On Death, Dying, and Courage
The gift of letting go
This article can also be found on Medium.com
Tears welled in both of our eyes as I leaned down to kiss my father-in-law’s forehead to tell him that John and I loved him. It was his third week of fighting pneumonia. As we prepared to leave the rehab center, we could see he was nearing the end of his fight.
More tears came when I told him we wanted him to get better. But if that wasn’t what he wanted, we would understand.
We would still love him.
The next morning, we awoke to a text that Larry had gone to the emergency room.
He was letting go.
Larry had been through a massive life change. His wife of more than sixty years had recently moved into memory care. He realized that he didn’t want to be alone, nor could he manage. Soon after moving into assisted living, his health faltered.
Many falls, then severe COVID pneumonia — all within the first two weeks of leaving his home of more than fifty years.
It was time.
Overnight, the doctor started Larry on oxygen and more antibiotics. When my husband, John, arrived at the hospital, the doctor told him his dad’s illness was near terminal.
Without continued support, his chances of survival were slim. The doctor emphasized that, even with oxygen, he might not make it much longer.
John and his brothers knew their dad didn’t want massive life-saving efforts. They knew they had to reconcile their feelings and come to terms with the situation — fast.
A swirl of emotions arose in each of them as they wrestled with this information. The fear, the doubt, the grief, and the guilt all pushed them to resist calling it time.
They all questioned the severity of Larry’s situation. Through text messages and phone calls, they made their way to the reality of their dad’s situation. They wished that somehow it could change if they gave him more time.
But it was plain to see he was dying.
They faced their fears and emotions with courage. They knew it was time to honor their father’s wishes, even if it was hard.
With the agreement of the medical team, they made the formal decision to withdraw care.
Larry teetered in and out of awareness. His clarity at times caused us to question if he was, in fact, on his way out.
When he learned that we needed to wait for at least one of his other two sons to arrive before withdrawing care, he gave us quite the response.
He sat up and looked at John and me right in the eye and said, “Are you telling me we have to extend this?”
Then he lay down and closed his eyes.
John and I looked at each other in stunned disbelief. Did he just say that?
That statement made it crystal clear to us that Larry was aware he was dying. And the thought of prolonging it did not sit well with him. That was his final protest to having to wait.
When a person is near death, their awareness expands, and they become more psychic. It’s as if a door to spiritual realms opens, and they can see and interact with those on the other side. This was so clear with Larry.
At times, he seemed to be talking to someone and would say things like, “Do they have high-class food here?”
He was not asking us.
He was asking someone unseen to us. Was it his mom? Uncle Bob?
It seemed like he was basing his decision to die on whether the food quality over there was good enough. And who better to ask than someone who was already there?
With tear-filled eyes, Larry expressed his awareness and understanding that he was near the end.
Through our eyes and the holding of hands, we expressed our love. In silence, we communicated our understanding that he was leaving.
And that we would be okay after he was gone.
We gave our silent permission and hoped it would give him the courage and
“The confidence to relax and let go.”
Words would not come. They weren’t meant to. Our tears said what we could not.
As I reflected on Larry’s imminent passing, the memory of a very different experience came to mind.
Reflections of a Not-So-Peaceful Passing
Sitting with Larry in the surrounding chaos of the emergency room, I recalled the difficult and prolonged death of a cancer patient. During my early years as an oncology pharmacist, I worked at a cancer hospital. The pharmacists attended medical emergencies in support of the life-saving efforts of the doctors and nurses.
They save lives every day. If there is not a clear ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order, life-saving measures must continue until the patient stabilizes or dies.
The patient was riddled with cancer from HIV/AIDS and needed emergency lifesaving measures several times over a few days.
He was dying, but the strong pull of his family kept him from leaving. His family waited outside his hospital room each day, refusing to let the doctors give up.
It is our natural response to want to hold on to our loved ones, hoping beyond hope they will survive and get well again. But it’s not up to us.
Somehow, he kept stabilizing. Then his system would collapse again, until finally, he succumbed to his death.
Tibetan Buddhism teaches us that efforts to stop the soul from leaving cause tremendous distress for a dying person.
They know it’s time for them to leave, but they resist going because their loved ones aren’t able to part with them yet.
In our Western culture, we tend to focus on the physical body and the personality that goes with it. We forget about the immortal Soul whose time it is to go.
By focusing on keeping them alive, we aren’t letting them die. We’re not allowing them to easily leave this world through their natural process, in peace.
Even though we are in pain over the impending loss of our loved one, often our most precious gift can be to allow the dying their process.
No easy task.
Even though we may feel helpless, we can provide them with as peaceful a passing as possible. If they are free from the duress and chaos of prolonged emergency life-support efforts, when they are ready, they can go in peace.
Continued attempts to keep that cancer patient from dying were heavy on my heart. I knew it was causing him distress. Yet, he held on for the sake of his family.
Until he couldn’t.
He died surrounded by a medical team, while his family wailed at the news of his passing. It broke my heart.
The contrast between his situation and Larry’s couldn’t have been greater.
After John’s younger brother arrived, the medical team reduced oxygen support. It was unknown how long it would be before Larry transitioned.
It could be hours or minutes.
Drowsiness settled in as his oxygen level steeply declined. His quiet rest was a blessing as we awaited the arrival of John’s oldest brother from upstate New York.
As Larry’s system began to slow, he had one last moment of lucidity as he spoke his final words to us: “I love you.”
Our hearts ached as we told him we loved him too.
Finally, John’s older brother arrived as the room was ready. We took turns sitting with Larry until his final moments.
Death and dying are a natural part of life, but we can never be fully prepared to face the death of a loved one. The pain is excruciating. There are no words to describe it.
Yet, as much as it hurts, there can be comfort in remembering that they are eternal souls moving on to another aspect of their evolutionary journey.
In my experience, when a person is dying, their consciousness expands. Their psychic abilities are WIDE open.
When they are no longer with us on this plane of existence, we can think of them in our hearts, and they will be by our side.
We can take comfort in knowing they’re only a thought away.
How do we know this is true?
Having just left our world, they know we aren’t able to perceive them from our plane of existence. When we are thinking about them, they are right there with us.
To get our attention, they will give us clues they are near: signs from nature, a song on the radio, or some other sign of personal significance.
Sometimes the sign is a bird or a feather.
When I see a little white butterfly flutter by on a warm summer day, I know my mom is with me.
When my sister sees a swarm of dragonflies, she knows our mom is with her.
Photo by Clément Falize on Unsplash
We know Larry is with us when John and I see his name on a Mack truck or his abbreviated name on a license plate.
Photo Credit: author’s photo License plate with Larry, abreviated.
You may wonder if it is real. But deep in your heart, you will know.
They are still with us but in a different form.
The most beautiful gift we could give was to let Larry go with love, courage, and compassion.
He went in peace, surrounded by his children, reunited with his loved ones who had gone before him. Knowing he no longer suffered was like a soothing balm for our aching hearts.
Our unspoken task was to let go of Larry with love, courage, and compassion. It gave him the courage he needed to trust his dying process and to go with confidence into his new existence.
We did our best
“There is no greater gift … you can give than helping a person to die well.”
CONTACT US
Want more info?
Contact Us
Disclaimer: Energy Healing Modalities are not in any way intended to replace conventional medical treatments for any health conditions you may be experiencing. Please consult your primary medical care provider if you have an immediate health concern.
