oh, Dad, I don't want you to die, no! And if I have to let you go, I will-- I don't want to get in the way of your journey, but oh, please don't die. I need you. Give me the strength to handle whatever happens-- please give me strength." My father had had a massive brain aneurysm in exactly the place where I had my headache. He lived for twelve hours -- long enough for his loved ones to gather around him, to sing to him with the support of the hospital chaplain whose voice was angelic, to hold his hand and whisper love and goodbye in his ear. I will never forget the way he took one last deep breath, relaxed and his heart stopped. His skin went from pink to blue to yellowish and I remember how I'd seen that in reverse when I'd witnessed a birth just a few months before. I was mesmerized when a few minutes later his upper body rose up six or eight inches then released back onto the pillow and his spirit was free. There was so much beauty in his transition--from the respectful way the hospital treated us, to the friends that showed up, to how we each took time with him alone after he died to say our very personal goodbyes.
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I was wholly unprepared for the impact grief had on my life. I knew I needed support and found a grief group and therapist to work with. And, most significantly, I decided to get a master's degree in depth psychology which gave me many opportunities to process my grief and learn about myself. I graduated two years later, got married, worked as a therapist and artist, then at 38 years old realized that being a mother was a higher priority than being married (my husband had promised to have a child with me, but continued to resist)-- and so, I walked away from everything I'd built-- my marriage, community, the home I'd spend two years renovating, and my therapy practice. I lived in a 200' square foot studio and reinvented myself with devotion to the goal of motherhood. A very tumultuous year later I was pregnant with Hunter and in a new relationship with Toni.
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My next significant encounter with death and dying was with my beloved friend Dawnie, who was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer at the age of 39. I knew from the moment she called to tell me the news, that I would be with her when she died. Two years later, after a last-ditch attempt with an alternative therapy failed, I was in Utah driving her home. We made it to Pendleton and when it became clear she was not going to make it, we admitted her to the hospital. Her boyfriend took off, not able to handle losing her and I was the only one with her when she died. I felt honored to be her midwife and knew part of my role was to communicate with her family and friends so they were as involved as possible. I will never forget how tender Hunter was with me when I returned home (he was 11)-- he would sit with me when I cried or give me extra big hugs. And, it is because of Dawnie that my relationship with Amy shifted from acquaintance to the deepest love I've ever know (but that is another story).
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Then, in 2016, my mother was diagnosed with ALS. We had just opened Sacred Money Studios and my stress level was off the charts. Suddenly I was flying to Rochester, NY every six weeks to help her move out of her home while also trying to continue caring for her disabled partner of 30 years. My mother and I became apprentices to grief, sharing books, talking openly about loss and death while navigating the very real decline of her physical capacity. She taught me how to face death without fear, how to stay present in your heart, how to listen to your needs while also honoring the needs of your family and friends. She chose to stop eating when she could no longer eat, talk without incredible effort, or walk without assistance. Six days later she died feeling cold winter air on her body, listening to a recording of the ocean, having said goodbye to each of us privately. She wanted a green burial because, as a gardener, it made complete sense to go back to the earth wrapped only in a shroud. She taught me the importance of having a place to visit-- a grave with a marker that people can find should they want to.
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I'm grateful for the experiences that have given me tools, knowledge, understanding, and resources around loss and grieving. Because of my father, I am aware of and open to spiritual perspectives on death. Because of my mother, I am not afraid of dying and I understand the importance of saying goodbye consciously. She taught me the importance of grieving in community. Because of the community that has joined with me on various stages of this journey I know that I'm not alone, that I am surrounded by love, and that I'm stronger than I know.
