The dining room is cold in the half light of morning, as I sit with yogurt and coffee within my reach. The hum of the heat and gentle breeze of warmth cradles the space, as I settle into reflection on this cool, March morning in Georgia.
It’s been about a month since my father’s death, and the clarity that comes from the experiences of that process are still shaping my understanding of the world. I’m brought closer to conviction on a few things in my life that have been neglected or ignored. First and foremost, my Vajrayana practice was always present and in the background of my daily life. Now it’s central to my exsistence. Second, the recognition of my own unwinding or transformation during the throws of the dying process have finally taken some shape and color. I can take action in ways that I haven’t done in the past few years. Those actions are small things: choosing to find moments of clarity, expressing my ideas and art, writing extensively on experiences, and coming to grips with how to untangle this fragile ego and mind.
Flowers, Athens Georgia
That process of untangling sent me into the past, reimaging old wounds and injuries as well as coming to an understanding of my negative thoughts and actions. It was important for me to take an accounting of my life in some very specific ways: how I hurt people I loved and how to rectify those actions. Using Tonglen as my meditative approach, I welcomes the negative thoughts and emotions, and in turn released love and compassion to those I harmed. I tried to recognize each and every mistep in my life and accept responsibility for all actions and thoughts. In this particular way, I was letting the past stay in the past and offered compassion in the present. I came to understand that I cannot correct previous actions; I can only offer love to those people who are no longer in my life.
It’s this act of letting go and elaborately allowing the regret and sadness to swell and then to release. With that release came compassion and love. Yes, it’s a mental process. No, it’s not letting me off the hook, so to speak. It’s my way of placing into the universe the kind of kindness that needs to be free from personal control and open as a genuine gift. I’ve come to believe that giving this kind of open-ended kindness, compassion, and love into the world is the one thing I can do to help. That means that I believe my mental formations, my thoughts, and imapct the world simply by their formation in my mind. As the Buddha said, “with our thoughts we make the world” or something like that idea.
Too, I’ve found that personal freedom (really I’m talking about mental freedom) comes at a cost. To be free from ourselves and our negative actions, we have to recognize the cost of such actions. The gentle unwrapping or untangling of our thoughts and emotions requires attention to what happened and how we can be free from those same negative thoughts, emotions, and actions. The cost, to ourselves, were the actions we took that resulted in pain in other people. That’s why personal freedom comes at a cost. Then, offering unconditional love and compassion to those we harmed is the gift that begins the untangling of our thoughts and emotions into something more complete and more forgiving.
In the dim light of evening
I also liked the metaphor of the lock and key. We have always had the key to our own freedom, we just have never figured out how to use the key on the locks we created. Again, I’m talking about the mental locks and keys here. Many of us are quite literally in chains with no access to the physical keys to unbind us. Once we can realise that internally we can find a way to open ourselves, the path to personal freedom is the gift we can give ourselves. In a sense, we build our own prison cells without realizing we have the means of escape at out fingertips (an old image, and a good one to fit my conversation).
While my process of untangling became years ago, my father’s death and dying allowed me to take more direct action toward untangling. I thought back to the story of Alexander and the mythical confrontation with the riddle of the Gordian knot. In the story, Alexander cleved the knot in two, supposedly solving the riddle. Alexander, it would seem, never understood that untangling the knot was not the point. The knot never mattered to his life. The untangling had to happen in his mind, not on the battlefield and certainly not by cutting a knot in two pieces. Cutting the physical knot simply brought him closer to his demise. Untangling his mind, it seems, was not something he every considered.
And so I seek a new perspective, one that it just on the edge of realization. The ways in which my father’s death has helped me along is a big leap in the right direction. My father showed me the way to untangle my knots….now, it’s time for me to get to work.
Days started to blend in my mind as my Mom and I planned each aspect of my Dad’s service. While my father had explicitly and directly said, “NO SERVICE” my mother, who everyone calls Miss Gail, overruled her dying husband and proceeded with arrangements.
Pastor Bob came into the house offering condolences. His measured manner and calm demeanor were a welcome distraction for my mother, and a way for me to focus on the technical details of my father’s final trip. As I mentioned earlier, my father’s former boss offered to transport his remains for no cost. This one gift was the difference in making the final days a bit less terrible for my mother and, by extension, giving me a bit more space for the moments leading up to my father’s death.
I wondered how much or how detailed I wanted to make my writing about the process of dying, and I came to the conclusion that I wanted to be as thorough and detailed as is reasonably possible. Before I describe the final day and moments, it’s necessary to have a little insight into my belief and perspective on death and dying. Without too much detail, I practice Vajrayana Nyingma Buddhism, which is the oldest of the Vajrayana sects of Buddhism. The transmission of these ideas comes from Buddha Padmasambhava in the 8th century C.E. and has been passed down to the present through two teachers I follow and with whom I practice. The first, Sogyal Rinpoche, introduced these practices to me over the past twenty-five years. I was lucky enough to meet with him multiple times during his lifetime. After his death, I joined the community of Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpochewho is the incarnation of Dilgo Jamyang Khentsye. Yes, it is a mouthful. The teachings I have been lucky enough to be given are all about death and dying. I’ve been studying these practices for decades. If you know nothing about ANY of this stuff, here’s the one thing to know: the Vajrayana practitioners have teachings on the process of dying in elaborate detail. I have been taught and tested on these ideas.
During the last 36 hours of my dad’s passing, physical and mental changes happened in succession. While 36 hours may sound fast, when you’re in it, time slows to a crawl. Minutes stretched into hours, and I could hear the smallest sound. My Dad could not stand to hear any noise in those hours, and we kept the room silent (or as silent as we could with a very chatty mother and sister intending to clean every inch of the house while I sat in the room with Dad). Many people suggested music, and every time I attempted something like that, he said no.
In these final moments, I used liquid morphine Hospice prescribed for the struggle. They warned me that he would experience, at times, intense bouts of pain. He did. Between 36 and 24 hours, he asked for just two things: water and morphine. He remained aware and cognizant until the final hours of his passing. Simply put, he knew what was happening.
Because he lost his ability to swallow without liquid falling into his airway, I squeezed drops of liquid into his cheek as he lay with his head on the pillow. He would ask for more… meaning water… with a small syringe, I dripped it into his cheek. He was able to get some relief with this method. He slept often, eyes completely open, mouth agape. Around 24 hours before, his chest rattled with fluid. Twice during the final couple of days, a hospice nurse came to check on his vitals…in the last visit, about 36 hours before his death, they could not register blood pressure and did feel a strong radial and carotid pulse. My father had withered into a shell of himself, his BMI now around 10%. He looked like a skeleton. The image was stark. Skin stretched over bone. His hips were boney protrusions, and we moved him constantly to prevent bed sores. Even in this state, he was alive and kicking.
During the final day, I stayed with him much of the time, reading as I sat by his side. His breathing changed during the course of the day, starting with about 14 respirations/minute (normal for most folks) to a more hurried, shallow breath. The rattling in his chest stopped about 6 hours before he died, as he couldn’t take deep breaths. His heart rate spiked to 200 bpm as I consistently checked his pulse over these hours.
I talked to him quietly into the evening, ensuring him that we were all OK, and that he could let go whenever he wanted.
Between 6:30 and 7:30pm, he was clearly in distress. The Hospice nurse had explained that I could increase morphine dosage and frequency. I did. From once an hour to every 15 minutes I gave him a dose. By 7:30pm, he refused water by expressing no to me.
As an aside, in the final few days of his life, I was the only one who could understand what he wanted. For whatever reason, I could hear him when others could not. At first, I was frustrated that my sisters and Mom couldn’t understand him. Then, as I watched them try to hear him, they literally could not understand what was clear to me. That was among the weirdest moments in this entire experience.
By 8:30pm, he was slipping away. He stopped responding to my touch. In the previous hours, every time I put my hand on his hand or face, he would look directly at me. Now, he was gone. His arms and legs shook, and his body went through a series of tremors… not violent in any way, just a gentle shake or two. The timbre of the air in the room had changed and a palpable odor covered the space.
At 10:00 pm, he started making a moaning sound that was air passing through his airway. When you hear something like that, it’s clear that it’s not an emotional or intentional reaction. It was air moving through his body.
My mother came into the room and was completely unnerved by the sound. My sisters were upset and angry that I was letting him suffer. Explanations didn’t help, and I gently asked them to go into the den, and I would explain his situation to them later. They left soon after.
As I added more morphine into his cheek, it took about 30 minutes for the moaning to end. His breaths made another change, and his pulse was erratic: one hard beat/stop/two soft beats/stop. No real pattern. Hospice call this breathing Cheyne-Stokes, named in the 19th century for the scientists that determined most people experience this breathing toward the end of life. The rapid heart rate and shallow breathing go together.
After a while, around 1:00 AM, my mom came back into the room and lay in bed with him. She asked if she could put her hand on his chest. I told her, of course, and she felt his irregular heartbeat. She asked me why it was so strange. I talked about the dying process and said that it was completely normal. She did not agree it was normal and, as is often the case, argued with me about what normal was. I laughed inside, seeing that she still had that mom energy.
I headed to my room upstairs, as Dad’s breathing had stabilized into short, quick, shallow breaths. Soon after, my mom called and said something had changed.
After changing clothes (it’s HOT here!), I went back to see him. Mom had left the room to take some cough medicine (she’s got allergies and won’t take allergy medication…don’t ask), grab some water, and use the restroom. She was in the kitchen.
“He’s not breathing.” Hmmm. I walked into the room and felt for a pulse; nothing. His breathing had stopped, eyes and mouth still open as if he was taking a breath. His hands were cold.
The Hospice nurse had explained that in most cases, when a patient is aware of their situation, the patient cannot let go when people are in the room. They want to remain in that place with their loved ones, even though they truly are not present.
My mother and I had left the room, and as soon as we did, my dad died. Sure, maybe it was a coincidence. I don’t know. What I do know is the moment happened, at the end, all at once.
A phone call to Hospice and the Funeral Home happened soon after I checked my dad’s pulse. Within twenty minutes, Dylan, our nurse, came in. He was calm and kind. My mother absolutely couldn’t be in the room with my dad at this point, and Dylan walked her into the den. I called my sisters and told them what had happened. They had left earlier in the evening, and I let them know the details. My sister Whitney swooped in a while later and demanded to know why I was qualified to declare our dad dead. Dylan came in and helped Whitney understand the circumstances. One look at Dad, and she headed to be with Mom.
Dylan asked if I wanted to prepare my dad for his trip, and I agreed. We turned him on his back, and we washed his body. My sister and I had bathed him the day before, so things were clean. I grabbed some clothes Mom wanted him to wear, and we dressed him. I couldn’t help thinking about how I had similarly dressed my children when they were very young, pulling on pants or skirts as they fought with me the entire way. My Dad, in his own way, resisted the clothing as we had to bend and stretch his tight legs and arms, his body beginning to stiffen.
The mortuary vehicle arrived, and Dylan and I placed my dad on a backboard, strapping him in place, checked by the mortuary staff. My mother and sister wanted nothing to do with this process, and I helped guide my dad to the vehicle. They placed him in the back on the gurney, covered in a thick cloth covering of tan with a black repeating pattern.
We all said our goodbyes. My sister and I went into the empty bedroom and stripped the sheets. By this time, it was 7:00AM. About 4 hours had passed since my dad’s death.
My sister then went on a cleaning rampage. She vacuumed, mopped floors, emptied the pantry, tossed canned goods that had been around for ten years.
I politely stepped away, finally lying in bed upstairs. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the people next door started leaf blowers and lawn mowers. I lay there for a while, listening to the sound of machinery, just a few feet from my window. I was pissed. Then, I remembered my father, on Saturday mornings, dragging me out of bed to mow the grass, rake leaves, and do my work around the house. I had to chuckle. Thanks Dad, for one last laugh.
Blotches on hands and arms. Shallow breathing. No eating and drinking very little. Gradually slipping away. Sleeping almost constantly.
Today, my dad’s brother came over. He’s one of the funniest human beings you could ever meet; that this guy is not a stand-up comedian is shocking. At the same time, he’s been through a lot. When he came into the room with Dad, my father was more animated than he had been in days. No real smiles or words, just a little more movement in his face and hands. I left them together and worked on the other things going on…mopping floors and cleaning the house.
Dad’s brother got up to leave and asked me when we thought his brother would recover. Had we been to the doctor? Could we give him some kind of medicine? It was hard to know exactly what to say or how to help him understand the situation. I tried the subtle approach: “You know he’s on his own journey now, and I’m not sure things are going to change.” He replied, “Yea, but I mean let’s make him eat some food! Let’s make him a protein shake.” I paused. “You know, my Dad’s dying. He’s going to be gone in just a few days.” He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Tears welled in his eyes. A moment of shared understanding. “Ok well, I’d better get home. I’ll come back over this weekend.”
Standing there in the driveway as he pulled out, I thought about the number of people I had told this information. My dad’s friends, former coworkers, former boss. All were dumbfounded, all at a loss. How?, they’d say. When did this happen, they’d ask. I haven’t come up with a pat answer yet. Most of these people I didn’t know well, and I’ve been a little unsure on how to break this news.
As I shuffled back inside, it was time to wash his body, shave his face, comb his hair, and just clean him up a little bit. To say that this process was comical just doesn’t do it justice. First, he was pissed I lifted him out of the bed. He growled “nah, nah.” I spoke to him in a kind of silly voice, “it’s time for a tubby!” “I don’t want no tubbbbyyy.” I sat him in the chair, and he demanded Mom do this part of the process. After it was done, Mom said, “Don’t you feel better?” and in the LOUDEST statement he’s made yet, he said, “NO!” Then I started shaving him; he didn’t like it, and grumbled. We finished it up, got him back in the bed, and I asked, “Now, that’s better isn’t it?” He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No.” I couldn’t help but laugh, and my Mom called him Bozo for being so ridiculous. I swear to you, he looked up and gave me a kind of sneaky grin.
He quickly fell asleep. I sat for a while. He no longer wants the TV on in the room. The noise is too loud, the sound too grating. The house is quiet. His breathing is still rhythmic. At the same time, something has changed. It’s subtle, and I feel it more than I see it. The waiting and watching, of course, continues. I’m thankful I’m here, grateful for this moment. In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator is the loudest thing I hear.
The bedroom is warm, hot even, as I walk through the hallway and into the sauna-like space. Laying quietly on white sheets with a white coverlet is my father, resting peacefully in the late afternoon of a Georgia winter. I grab his hand and gently lift it as he turns to me in a kind of half-awareness. “Oh! You came home!” he says, and it’s all I can do to hold it together. I smile and say of course I did, and after a beat, he says, “Now you can make me get better.” I continue to hold his hand, almost delicate in its frailty, covered in blotches of blue and red. His fingers barely squeeze my hand, and I sit with him for a few minutes. He slowly turns his head. His mouth falls open, and he’s resting again, respiration normal with a hint of a rattling sound deep in his chest. I lay his hand on his chest and turn to consider other obligations.
My mother is glad I’m home and has already planned for us to head to Kroger to get food for the week. She’s anticipated my cooking ever since I said I was coming home, and she’s ready for me to get started. I’m tired, tired in my bones, after a frantic series of flights and car rides to make it to Athens. Still, we go to the store, and I pick out the ingredients for a series of meals we’ll have this week. Chicken and rice, tofu and vegetables, salmon, flour for pizza dough, shredded cheese, and the like. Mom must make two quiches for church tomorrow and we grab the ingredients along with pie crusts, and eggs.
When we return home, my sisters are there in various states of concern and personal struggle. My middle sister is concerned that my dad won’t drink or eat anything. Hilliary, my youngest sister, a P.A., launches into the various needs Dad will face in the coming days. We talk about it all: the many arrangements, financial concerns, and a service. Dad communicated a few days before that he didn’t want ANYONE at his funeral; in fact, he just wanted us to have dinner together at home. As usual, Mom overruled THAT request, and we plan an abbreviated service as I will do the eulogy with contributions from everyone. I’m caught by the mundane nature of planning for the passing of an individual. The logistics feel wrong in the face of the death of a parent. It seems like it should be more, somehow. Of course, and truthfully, it isn’t more. Maybe it needs to be less.
Mom starts the quiches as we talk, and my sister sits with Dad. My youngest sister and I talk about medical issues, and her husband is visibly uncomfortable with our matter-of-fact conversation. He squirms in the chair, looking away, not making eye contact with me or my sister. With side glances, I can see a kind of horror in his face, a deep abiding fear. I completely understand it, and at this moment, there’s not a lot of space for questions of our own mortality. I smile at him and try to include him in the conversation, only for him to stand and slowly walk out of the kitchen.
As the night winds down, we all say goodnight to our dad after giving him his pain meds. He thanks us, kind of formally, for being there, and we file out of the room. My Mom gets ready for bed, it’s 10:30PM here, and we settle into the new routine of waiting and watching.
Reflections on the Path 