Lasts

Intimacy with the dying process began early in my life. The hills of Echo Park, North West of downtown Los Angeles, were filled with life. Bugs, horned toads, lizards, beautiful gopher snakes, and deadly rattlers were home there. Coyotes were rarely seen, but we heard them. Hoot owls were a sweet gift along with the distant sounds of the train yards down in Frog Town by the Los Angeles River. Each wild life was out to eat another wild life. We kids in those hills sometimes found remnants here and there of prey.

Our house's slab floor was level with both yards front and back. A hill behind the glass and redwood rectangle ended in the back yard, and a hill sloping down from the front yard meant that when it rained hard enough to saturate the back grass, the water would seek the lowest level, flowing through the house and down the front hill. We'd end up with an inch-and-a-half to two inches of rainwater throughout the house. Copper tubing in the smooth red-cement gave off radiant heat in winter. My mom was very relaxed and would invite the neighbors in to go wading through the warm floodwaters. Just don't touch the stereo or refrigerator. You could get a nasty shock. My brother reminded me, with a gleam in his eye, “You could die!”

Black widow spiders, scorpions, and centipedes were frequent residents or visitors. We learned to watch where our fingers were while looking for dropped pencils or such, so as not to be surprised by a bite or unexpected sting.

Dad was bitten by a black widow while sleeping in bed one night. He was terribly sick but only hospitalized for one day so the doctor could cut out the venom effected (necrotic) parts and stitch him back up.

Fear of death came before actual loss of pets and people dear to me.

Twins across the way, Peter and Angelika, were nine years old when their mother Edith was diagnosed with a rare form of kidney disease. She died when we were all ten years old.

Alone on the beach at ten, after Dad had left my mom, I found a small butterfly clam on the sunset-reflecting wet sand. My curious fingers wanted to see the creature inside its beautiful bi-valve shell. My determination and ignorance tore the little muscle as it tried to stay closed. I was so, so sorry I didn't know it would die if opened from the outside.

I was thirteen when my step father's mom died. Too afraid to look into the open casket, I created horrible nightmares for myself for more than a year. My vivid imagination provided ghastly images of how Sonya looked in there. I was afraid to fall asleep with my hands over my torso. Far worse than any reality could've been, Sonya’s death taught me to trust reality as a teacher rather than my conjectures.

My father died the summer I was sixteen. I drove myself once a week to Long Beach Veteran's Hospital to see him. From Echo Park to Long Beach was a very long drive, since Mom wouldn't let me take the freeways. Cancer of the everything, aorta, lungs, liver, spleen, and pancreas put him into a coma. The doctors said he had six months to live. He lasted three. I'd sit and hold his hand and wonder what was going on in his mind, if anything. Was it beautiful? Was it Hell?

About that time, my Aunt Nora had two mama cats, Alice and Moustache. Both had four kittens each within a few days of each other. They used to cross-nurse the eight of them. They were so darling, and my aunt and uncle's house was a good stopping point on my way home. New life was a wonderful and welcomed diversion from the grief and confusion over my father’s impending death. One day Nora found one of the kittens dead in the back yard and put it in a shoe box and buried it. Those mama cats mewled and howled looking everywhere for that missing kitten. Nora guessed Alice and Moustache needed to see it, so she dug-up the kitten coffin, lifted the lid and watched as those mama cats licked the wee fluff ball from the tip of its pink nose to the tip of its fuzzy tail. Then, they looked at each other and walked away. Auntie re-buried the box. Those wise four-leggeds taught me the importance of goodbyes.

Five years ago, when we first moved to Oakland, I reached out to a friend with whom I'd assisted Somatic Experiencing trainings for thirteen years. He lived in my new town and I invited him to coffee. Not yet. Something's goin' on he said. Two weeks later, same conversation. Then he showed up for an open house we held so we could meet our new neighbors, see Bay Area family, and I could welcome my old SE buddies to our new home in the hood. Marc came and left in about three minutes. I could see he'd lost a lot of weight since I'd seen him a year or so before. He did not look well and he did not stay. A few weeks later he shared his diagnosis with me: Stage four colon cancer. He asked me to be part of his caring team. Of course, I said yes.

Marc taught me grace under fire as cancer raged through and ravaged him from the inside out. We, his team, watched the poignancy of all his lasts. Last walk at sunset, last shower, which he asked me to help him with, last cup of really good coffee, and oh, he made the best organic Peet's, last dance with caregiver Paulina, and last song. I was singing to him when he died. (I'm still not sure it wasn’t his quirky humor that dictated the timing of his departure to be a commentary on my voice.)

His instructions regarding his wishes were precise. Read me Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye. Read me The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Elder. Sing me Luis Armstrong's It's a Wonderful World. Ever present was his gratitude for the beauty of life.

One Thursday, I showed up for my third day to be with him that week. His hospice caregiver, twenty-five-year-old Paulina, was there. He was clammy, unresponsive, and breathing was ragged. The phone rang. It was his sister in Pennsylvania from whom he'd been estranged for forty years. I told her the situation and offered to put the phone to his ear. Yes. Marc was on his left side, so I put the phone to his right ear. I heard a muffled “I love you” from the sister. A tear slid from his right eye across his nose and plunked onto the pillow. I told the sister he must’ve been waiting to hear that, said thank you and good bye. I told Marc he'd done everything; helped so, so many people with his trauma healing practice, and put all his affairs in order. His estate was going to be of use to the nascent Somatic Experiencing Professional Organization, as he’d designated. All that was left for him to do was look for the light. Another tear slid, plunked.

Paulina and I helped Marc out of his sweaty clothes, washed him down and dressed him up in fresh ones. We turned him onto his right side so he could look out onto the garden where afternoon sun was bathing his beloved redwoods. We didn’t know it would be another last.

I began to sing, "I see leaves of green, red roses too, I see them bloom for me and for you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world."  Paulina joined in, for a few lines, reading off Marc's worn copy of Satchmo's song. She stopped and just watched him. When I got to the part, "I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin' how do you do, They're really saying, I love you..." Marc stopped breathing. I squeezed Paulina's arm and pointed to the clock 2:23 pm Thursday, January 28. I finished the song with shaky voice and streaming tear, then called his sister back. Marc died exactly one week after his father had died. Both his sisters had double losses to deal with. 

It's those poignant lasts that I'll remember about Marc's death. I've watched several folks lift-off. Most have been so peaceful and easy. Some have been overly violent because heroic measures were tried in hospital to save the dying.

Last week, my writing buddy John went off all chemo and radiation treatment. He's on hospice and palliative care. He's taking one moment at a time. Humor is his tool. He calls himself a Boomer with a Tumor. His exit? Stage Four. Wishing I were closer to LA to be part of his caring team. I know he's got his sisters and maybe a granddaughter who may want to see him one last time, but, and I'm not flattering myself when I say this, I have been present for so many deaths and noted the beauty of each... unique as a birth gone well. I wish I could be there for John. It was good to listen to him by phone today and reflect back his brilliant  sanity and crystalline clarity of what he wants and what he does not want. He's still writing.

Good send-off, my friend. May the light envelop you gently.

Good Bye