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In December I was in hospital, getting out with only two shopping days left until Christmas. I went in with troubled breathing and came out with troubled breathing and wiped out from unnecessary antibiotics and other medical misdiagnoses and delights.
Last time I was in hospital, I spent a night in the nephrology wing. The 'porter' picked me up at 3 a.m. in emergency, announcing that he was taking me to nephrology. I thought he said necrology and almost bolted. Then when I got settled into a bed, a man in a wheelchair came in and asked me, "Ever know what it is like to have a kidney fail? It's not fun" He wheeled out, only to return an hour later with the same question. I did not have deep R.E.M. sleep that night. The hospital world is a strange one, indeed.
In December, the afternoon I was discharged, I thought I had a hair appointment. I got there to find no appointment had been scheduled. We figured out the problem - I had made the appointment at Extraordinaire, an escort service, but Xtraordinaire was the hair cutting place. So somewhere in Toronto, 'Susie' is wondering where 'Mary' is. So I had no haircut, but the receptionist and I had a good laugh. I emailed my pal Deirdre about it and she replied, That poor woman at the escort service was probably thinking she had a new recruit, with biblical connections, a great coup!"
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Not only is the world impermanent, so is time.
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It always amazes me how complex our lives are. How much we learn about someone after their death. What we wished we would have known while they were alive. How each life touches so many people. My pal Anita passed on this week - she was sensitive, a great artist, a ball of fun and helped so many folk along the way. Cityline TV, where she appeared often, is doing a retrospective of her this morning, as I write, celebrating her life. Why do so many cry at celebrations?
Why does beauty make us cry?
Since my hospital stay, my palliative status has been jimmied up a notch. My lungs have many tumors and I am on oxygen about five hours a day now. I call my oxygen generator O2/D2. It looks like a robot - too bad it can't vacuum. My mind states fluctuate, between worrying that I am dying to feeling fine and thinking I am on the mend. Then I come back to the present moment, accept what is and live my day. This is a difficult task; not getting caught up in mind states and emotion.
Many people have written me and asked how to be with someone who is seriously ill. My answer would be, think of the big picture...think of this moment, this body. But I shall elaborate with another hospital story.
How do I deal with this body right now? It is not cooperating with my desires. It is not fulfilling the status quo of society. It is failing me - failing others. I see this tired body, in pain; reflected in the eyes around me. I hide my pain and put on a 'good' face. Faces around me relax and they show relief they don't have to face their fears. I fulfill their agendas, take the foods and liquids they deem good for me but this is like my body wearing the emperor's new clothes. I feel isolated, alone.
Then a friend visits. She puts her hand under mine on the bed, allowing me control, maintaining the upper hand, so to speak. We smile deeply and she softly asks, "How are you, how is it going today?" bringing me into the present moment. She has left her personal agenda at the door. We talk. This body, this moment is ill, perhaps dying. I have permission to smile at impermanence, knowing that impermanence allows for transformation of all kinds. I know part of me shall smile again, even without this body.
I look around the room. Many friends have left. Cecile sits silently next to me, her hand in mine. I am not alone. She is sharing my journey. What a relief.
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I forget who said, 'A dying person has to die, as a sleepy person has to sleep'.
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It is really important to know that we live while dying; anything else would be impossible. So just because someone's life has been restricted, or has severe limitations, it is still life. We in the West have been spoiled. We rarely suffer constant hunger, constant pain, filth or lack of water, nor things like amputations by land mines and so on. So the limitations when we are ill brings up fear of the inevitable. We ask, as if it has just sunk deep into our consciousness; "Why do we have to die?" Well, the answer is simple - we die because we are alive.
If someone is really ill, helping them do daily or prioritized tasks, accomplishing something they no longer have the energy to do by themselves can be fulfilling. Ask them what they need, rather than determine their needs by your priority status. If the dying process has begun, and it can be a long process, then being present with that person, loving them where they are, helping them with any unfinished business, bringing flowers or delighting them in ways that respect them as living beings: these things will help them have a happy death. The kindest gift you can give another is a happy peaceful death. You could say it is a gift that lasts forever.
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Plotinus, an ancient Greek, said as he lay dying;
"I am making my last effort to return that which is divine in me to that which is divine in the universe."
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