knew I was somehow seeing myself in his final breaths. Time ticked differently and little things we ordinarily take for granted became skewed and abstract. Death was an inescapable reality, and as I walked around the cardiac ward, there was room after room of isolated elderly people waiting to die. I felt like I should go into the rooms and hold their hand for a few minutes just to let them know somebody saw them and cared, but felt it would be an intrusion. When my step-father did die amid harp music and prayers, there was a spiritual quality that gave me a deeper perspective on life and the end.
I ended my story and we searched each other’s faces before a wall broke and a flood of sharing and storytelling soon followed:
A slight woman with salt and pepper hair shared her experience of the family coming together for her husband’s death and how a previous near-death experience had left him angry at the nurse who brought him back.
A frail Buddhist woman wrapped in an afghan blanket discussed her views on eternity.
The son of an emotionless Midwest farmer told of his struggle to find human connection after years of measured responses to life’s challenges. Years later, he would become a hospice worker and embrace the experience of sharing someone’s last few hours on earth with love and compassion.
A muslim man in a colorful cap quoted scripture from the Koran and the Bible. He admitted he had come because he wanted to know who would so brazenly hold a death café.
A play write told of her struggle to deal with her husband’s final hours and her belief that spiritual responses were just a crutch. For her, death was no more than a dirty trick. Her face revealed the depth of her pain as she shared a quote from Hamlet spoken over his body during his final breath.
Tom told an amazing story of his brother’s passing. They knew he had little to no chance of recovery, so after an hour consultation, gave him the choice of keeping things the same, or having them pull out the breathing tube that kept him alive the following Wednesday. He gave a thumbs up sign on pulling the tube and all the extended family was called together for the final passing. They had a wonderful last day with him: dog in his arms, children running and playing, everyone giving their final words, then it was time. They had one last family meeting
and wondered if they were doing the right thing. Tom went back in the room and made sure his brother realized the following day was his last day. He nodded and slowly drifted off to sleep. When the family gathered once again to say goodbye, the tube came out and he croaked, “I can talk!”
The next twenty minutes were a slow drifting away as children played and adults circled his bed. He chatted awhile, but then appeared to drift into sleep as his time drew near. Several minutes passed with eyes closed, his breathing strained, before he opened his eyes one last time to say, “It’s beautiful.”
The writer felt it was a good story, and said it would even make a good play. For others (myself included), it loosened memories of death from many years past into the realm of consciousness. I recalled a colleague dying of cancer 20 years previous when I first started teaching. He knew his time was near, and after months of chemo and radiation, decided he wanted to leave something deeper than typical everyday memories. He compiled a book of all his favorite things. His top 10 favorite poems, his top ten favorite movies, the best thing he ever wrote, and a variety of other experiential highlights from life. I remember finding it again ten years later after moving several states away. It had much more meaning this time around, and I interrupted my unpacking to sit down and closely examine it. At 30, I thought I had all the time in the world, but in my forties, my mortality was in the crosshairs of existence, and I took the time to embrace life more fully. I rented the 10 films, and felt “John” laughed and smiled with me. I read the poems, visited the National Parks, tracked down the musical tracks, and read at least some of his favorite novels. A humanity was shared that we normally do not open ourselves in modern society. I saw the man behind the curtain, and saw the guts of his human experience. I felt grateful that he shared these little corners of reality.
Finally, when the clock hit 9:00 p.m. sharp, it was time to leave. Nobody seemed to know what to do. We wanted to go home, but the opportunity to have such rich, deep conversation about a normally taboo subject in our culture seemed too rare to walk away from. We all stood up, mechanically put away our tea cups and saucers, then lingered around the