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.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

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.'

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

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.