Father's Day

Snippets of my father’s last days spin through my mind like home movies, treasured for the gems they contain. I share four of them with you now...

Movie #1: A nurse is changing the bandages that wrap my father’s swollen legs and absorb the bloody secretions that ooze from his skin. Though her task would undoubtedly be easier with Dad in a different position, she kneels on the cold hard floor before this aged and ailing man, humility, kindness and love radiating from her in all directions. 

Movie #2: We wheel my father onto the patio, and the sudden change is disorienting. Though he was lucid five minutes earlier, all is strange to him now. He doesn’t know where he is or why, and reminders and reassurances do nothing to soothe him. I go in search of a familiar face. I find her, ask this young aide to add to her many other duties by coming outside, hoping her presence will do what ours cannot. Five minutes later, she joins us, smiles, speaks my father’s name. He looks up, and clouds part in the muddled sky of his brain and the sun blazes again. “I remember you!” he says and begins struggling against the layers of blankets we’ve wrapped him in against the chill of the spring day. We help free his arms. “I’ve gotta give you a hug,” he says, reaching out. We don’t know it then, but this is the last hug he will initiate in this world, this man who has become easier with affection late in life.

Movie #3: I sit beside Dad’s bed. He mostly sleeps now, and words are rare. Suddenly his eyes open and he looks directly into mine. He holds my gaze as he never could before. Through those eyes, now the palest of blue, his heart speaks without words and of a love so pure I am forever changed.

Movie #4: Dad has breathed his last. An expansive, enlivening energy still infuses the room, though my father’s body lies inert in death. The funeral home arrives, fills their large bag with this body that has done what it was asked to do, carrying this soul through 94 years. Slowly, we follow the gurney down the long hallway, lined now with loving staff and elderly veterans, all come at this late hour to witness a final walk. Some are in wheelchairs, others stand upright or lean on walkers or canes. Hand over heart or raised in silent salute, all honor this man, his family and, no doubt, others who’ve left this world long before. As in the Book of Mormon, they “mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.”

*  *  *  *  *

Today is Father’s Day, and mine has been 46 days dead. I don't know what the day holds for me, but as I post this, I relish these lessons~~

     Kneel easily, with kindness and humility...

     Remind one other of who we truly are, especially when vision is clouded...

     Love with wide~open eyes and flowing hearts...

    And honor one another as we pass by.

Blessings to you all~~and to you, too, Dad wherever you may be.

Loanne Marie

For those who missed my last post on the experience of Dad's death, you can find it by clicking here.

Sweet Release

I am home but a few minutes when the call comes. In the half~hour since I left, Dad’s oxygen has dropped to 47% and he has begun Cheyne~Stokes breathing, a sign that death is near. 

I hurry back into a car which, after many months, drives itself to the nursing home while I call my siblings. When I arrive Dad’s heart is bounding and irregular. Though still receiving supplemental oxygen, his saturation is now 23%, telling us the machine is doing the breathing, not Dad.

We gather 'round him, although two siblings who needed to return to their own lives amid this 12~day vigil are present by speaker phone. Hospice explains the oxygen can be turned off when we’re ready, and that we can expect three or four breaths before Dad slips away.

After a few moments, we give the word. The machine is turned off. And Dad breathes on his own for 20 more minutes. These breaths are not frantic or gasping, but automatic, shallow, moving only his shoulders. Such breathing does not oxygenate blood, with Dad’s saturation levels measuring first 3%, then 0%. And still he breathes.

Until he doesn’t. No movement. No sound. No heart beat.

If you had asked me to imagine my reactions at this moment, I would have predicted tears and a confused mix of emotions. What I feel instead is a wild, soaring joy. My father is released from an ailing body, from a life that had become increasingly difficult. I am happy for him, but this elation seems more than that. In the last several days, whenever I remembered to tune in and open up, I felt something in the room. An energetic presence. A quickening. A lightness. An effervescence.

Many believe that the veil between the worlds thins or parts at the time of death. This would explain the great inrush of energy I feel now and throughout the next few hours. It buoys me as I join two hospice aides in shaving Dad's two weeks of whiskers, in bathing and lotioning his body. It holds me as I lay beside that cooling body, whispering goodbyes, thank yous, support for and excitement about his continued journey. I feel it still when I return to his room after the funeral home carries his body away, as I sob my goodbyes at last, window open to the cold night air. 

This energy is so expansive, so good, so pure, that I have no doubt that Dad is enveloped by it. In fact, when I think to use the phrase “at peace” to describe him, it feels wrong. Dad feels “in joy” to me, at the time of his passing and in these hours since.           

And then something begins to shift, so gradually that I don’t recognize it at first. About six hours after Dad’s heart beat its last, the curtain is drawn once again. He is gone.

* * * * * * * *

Two weeks have now passed since Dad left us, days full of the emptiness of him. Grief rises and falls. Love remains. And gratitude.

Thank you, Dad, for your time among us. Thank you for sharing your passing, as I now share it with others. I love you. Blessed be and farewell.

Loanne Marie

Light Streams In

One day last week, our nearly 16-year-old Husky, Sasha, let us know it was time to help ease her out of her ancient body. We had spent the last year watching closely, tiptoeing the line between acting too soon and waiting too long.

But as we lay beside her on the blanket, stroking that impossibly thick and luxurious fur while Dr. Lori administered the injection, we knew we had timed it just right. Sasha was ready. We had made the final decision in a lifetime of loving choices. And now we begin the task of living without her.

In the novel, The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy uses a recurring metaphor for grief. Applied to our canine friend, we would say that her death created ‘a Sasha-shaped hole in the universe’. What an evocative picture for the hollowness that comes with grief! The image hooks me and draws me in.

If the death of a loved one creates a rending in the outer edge of existence as we know it, to where might such an opening lead? Where else, but to that which lies beyond. Each of us will have our own conception of this beyond, depending on our personal and spiritual bent. For me, it is not a place, but rather a space outside ordinary awareness, the same space touched in moments of deep absorption, prayer or meditation.

It would seem that a hole which bears the imprint of a dear one could, if we let it, offer access to and from that which lies beyond, however we imagine it to be. Could this, perhaps, complete Roy’s metaphor?

See yourself in a room, dark shades drawn against the brilliance of the day. These shades, however, are old and worn, their once smooth surfaces peppered now with cracks and holes that allow daylight to enter.

Certainly as we adjust to the absence of a loved one, our focus needs to remain primarily in the room itself, experiencing the depth of this change that has come to our life. But as time passes, we might find ourselves turning more often toward the light slipping through the shades.

I have now experienced the loss of four special animals. My godmother and aunt. A friend. And most profoundly of all, my mother. Each is represented against the inky screen at the edge of my universe, and each in her own way, provides an opening to what lies beyond.

When we are deeply bonded to another, our connection doesn’t evaporate when a body is discarded, or when that soul breaks through the barrier to elsewhere. Yet all relationships naturally seek transformation over time.

For example, one of the many ways my relationship with my mother has evolved since her death is that the filament that joins us, while remaining uniquely personal, seems to have broadened, too. It feels as though, through my enduring connection to her, I move closer to that Essence that lies beyond all things, while also opening to it more thoroughly.

Grieving is hard, and it is not wise to attempt to bypass the full range of electrifying emotions it engenders. The holes fashioned to the contours of our loved ones will rightly command much of our attention, particularly in those first months or years following their deaths.

But increasingly, our eye might be drawn to the radiance shining through these familiar openings. And in such moments, we may find ourselves rising up, arms outstretched, to welcome the Light that streams our way.

May you each bask in the beams shining through the familiar holes in your own universe.

Namaste,

Loanne Marie

For an essay written in honor of another canine companion, see Her Name Was Arrow.

Her Name Was Arrow

How does one say good-bye to a spirit so true, a companion so steady? Let me try…

Her name was Arrow. She was not only as fast as one, but resembled her namesake from the 70’s animated film, The Point, though she wasn’t blue. Her color had been described as champagne, though that sounds a bit fancy for a dear soul who’d been abandoned to the streets one frigid winter~~luckily a brief sojourn before moving into our home and into our hearts.

Arrow’s eyes were a soft brown, her spirit gentle, attentive, constant. She accompanied me wherever she could~~living room to kitchen, kitchen to bath, bath to bedroom. Everywhere but upstairs because, although we’d carpeted the open slatted steps so she’d be more comfortable, she never got the hang of stairs. She’d just lay in her place by the couch waiting, without regard to time, until I came back down.

Her bed lay at the foot of ours. I’m usually the first human to rise in our house and Arrow my first connection in what is often a long day of meaningful contacts. She’d rise and she’d wag, eager eyes welcoming me to the morning.

We were a therapy team on the days she accompanied me to the office. She’d lay at the door, front paws crossed before her, ready to greet folks arriving in search of healing~~a welcoming presence who put tender souls at ease. I never tired of learning from her about timing, noticing when my furry co~therapist listened to a client’s tears from her blanket and wondering how she knew it was time to move forward, to offer a soft ear to stroke, a brown eye of comfort, a reminder that soothing can exist in this often harsh world of ours. Her instincts were always true.

On the days I went to work alone, she’d be waiting on the porch when I returned. After a few yips of greeting, we’d move to the bedroom, and while I changed into my off~duty duds, the Happy Dance would be enacted in earnest. Arrow’s version was this: playful puppy pose~~front legs outstretched, butt in the air~~interspersed with full body circles and wild rubbing of her face against her bed, all accompanied by deep-throated groans of sheer joy.

Despite her tolerance for upset with our mutual clients, Arrow reacted visibly whenever my husband or I were agitated, particularly so if we were angry with one another. She was our barometer. As soon as a discussion would begin to heat up, she was there, gentle eyes urging our better selves forward. On those occasions we deliberately chose to disregard her sound advice and have at it anyway, she’d simply lay down at our feet, patiently waiting for us to be done with such foolish waste.

Arrow was a shining presence~~in our home, in our lives, in the lives of others. But on Saturday morning, this dear dog let us know it was time to let her go. The Inflammatory Bowel Disease that had plagued her for years~~we assume a legacy of surviving (barely) on garbage so long ago~~had returned with a vengeance this past week. Antibiotics were no longer effective. After some short~lived improvements, she now turned away from food, could barely walk, vomited water.

Asking for guidance~~or more likely, reassurance~~I drew the 4 of Swords from my Waite-Ryder Tarot deck. An effigy of a knight lying in repose on a casket. This card does not tend to be associated with a physical death~~ more of a retreat and withdrawal~~but in this context, the message seemed quite clear~~particularly after my friend, Kelli, pointed out the connection between arrows and swords, the number of swords and my 4-legged friend. Yes, it was time.

So, we gave this loving dog one last loving gift. Euthanasia comes from the Greek eu-, meaning good and thanatos, meaning death. We gave our Arrow a good death, kneeling on a blanket beside her, attended by the gentle hands of Dr. Lori who’d already given her an additional 3 years of quality life. We stroked those velvet ears for the last time, cried tears from hearts grown deeper and richer through her presence in our lives, and said farewell to an amazingly sweet and loving soul.

And now it is the day after and I return to a life without Arrow. No tail wagging or warm brown eyes greeted me when I rose. I walk between rooms unaccompanied now. The space left by Arrow's passing is enormous and I feel the loss keenly. I am sad and empty and a bit discombobulated. In other words, I grieve.

Yet, it is not so very terrible. Arrow continues to teach from beyond, this time offering a deeper knowledge of acceptance, of letting go, of putting myself in harmony with the Great Round of life and death. It is easier to do anything when one is truly loved~~and I have been truly loved. And I have truly loved in return, and I will cherish this dog, my companion on this earth walk for 12 precious years, forever.

Arrow Shuka

November 25th, 1994~~July 12th, 2008

Good-bye, my Arrow Shuka girl. Namaste, my dear, sweet dog.

Loanne Marie

And for a tribute to Sasha, Arrow's husky friend who lived half a year longer though she was over a year older, click here.