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| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
Thursday, 30 April 2015
smelly cheese
Rituals and habits can be comforting markers.. familiar places to rest and reflect. Barry's 4:00pm custom is to have a glass of red wine with a cracker and strong cheese. I have been lucky enough to be invited into this indulgence during my visits. Believe me when I say, everything stops at 3:59 in preparation for this tradition.
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| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
Wednesday, 29 April 2015
Rosie and the Riverters
I was at a concert on the weekend at our local Opera House to see the Saskatchewan band, Rosie and the Riveters. The original Rosie the Riveter was a cultural icon of the United States, representing the American women who worked in factories and shipyards during World War II, many of whom produced munitions and war supplies.As the band states on their web site:
"Since the second World War, Rosie the Riveter has been immortalized as a symbol of the strength and power that is inside every woman. This is the force that drives and inspires Rosie and the Riveters. They are four fiercely talented women inspired by Rosie, the fashion and music of her time."
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| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
I haven't even asked her what she was doing back home while her future husband was away saving the world! I wonder.. was she a Rosie?
One of the songs the band sang on the weekend was, Go on mama / we don't get out of here alive. It was written by Farideh, one of the young women in the group. She wrote it about her Grandmother as she was passing. It touched my heart and made me think of Martha once again.
Go on mama / we don’t get out of here alive
Go on mama, I’ll be okay
I’ve learned from the best - how to be brave
You taught me well and did the best you could
I hope that I can be half as good
CHORUS
For we don’t get out of here alive
we, don’t get out of here alive
we don’t get out of here alive
it’s so much brighter and lighter,
On the other side
Go on mama
Go find the light
I take comfort knowing
I’m not that far behind
Your second son, is waiting for you
His hands outstretched to guide you through
CHORUS
For we don’t get out of here alive
we, don’t get out of here alive
we don’t get out of here alive
it’s so much brighter and lighter,
On the other side
Go on mama, go on and make you’re move
I’m strong enough now, to burry you
The heavens gates, and the arms of saints (HARMONIES)
Open wide as smiles to welcome you (HARMONIES)
CHORUS
For we don’t get out of here alive
we, don’t get out of here alive
we don’t get out of here alive
it’s so much brighter and lighter, (brighter, lighter, brighter)
For we don’t get out of here alive
we, don’t get out of here alive
we don’t get out of here alive
it’s so much brighter and lighter,
On the other side
beautiful music
Martha had a particularly rough night with difficulty breathing; her vision was giving her some trouble. However, with a courageous heart, she continued her attempts for mobility and good humour. For decades Martha has played guitar and entertained with her musical family. When Denise reminded her that someone was coming to play some music, and that the person was bringing a guitar incase Martha herself might want to play along, her response was that she was too tired and she needed to lay down. Denise assured her that she was not obliged to participate in any way and, in fact, this visitor was coming to entertain us all - whether we were awake or not.
No sooner had Melinda arrived with two guitars in hand, than Martha was up, sitting in a hard wooden chair, willing and able to jump right in and play! It was so lovely to witness the expression of Martha the musician, with her sweetheart, Barry, resting nearby.
Barbara Crowe (past president of the National Association for Music Therapy):
"Music therapy can make the difference between withdrawal and awareness, between isolation and interaction, between chronic pain and comfort - between demoralization and dignity."
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
in the now
Awareness of the power of now has seeped into our culture in the last decade largely due the book, The Power of Now, written by Eckhart Tolle. One of the most difficult aspects of dying, or sharing in the experience of a loved ones death, is living in the moment that will inevitably come.. the moment of separation. My wise sister, Vicki, would say - that worry, that day. And the somewhat enlightened author, Mister Tolle, would agree..
"Are you worried? Do you have many "what if" thoughts? You are identified with your mind, which is projecting itself into an imaginary future situation and creating fear. There is no way that you can cope with such a situation, because it doesn't exist. It's a mental phantom. You can stop this health and life-corroding insanity simply by acknowledging the present moment. Become aware of your breathing. Feel the air flowing in and out of your body. Feel your inner energy field. All that you ever have to deal with, cope with, in real life - as apposed to imaginary mind projections - is this moment. Ask yourself what "problem" you have right now, not next year, tomorrow, or five minutes from now. What is wrong with this moment? You can always cope with the Now, but you can never cope with the future - nor do you have to. The answer, the strength, the right action or the resource with be there when you need it, not before, not after."
Every glance holds the potential for sadness.. or.. a conversation about folding laundry. In this moment there is no sadness, only sharing in the living of life.
"Are you worried? Do you have many "what if" thoughts? You are identified with your mind, which is projecting itself into an imaginary future situation and creating fear. There is no way that you can cope with such a situation, because it doesn't exist. It's a mental phantom. You can stop this health and life-corroding insanity simply by acknowledging the present moment. Become aware of your breathing. Feel the air flowing in and out of your body. Feel your inner energy field. All that you ever have to deal with, cope with, in real life - as apposed to imaginary mind projections - is this moment. Ask yourself what "problem" you have right now, not next year, tomorrow, or five minutes from now. What is wrong with this moment? You can always cope with the Now, but you can never cope with the future - nor do you have to. The answer, the strength, the right action or the resource with be there when you need it, not before, not after."
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| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
Every glance holds the potential for sadness.. or.. a conversation about folding laundry. In this moment there is no sadness, only sharing in the living of life.
Sunday, 26 April 2015
challenge #1
I arrived back at the ranch yesterday afternoon. The drive from Indian Head was lovely, reminiscent of my home town, Vancouver, grey with a persistent light rain. It was the kind of day to tuck in with a hot cup of tea and a good book, but I was glad to be were I was and grateful to see everyone.
My objective with this visit is to realize a way to move through this experience with as little disturbance to others as possible. With that goal in mind, I have discovered one of my challenges. As a recurring theme, the need for others' approval has had both negative and positive influences in my life. It wasn't until the middle of the night that I realized the impact this need is having on this project.
This need leaves me thinking; What am I doing here? I can see clearly what I want to do and then I get totally distracted with trying to be nice and helpful. I see now that my challenge at this time is to be aware and connect. I see that I've held a mistaken belief that I must stay disconnected in order to lean back far enough to be aware of the potential of each moment. I want to be poised to capture what is happening so that those who are swallowed up in their feelings will have something upon which to reflect.
My objective with this visit is to realize a way to move through this experience with as little disturbance to others as possible. With that goal in mind, I have discovered one of my challenges. As a recurring theme, the need for others' approval has had both negative and positive influences in my life. It wasn't until the middle of the night that I realized the impact this need is having on this project.
This need leaves me thinking; What am I doing here? I can see clearly what I want to do and then I get totally distracted with trying to be nice and helpful. I see now that my challenge at this time is to be aware and connect. I see that I've held a mistaken belief that I must stay disconnected in order to lean back far enough to be aware of the potential of each moment. I want to be poised to capture what is happening so that those who are swallowed up in their feelings will have something upon which to reflect.
Friday, 17 April 2015
lingering
After two days visiting with Martha and Barry at the ranch, I'm home and sleep eludes me. It's 3:09 and I lay awake, listening to Kim and Boomer's breathing; relaxed, heavy, rattled and uneven. When Kim's exhale stalls I nudge him gently and I think - at some point a nudge won't remind him to inhale. There will come a time when he will forget the importance of breathing. Something else will capture his attention.
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| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
I remember the sound of Barry's breathing machine and the dusty light in his still room. I miss them and the people who love and care for them. While Barry and Martha's stories circle me, I find myself frustrated that I wasn't more vigilant in writing down the conversations.
It takes a certain mindfulness to be present while still noticing what one might want to document. I have some of that awareness but, now that I understand that my personal diary of The Passing Diaries is of value, I must set up a system that allows me to stay present, and record at the same time. My presence must not intrude in this intimate process.
I long to connect and yet yearn to be unobtrusive.
catching up
This project, originally named 'Steps Ahead', was conceived during a Sunday afternoon telephone conversation between myself and my dear friend and life mentor, Jean. Through our conversation I found myself remembering my father. He was a man of determination and ambition and, in his final years, uncomfortable receiving love. In fact, I didn't feel him really accept my unconditional love until after he had passed.
I wish I had sat down and had a frank conversation with my dad. By the time I understood that he was nearing the end of his life, it was too late. Even though my dad was very ill, he continued to drink and smoke ("I don't inhale!"), it was only a couple of days prior to his death before it dawned on us that he was that ill. Even then we remained silent. I remember being aware of a dull fog weaving around our family. A knowingness to difficult to verbalize that weighed us all down.
During my conversation with Jean I realized, with a flood of warmth spreading throughout my body, that I might be able to bring some awareness to this aspect of life. The one event which every living being will one day experience. Death. Jean suggested I connect with a friend of hers who lives a few hours away from me. Denise's partner, Lee, passed away in 2011 with less than a week of notice. The tenderness and insight with which Lee and her tribe had navigated the last few days of her life was remarkable. Within a week I was Skyping with Denise and her wife, Kathy. Within a month I was out to their ranch a couple of hours from my home to meet them in person.
It is so incredible how God/The Universe can respond so immediately to ones ideas, (or the other way around!). Just prior to my visiting them, Denise's parents came for a visit. Once there, everyone realized it was where they needed to be living. And within two weeks they discovered both Martha and Barry were fighting the same type of cancer. The prognosis wasn't positive, but you'd never know it by their attitudes or the atmosphere.
My first time to the ranch was a day visit; just long enough to enjoy one of Kathy's delicious lunches. The second visit I stayed overnight. The hours I spent, mostly with them in the bedroom/tv room, was for me, immensely touching. I sketched. I took the occasional photo. And we chatted about everything, but mostly about their lives - past and present. As time stretched, stories lingered.
I wish I had sat down and had a frank conversation with my dad. By the time I understood that he was nearing the end of his life, it was too late. Even though my dad was very ill, he continued to drink and smoke ("I don't inhale!"), it was only a couple of days prior to his death before it dawned on us that he was that ill. Even then we remained silent. I remember being aware of a dull fog weaving around our family. A knowingness to difficult to verbalize that weighed us all down.
During my conversation with Jean I realized, with a flood of warmth spreading throughout my body, that I might be able to bring some awareness to this aspect of life. The one event which every living being will one day experience. Death. Jean suggested I connect with a friend of hers who lives a few hours away from me. Denise's partner, Lee, passed away in 2011 with less than a week of notice. The tenderness and insight with which Lee and her tribe had navigated the last few days of her life was remarkable. Within a week I was Skyping with Denise and her wife, Kathy. Within a month I was out to their ranch a couple of hours from my home to meet them in person.
It is so incredible how God/The Universe can respond so immediately to ones ideas, (or the other way around!). Just prior to my visiting them, Denise's parents came for a visit. Once there, everyone realized it was where they needed to be living. And within two weeks they discovered both Martha and Barry were fighting the same type of cancer. The prognosis wasn't positive, but you'd never know it by their attitudes or the atmosphere.
My first time to the ranch was a day visit; just long enough to enjoy one of Kathy's delicious lunches. The second visit I stayed overnight. The hours I spent, mostly with them in the bedroom/tv room, was for me, immensely touching. I sketched. I took the occasional photo. And we chatted about everything, but mostly about their lives - past and present. As time stretched, stories lingered.
Thursday, 16 April 2015
me
As I sat at his bedside, holding my fathers hand, moonlight streamed into the still, sterile room. I told him I was there. I told him I loved him and everything was going to be okay. I listened to my dad's breath. Deep and rattling inhales followed long and weighted exhales. It was the first time in resent history my father didn't smell of cigarillo's and beer. With that thought, my mind began to drift. I then realized there was no inhale. I was shocked back into the moment. My heart raced and my mind screamed: No! Please don't do this now - not while I'm all alone in the dark! My father inhaled. Relief washed over me, immediately followed by an immense flood of fear and panic. I gently released his hand, kissed his forehead, and tiptoed out of the room. My dad passed away about an hour later, alone in a dark hospital room.
Patricia Weenolsen, PH.D. writes in her book,
The Art of Dying: The Only Book for Persons Facing Their own Death,
'Most books in the field of death and dying address either the care-givers or the bereaved. They ignore what you are experiencing now. In the justly esteemed AMA Family Medical Guide, the reader is addressed as "you" throughout eight hundred pages of various diseases. In the last section, however, the dying person is "him or her". Recently I received a self-care book from an HMO. I looked up "Death" in the index. It said, "See Grief". Death happens only to survivors?'
In February of 2011 my husband, Kim, and I began a year of living in Mexico. We were just heading to bed on April 1 when I received a text from my great niece saying, Grandma's had a heart attack. By noon the next day we were on a bus to the Cancun airport.
On the way to the airport my sister, Vicki, phoned to say that my oldest sister, Anne, just passed away. It turned out she had a brain aneurysm. She was sitting on the back stoop, having a cigarette, when she just fell over. Gone. Everyone was in shock. How could she just go? It just didn't make any sense. For the next two months we stayed with Anne's daughter to help her and her family cope with the massive hole left by my sister's unexpected passing.
In early June Kim and I returned to our life in Mexico and three weeks later we received another call from Vicki. Our mother was dying. She was no longer eating and her doctor expected her to pass within the week. Vicki assured us there was no need to return home as Mom was unaware who was, or wasn't, there with her. It had been 23 years since my father died. Believing I had abandoned him at his most vulnerable time, I was haunted by shame and regret. Not being there for Anne's transition filled me with sorrow. Not being there for my mom was simply not an option for me.
Four hours later Kim and I were boarding a flight back to Vancouver, racing against the clock to be there for my mother during her life to death passage. From Wednesday midnight until Friday afternoon I was never far from her bed. I slept on the floor beside her be, held her hand, stroked her arm, combed her hair, and kissed her cheeks.
Although she was unconscious, I spoke to her of who she was to me. I spoke of how me becoming myself was so much about how she was herself. I thanked her for her incredible gifts and for the patience she embodied while I discovered and explored my own gifts.
When my mom released her last breath I felt her beautiful soul leave the peaceful room. The energy in the room shifted and, although her light was extinguished, the sacred space appeared brighter.
As I felt the absence of her spirit, I was enveloped by an intense and absolute adoration of her body.
Just as I was breathing through this euphoric state, Vicki was manically gathering personal items and rushing to get out the door and on the road. I was being pulled with all of my being towards my mom's still body, while my sister was pushing with all of her might away from her mom's death. Why hadn't we discussed this? Why hadn't I anticipated her easily predictable, extreme need to escape her own anguish over the death of her mom, and how did she not get how critically important it was for me to stay with my mom's body to help prepare it for it's last journey? Truly, one of the most important events in both of our lives, and we hadn't even talked about it. Another question might be, why hadn't the medical team circling us invited that conversation?
Atule Gawande wrote in his book, Being Mortal, 'The way we saw it, and the way our professors saw it, the purpose of medical schooling was to teach how to save lives, not how to tend to their demise.'
Fighting through my own discomfort, (what will everyone think, I thought), I took a couple of photos of my mom the day before and a moment after she passed. I've since sketched from those images and the blessing of meditating on both photographs have brought me immeasurable peace.
Although I treasure those images, revisiting that profound experience through those images leaves me asking: Why can't we honour each others' process through this unavoidable, universally experienced event? We acknowledge and celebrate all other passages in life; birth, anniversaries, graduations and all sorts of events which we recognize as contributing factors to who we become.
When I was 21 years old my best friend and I saved up for a year of backpacking throughout Europe. This was back when young adults could explore the world with nothing but a rail pass and a backpack, believing they would discover themselves along the way. I remember the crowd of cherished family and friends gathered in the airport lounge, each one toasting to our imminent passage through to adulthood. That is the celebration I expect when I'm ready to leave this body and life on planet earth. I hope to look into peoples eyes and tell them who they've been to me. I also want to know who I've been to them.
Loving connections while in the human experience is what I hope for myself, and others, facing death.
Patricia Weenolsen, PH.D. writes in her book,
The Art of Dying: The Only Book for Persons Facing Their own Death,
'Most books in the field of death and dying address either the care-givers or the bereaved. They ignore what you are experiencing now. In the justly esteemed AMA Family Medical Guide, the reader is addressed as "you" throughout eight hundred pages of various diseases. In the last section, however, the dying person is "him or her". Recently I received a self-care book from an HMO. I looked up "Death" in the index. It said, "See Grief". Death happens only to survivors?'
In February of 2011 my husband, Kim, and I began a year of living in Mexico. We were just heading to bed on April 1 when I received a text from my great niece saying, Grandma's had a heart attack. By noon the next day we were on a bus to the Cancun airport.
On the way to the airport my sister, Vicki, phoned to say that my oldest sister, Anne, just passed away. It turned out she had a brain aneurysm. She was sitting on the back stoop, having a cigarette, when she just fell over. Gone. Everyone was in shock. How could she just go? It just didn't make any sense. For the next two months we stayed with Anne's daughter to help her and her family cope with the massive hole left by my sister's unexpected passing.
In early June Kim and I returned to our life in Mexico and three weeks later we received another call from Vicki. Our mother was dying. She was no longer eating and her doctor expected her to pass within the week. Vicki assured us there was no need to return home as Mom was unaware who was, or wasn't, there with her. It had been 23 years since my father died. Believing I had abandoned him at his most vulnerable time, I was haunted by shame and regret. Not being there for Anne's transition filled me with sorrow. Not being there for my mom was simply not an option for me.
 |
| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
Although she was unconscious, I spoke to her of who she was to me. I spoke of how me becoming myself was so much about how she was herself. I thanked her for her incredible gifts and for the patience she embodied while I discovered and explored my own gifts.
When my mom released her last breath I felt her beautiful soul leave the peaceful room. The energy in the room shifted and, although her light was extinguished, the sacred space appeared brighter.
As I felt the absence of her spirit, I was enveloped by an intense and absolute adoration of her body.
Just as I was breathing through this euphoric state, Vicki was manically gathering personal items and rushing to get out the door and on the road. I was being pulled with all of my being towards my mom's still body, while my sister was pushing with all of her might away from her mom's death. Why hadn't we discussed this? Why hadn't I anticipated her easily predictable, extreme need to escape her own anguish over the death of her mom, and how did she not get how critically important it was for me to stay with my mom's body to help prepare it for it's last journey? Truly, one of the most important events in both of our lives, and we hadn't even talked about it. Another question might be, why hadn't the medical team circling us invited that conversation?
Atule Gawande wrote in his book, Being Mortal, 'The way we saw it, and the way our professors saw it, the purpose of medical schooling was to teach how to save lives, not how to tend to their demise.'
 |
| Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel |
Although I treasure those images, revisiting that profound experience through those images leaves me asking: Why can't we honour each others' process through this unavoidable, universally experienced event? We acknowledge and celebrate all other passages in life; birth, anniversaries, graduations and all sorts of events which we recognize as contributing factors to who we become.
When I was 21 years old my best friend and I saved up for a year of backpacking throughout Europe. This was back when young adults could explore the world with nothing but a rail pass and a backpack, believing they would discover themselves along the way. I remember the crowd of cherished family and friends gathered in the airport lounge, each one toasting to our imminent passage through to adulthood. That is the celebration I expect when I'm ready to leave this body and life on planet earth. I hope to look into peoples eyes and tell them who they've been to me. I also want to know who I've been to them.
Loving connections while in the human experience is what I hope for myself, and others, facing death.
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