Let Your Heart Break #4: Living While Dying

Ed and Paul, June 2001
Ed and Paul, 2001

What can Dad’s walk toward death teach us about living?

Thirteen years ago, as Dad lay dying, I watched the otters play in Monterey Bay and monarch butterflies fly around the bushes just outside his living room window.

Leaving my brother and the Hospice workers with Dad, I walked along the shore to the neighborhood coffee shop in the early morning hours of Monday, October 1, 2001. While waiting for my latte, I noticed a brochure for Reiki treatments by Wendy Cohen. I’d undergone this Japanese treatment before when a practitioner laid her hands over my body and filled me with renewed life force. I had found it more energetically powerful than a massage, and it felt like intercessory prayer. I wanted a Reiki session for Dad to ease his death process and for me as I supported his journey to and following death.

I immediately called Wendy. She was busy that morning but promised to check back in a few hours.

Wendy called mid-afternoon to say she was coming. By that time Dad was actively dying.

“Do you want me to come anyway?” she asked.

I did.

A few minutes later, in walked a stranger dressed in a mini skirt and Harley Davidson jacket, holding a bright red basket filled with little bottles of flower vibrational essences. Wendy silently took her place among the small group that circled Dad’s bed.

As soon as Wendy’s hands hovered over Dad’s feet, my hands touching his face felt his energy soften. His breathing slowed, and my heart melted. Two minutes later, his spirit gently slipped out of his body. His final letting go.

When family gathered for Dad’s funeral a week later, his casket lay in St. Mary’s by the Sea Episcopal Church, a church he’d attended only for funerals and weddings. Draped over his coffin was a cloth of bright red, orange and green—the tablecloth Mom had completed for our Christmas, days before she died.

I touched his coffin on my way to the pulpit to preach his funeral sermon.

As ended my sermon, I said, “Dad died in the living room of his home, where Mom died fifteen years ago. This tired old body he left behind is here in the same church

where Mom’s funeral was held and is now covered by the same cloth that covered her casket. And our family will again use the tablecloth to cover the family table when we gather to feast together knowing that we are encircled with the spirit of Ed and Sue. … God, ‘give to us now your grace, that as we shrink before the mystery of death, we may see the light of eternity.’ ” *

On September 11, 2001, Dad began his three-week walk toward death. Simultaneously, hijacked planes crashed into buildings that epitomized US economic, military and governmental power.

For a moment Americans came together in grief, but within days we shifted to talk of war and patriotic pride. As a result, thousands more have died in our unwinnable battles. In contrast, Dad responded with an open heart and lived even as he died.

Though Dad was an in-control man for most of his life, his heart had softened fifteen years earlier after Mom died. We’d grieved together, cried together and talked about her often. But my heart broke open even more as I watched Dad let go into his death. He taught me many things about life while dying.

  • Look around, even when things are falling apart. Butterflies and otters, flowers and clouds remind us that there is a bigger picture that surrounds the crisis at hand. Connecting with nature can keep us grounded.
  • Expect help to come from all directions. Sometimes it comes from predictable sources: family or hospice workers. Yet sometimes it arrives in a miniskirt and leather jacket, bearing a red basket of love. We never know. But before help will be given, you must be open to the unexpected and say, “Yes, please come.”
  • Gather together. The table of Life is spread and covered with a beautiful cloth. Sometimes that cloth covers a casket and it is time to grieve, cry, and remember. Let your heart break. If we don’t stop and give space to our hurting hearts, we can’t fully be present to joy and celebration either. For holidays such as Thanksgiving or Christmas, this bright cloth covers our feast laden dining table. Last month, our celebration was the wedding of my son Paul to Lauren and, thus, the cloth adorned the table joining our two families. When time is held for both grieving and celebrating, gifts are offered abundantly.

Whether we are faced with exploding planes or a terminal illness, how we respond matters. We are not alone. There are more possibilities than we can imagine. If we’ll keep walking with open hearts, dancing or crying or shouting in the midst of it all—anything except running away or knee-jerk reacting—we just might discover that Life is offered abundantly far richer than we can ask or imagine.

* Excerpted from my book, Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pg 143-145.  Final words are from ”A Service of Death and Resurrection,” in The United Methodist Hymnal (Tennessee: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1969), 871

Fourth in the series about living while dying.

Let Your Heart Break #1: The Diagnosis

Judy Bork photoOn the morning of September 11, 2001, the doctor called with the results of my father’s CAT scan: extensive cancer throughout both lungs.

As I hung up the phone, the drone of the television in the living room reported moment-by-moment news, some true and some outlandish guesses, about two planes that had crashed into New York City’s Twin Towers. It was only 9:00 a.m. on the West Coast.

I looked out the window at Monterey Bay. The waves broke and gulls shrieked as they flew overhead. Everything looked normal.

I asked Dad to turn off the television and told him the news. “The doctor just called to say that you have widespread cancer in both lungs.”

“Oh,” Dad replied.

In the context of burning buildings and staggering losses, what were we to do with news of a personal tragedy? Dad turned the television back on. I walked out of the room.

Later, when the TV was turned off and the news had sunk in, Dad talked about his willingness to have chemotherapy. “I’m not afraid to lose my hair,” he said, running his fingers through the few hairs remaining on his balding head.

A few days later I returned home to take my first-born son to college. When he’d graduated from High School a few months before, Dad was delighted and looked healthy. Now he was dying.

Six hundred and thirty miles away from the University, a man who thrived in solitude pondered much in his heart. When I returned to see him the following week, Dad told me in a strong and steady voice, “I don’t want any treatment for this cancer. I’ve led a full life, and I am ready to die.”

I was grateful that he’d decided not to pursue treatment but was startled to hear him speak so directly of his death.

As soon as I could be alone, I reached out to a friend, seeking comfort for my grieving heart. She listened to the full range of my emotions, then said, “Just remember, death is safe.”

Side-by-side with my sadness, I knew that she was right. Settling into the reality of Dad’s illness without fighting it, I became able to accompany him moment by moment.

Fourteen years later, I am haunted by the diagnosis I hear from many sources: civilization as I have known it has tumors in its lungs too. It is dying.

The day the towers fell and my dad began his walk toward death, there was a window of time where my nation could have made a choice to grieve, to come together to look inside at the shadows that have long been present within the twin towers of money and military power. Unfortunately, we made a different choice—violence and retaliation.

Today, as we try to extricate ourselves from those wars we entered on a lie, Iraq is in crisis. Far too many on all sides have died. Far too much money was diverted away from programs that serve life toward war. Again. And again. And again.

Pollution. Climate change. Wealth inequities. Fear. Fracking. Greed. Violence. These are growing out of control. The facts are easily accessible to anyone interested in looking at our culture’s horrifying CAT scan.

If we choose to cling to life as we have known it, to demand cultural chemotherapy even though it won’t do any good, it will be hard to move forward. Desperate attempts to treat the societal tumors in an attempt to get back to normal won’t bring the healing we need to thrive for today or generations to come. That which is diseased needs to die so that something new can be born.

Looks can be deceiving. Dad looked healthy at the graduation in June, but his cancer was growing inside. Likewise, appearances of economic recovery can hide the fact that the cancer of ever-expanding growth continues to spread. Hanging on to the old life and refusing to grieve the losses makes it hard to see, or tend to, the tender new sprouts that are already emerging in unexpected places.

Dad, a precise man who liked to be in control, made a different choice when he could see his life fading away. Walking with him in the last three weeks of his life, he taught me many lessons about how to find life right in the middle of death.

Death is safe. Life is safe. Clinging will kill a person or a culture. It is our choice.

 

This is the first in a series about Living while Dying on our way to something new. I offer this in honor of my father, Edward Victor Mathys (1921-2001), during his birthday month.

Much of this blog was excerpted from my book Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pages 140-145.

Photograph by Judy Bork.