Parting Gifts

The sun is setting. I see and pick-up from the sand a butterfly clam shell that mirrors the coral, crimson, and violet of The Artist’s rendered sky. My inquisitive nine year old fingers pry it open – realizing too late that my curiosity has cost the creature its life. Shocked and sorrow-filled I weep salt tears into the wet salt sand. What I learn from this death is to be respectful of all life and habitats; to walk softly on the earth. 

Thank you, little shell.

When Stepfather Leo’s mother Sonia dies, I refuse to look into the open casket and I have nightmares for more than a year which sorely interrupt my sleep. My imagination at thirteen is far more terrorizing than any reality could be. I learn from the experience to face any and all opportunities to know the truth… rather than fantasizing what it might have been. 

Thank you, Sonia Kovner.

Aunt Nora’s two cats, Alice and Mustache have kittens within a week of each other. Each nurses the others’ brood and all the cats nest cozily – their little fur bodies draping over one another’s water-balloon-like bellies. Aunt Nora finds one of the kittens, dead, in the backyard and puts it into a shoe box and buries it. Those two mama cats go crazy looking for the missing kitten. They look under the washer, back of the stove, under beds… just everywhere – meowling the whole time. Aunt Nora realizes what is going on and in her wisdom, digs up the shoe box and opening it for the mama cats. Each of them nudges that kitten and licks it from head to toe, then look at one another and walk away. Aunt Nora re-buries the kitten. I learn from this experience to find closure, to say good-bye, to finish the business with the living before they die and that after they die it is good to do the rituals of farewell so there’s no uncertainty. There is a need to know what happened. The hardest death of all to accept is the one where there’s no body of evidence to know they’ve died. Then, we have to make up the rituals as we go. 

Thank you, Alice and Moustache.

My Dad is in a coma for more than a week before he dies. In the absence of any sign of consciousness it is impossible to tell what is going on in his mind/brain – IF anything. I determine, in my sixteen year old mind, that it could be pure torture or pure ecstasy or anything in between. In the absence of consciousness it is always best to assume that full consciousness is present and to speak lovingly and reassuringly and freely as if s/he could hear me. I decide that it is NOT OK to “play God” and end life without some signal from the body in question, except when a creature is suffering and it is clear that our choice is merciful. Hopefully a signal comes from a person while s/he still is in command of her/his faculties. I do not believe in the sustaining of life by artificial means like feeding tubes and respirators, unless it is a temporary measure and reasonable recovery may be expected. I DO believe in palliative measures to comfort the dying. 

Thanks, Dad.

When Harvey Nassatir falls from a 15 foot ladder onto the concrete floor of the warehouse where he works he lapses into a coma. His family and friends and I (then 25 years old) gather in a lounge at the end of the hall near ICU where he is being monitored day and night. For the first week our intent is to pray for his full recovery, which we do religiously – when we are together and when we are at home. As the days turn to weeks we begin to explore the possibility that he is hanging on for us and that the extent of his injuries prevents his full recovery. We shift the intent of our prayers to letting him go, releasing him to the light and his own journey, asking forgiveness for our need to hold on to him. We grieve together as each in her/his own way makes peace and says good-bye. Harvey dies within 12 hours of our intentional shift. I learn that it is important to let go and surrender to the movement of life whether it is toward recovery or toward transition into death. 

Thank you, Harvey.

Aunt Clara lived to be 100 years and six months. Her peaceful, grace-filled death provided the most beautiful first teaching about the mystery of life for my daughters, apart from the Hamsters and other small animals who’d come and gone under their competent care. Mosa was 6 ½ ; Megan 3 and their loving fingers fashioned small bouquets from the tiny coral and white flowers growing in the cemetery grasses. They wove their questions into small garlands and we talked simply about how all life begins, lasts for some time and ends… and that this is true for every living thing. The wind helped carry our flower offerings, our tears and gratitude into her grave to accompany Aunt Clara on the rest of her journey. 

Thank you, Aunt Clara.

During an 18 month period spanning part of 1989 into1991 my family and I attended 13 funerals. We wondered if we’d inadvertently signed up for the “death of the month club.” Included in those who departed in such a short time span were both my husband’s parents, both my maternal grand-parents, my step-father, our gardener of 12 years, and friends we lost to AIDS, cancer and car crashes… and that was even before we’d signed on as volunteers at a cancer camp for kids.

Each parting gift is unique but the cumulative effect is like the simmering and reduction of a fine sauce for some elegant, sublime dessert. Ultimately, the dying teach us about living – HOW to live… what works and what doesn’t work so well.

Eulogies highlight the good stuff. Those of us who live day to day with love for any other human being know that without exception we are human and we do err. Still, with all of our foibles we are perfectly imperfect. The point of taking lessons from the dying is to learn from the errors of their and our ways and not have to re-invent the wheel.

For each of these parting gifts I am grateful.