ON AUGUST 1st, 2003 I WAS REPORTED DEAD.
I left for England to visit my sister, take a meditation retreat and prepare mentally for a new chemotherapy regime that I was to start when I returned to Canada. The medications prescribed to counteract the tumors in my lungs, bones and heart sac were difficult enough. I was not looking forward to a stronger drug for the new growths.
While I was away, a researcher studying cancer fatigue made a call the following Monday morning, to set up an interview, only to be told by my partner that I was gone - that I died the previous Friday morning. (The error, either a misunderstanding, or a mystery: who the researcher actually called - and how that got associated with my name is the mystery - perhaps she dialed someone at a wrong number, with a black sense of humor). The researcher then left a message with my palliative care doctor saying "please tell me when a patient dies, so that I don't have this happen again."
Long story short, my death came to the attention of my palliative advisor Blair, at Trinity Home Hospice in the form of a yellow sticky pad note, handed to him while he was on the phone. The note read simply, "Mary Pocock died August 1st." Blair ended his call and looked at the note, wondering how it was possible, for we had seen each other the day before I left town. I didn't seem even close to dead. So what happened? No report of airline fatality, no call from my partner... so what was going on with Mary?!
Blair phoned our mutual friend Doug, who in turn called my partner Marcus. He offered his condolences - if indeed they were appropriate - and if they were not, could he please call back to clarify the matter?
While these events transpired, I was in the north of England, housed in a Gothic summer house made of stone, (known as the Manjushri Institute) meditating peacefully, totally unaware that I died on Friday. I was sharing a large room with women from Russia, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Austria, U.S.A., India and England. Our dorm room designation was G-8. We called ourselves the G-8 Summit for World Peace. I felt very much alive.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the ocean, the palliative doctor decided to confirm the report she had just been given. She telephoned my other next of kin, my sister Kate. She reached Kate's husband Glenn, who said that Kate was away in Belgium, but assured the doctor that if something happened to me, or I were dead, he would know about it. I do not know the repercussions of this call; if he then called Kate or my sister Joanna to find out my most recent status.
It may be fair to say, that I was deceased in North America and very much alive in Europe - interesting to be on both sides of the existential fence at the same time.
Quite a mystery - a phone call, a yellow sticky, followed by a thorough investigation, yet no death certificate had yet been found.
So, while I was drinking tea with my sister Joanna in the garden of the Piccadilly Cafe and hearing teachings on how to find peace that can not be shattered by external circumstances, in the South Lakes District, all hell was breaking loose on the other side of the Atlantic. I think it would make a good Shakespearean play, a comedy of errors.
I am glad I had been to Conishead Priory near Ulverston. The teachings on how to maintain a good heart in difficult surroundings would come in handy on my return. Geshe Kelsang Gyatso also led meditations to on how to keep centred and stay calm in the midst of difficult or quickly changing circumstances. I arrived home tired and peaceful, accepting of whatever might occur in life and completely unaware of my sudden demise.
I am ready to begin my new chemo regime. So, tonight I will meditate for a bit, then have a lovely dinner. I will hide my daily pill in the portabello mushroom sauce, and continue to live. In fullness, aware that I could be gone tomorrow.
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