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For my Beloved
I have witnessed the death of a loved one three times in my life. Each time, I chose to be there and would have had it no other way. What will you choose? Grief can be so overwhelming, perhaps too much for some....
And then God takes over and I become strong. I have a mission to accomplish. This death is going to happen whether I want it to or not, so I might as well stay alert and loving and helpful, because my time will come some day. What would I want? For me there is no other way... stay and love. Today I can speak of my most recent loss.
I entered the hospital room of a loved one who had chosen Comfort Care Only, giving up a long fight for recovery. He did not share with me that he had decided this. I figured it out when I walked into the room that morning and saw the hospice quilt. I could see in a flash what was happening: tube feeding disconnected, large uneaten tray of food on the bedside table, IV equipment gone, room moved to the end of the hallway. Lungs filling up with fluid faster than his body could cough it up. And that ominous quilt, made by volunteers that I happened to know was a hospice tradition to comfort the dying and their loved ones. In one flash minute my mind had to digest all of this, knowing I had not been consulted or even alerted to this change; not by the staff or family, because we were not married. And not by him, for reasons unknown. This was not to be just another cheerful get-well visit, today. And in that moment of realization, God took over for me.
I could have gotten angry for being left out. But instead, I was thankful intuition told me to visit him that day. I could have asked him why, but instead I said "I am honored to be with you on this day." I could have discussed the situation, asked him how he could have given up his fight so soon. But words were no longer necessary. He had made up his mind. And he was already declining. I could have done a lot of things, like running blindly down the hall and back to my car. But instead I did what was best, without even thinking how to go about it. That is unusual for me.... live in the moment...treasure every split second...be grateful for whatever you have... use your intuition...those are not my usual modes of operation.
So I promised him I'd stay by his side to the end. I became his eyes when he could no longer open them. I became his voice when he could no longer whisper. I spoke words I knew he would have said. I held his hand. I rubbed his feet. I stroked his forehead. I asked for more pain medication for him when it was needed. I sat next to the bed where he could sense my presence. I spoke of all the wonderful times we had shared. I said "Thank you." I said "I Love You," perhaps 1,000 times in those 24 hours. But looking back, my acceptance of this situation, and my silence about it, spoke the greatest words of love, I am sure.
I counted his breaths. I watched him diminish. I was brave. I stayed composed. I spoke of how I hoped my life would go, and how I would never forget him. I sang love songs softly. I described in vivid detail to him the night sky from the hospital window, seven stories above the ground of twinkling city lights, and thousands of light years below the stars. I felt peace. I thanked God I had known to visit this day, and that I had nowhere else I had to be. I thanked God again for allowing the beautiful solitude the hospice team gave us, and that no visitors came at all. Visitors who might of shrieked and wailed and spoken ungracious words.
And he was my gallant knight to the very end. He nodded a silent reply in response to my every declaration of love. He shook his head "yes" with every happy thought I shared. And finally when he could no longer communicate, his fingers still squeezed mine with love.
The night was long. My body knows when it needs to stay awake, even without sustenance. Then the nurses brought me nourishment of food and love. They made a bed for me by the window. But I chose to keep my vigil next to his bed. We spent our last 24 hours together in that room, and I fell in love with him all over again, standing at his deathbed. I learned unconditional love. I told him we would meet again in the constellations, and that it was ok to let go now. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he did just that. Then I stayed with his body four more hours, until he was taken away to the morgue. That helped me process what I had just witnessed. Where had that beautiful soul, that had graced the earth longer than most, gone? Food for thought...
I went home and slept. Then got busy preparing a memorial, taping hundreds of pictures on my wall, and writing a eulogy. One thing led to another. You know how that goes. And all the while I was just thankful that I was honored to escort him to the other side. There was no reason to be lost or to grieve. I had done all I could, and what I didn't do in years past were useless thoughts. I could grieve, or I could celebrate what we had. I had a choice. I decided to celebrate what we had.
It has been a month now, and intuition led me to sort through my e-mail box tonight and find February's unopened issue of Seeking Out The Light. I suppose I had been avoiding it. After all, I was dealing with loss! But I knew it was time to write my story. And I shall cry tonight. Thank you for listening.
So if you are reading this because you have been through a similar experience, or are wondering how you will ever get through the death of a loved one, have no fear. You will know exactly what to do at the appointed time, and everything will happen just as it was always meant to, perhaps even with beauty and dignity. And even if you don't understand that part right now. I promise you, some day soon, you will just know. God bless you! Mary K.
Lynn, PS: And I forgot to add that on my way home from the hospital after he died, just about a mile from my house, a bird flew towards my car and then hovered over the car as I rounded the bend, turning in the direction the car turned, and I was able to look straight up at it just a few feet from me. And I remember thinking "That was my Scott" He was an avid birdwatcher. I looked up the bird in my Audubon book when I got home, and I am sure it was a SharpShinned Hawk, his favorite. Isn't that a miracle? I was so distraught but it was as though he came and said, "I am free, go in peace." You might add that to my story, in a separate paragraph after the "food for thought" comment.
Cheers, again, Mary
posted 2/15/08
I feel my life so far has been to better me. You see my son, being as sick as he was, strengthened me. My baby, and she is 3, was my blessing from God that everything was going to be ok with my son. My eldest daughter is teaching me patience and communication. My husband is the best, and I am learning everyday by praying that i see the beauty in our marriage. I am so very lucky.
The story I wrote in dedication to my father. I would be tickled if you were to publish it. I would hope that it would inspire people to do the right things, even though they may be the hardest thing you could ever imagine.
It goes like this:
My father has colon cancer and is dying. But it seems like no one wants to say the words or even confirm it for that matter or deny it, as well. They say things like, “I don’t have time for this!”. What does this mean? It means that they really can’t face the fact the worse case scenario is upon us. I guess some people are more apt to know how to relay their emotions. Unfortunately! Am I thinking in the wrong? Shouldn’t we be preparing ourselves, mentally for the death of my father, and in the same way cherish the weeks and months to come, dealing with colon cancer as a family?
My mother makes up excuses, that he is VERY sick, and doesn't really want company? I completely understand this, for he is very sick, and very weak, but don’t we have the right to see him as he is? We all know what he was, a little rough around the edges, but, none of the less with a heart for humanity. He felt ashamed of what he looked like, he called himself a monster.
Are we to remember him as he was? This is when I raise my hands and very loudly say Whatever!!!!
I feel paralyzed, and alone in the feeling of loosing my Dad, but that may also comfort me in the fact that he is gravely sick. Where does that put me really?
The clanging of the spoon in the glass, the velvet couch, he showed me that there was no one there. I was afraid of the dark. I would see things at night that would scare me. I used to imagine faces on my wall, voices singing in monotone. It was pretty scary at the time. I remember hearing babies crying. I realized it was cats howling in the night. Sure, under my window. I would call to my mother and my father , it was always my dad that helped me in the night to not be afraid. I remember silly pranks we, as children, pulled on our siblings. Scary tape recordings of goblins, and ghouls my brother would make then precede to set up a hockey stick with a mask and continue to put it under mine or my sister’s bed. His plan was to scare us in the night. We would have a big laugh, on someone’s behalf. In years to come, I would see the disappointment on my father’s face whenever the name Robert came up. The Robert years. I really don’t know what I saw in him. I was acting, at the time. Going on auditions, commercials, B-rated movies, etc. That was a period of my life that I let someone control my actions and feelings all the while beating me verbally and physically. Following my high school years, I dated a married man, who of course was a ex-con, and wannabe mobster. Ugh, just remembering this turns my stomach. There was a time when I just didn't’t want to be in his company any longer, and I proceeded to jump out of the truck we were in. Rolling down Route 3, and watching the wheels of the truck pass my face, I literally thought I died. I still to this day sometimes relive that day. Holding on for dear life to my seat belt as a passenger in a vehicle.
The years were years of abuse to thy self, and learning the hard way. After a few months of dating this man who took me out in limos to the finest clubs in NY, he called me one night in the middle of the night, to tell me that he was in a random shooting, right at that moment. I freaked out, it was the middle of the night, and I was confused and heard gun shots in the distance on the phone.
For days, he walked around with a cane and bandage on his leg. On the third day, after an afternoon of sex and drugs, he finally admitted to me that he made up the whole story of being shot. He told me he had to think of a way to break up with me, because he was married and I had just found out. But he was so in love with me, he didn't want to let me go. Warning alert, warning alert, step away from the psycho. Needless to say I stay for another 5 years, she was so brutally beaten by her lover. My “girlfriends” from prison, oh, I forgot to tell you he was arrested after a year of dating and was sent away to a Maximum Security Prison. He was transferred so many times, that he would “fix” me up with other woman who could help with the drive that was 4 and half hours away. He spent two years in prison. In which I spent every weekend and every cent on hotel rooms to spend the days with him in his prison visiting room. Why I thought I had to do this is beyond my comprehension. Was I that needy of someone to love me?
I look at my husband and pray all the time that I see the wonderful man he is to me. He truly loves me for me, even with all my flaws.
My father, he took care of us in monetary ways. He made sure we had everything. Somewhere up the growing latter, the learned re-action wasn't’t correct, through the course of the years to follow, either being called names, feeling useless, and unsure of myself. It was from a lack of confidence on my part. Even the choices I made up until I married my husband of 17 years, were made out of the confusion of what love was. I am realizing today it was from the basic mothering I had received from my own mother. Being a mother of three I am learning every single day that mothering is deep, it goes to your core. If your core is not fully developed in the ways of nurturing, loving unconditionally, and emotional backing, it is a struggle to raise your children with the right amount of mothering. Hopefully we see this on a daily basis and change the behavior to loving, nurturing tones, and touching. I do believe children need constant approval to grow into confident adults. I believe mother too, was a victim of basic mothering. I really have nothing to base this on, only my perception.
Helping my eldest to work on a project about my father and his life in Italy, made me realize that he too was taught less than basic skills. He wasn't’t college educated, but he did well to provide for his family. Only showed people what they wanted people to think of them. Snobs on the hill, they were sometimes called. Choosing to remain silent is unnatural. It’s the humanly natural thing to do to speak your truths, which is a action I want to change. I do want to share my feelings, wants and needs, especially to my husband.
It is time to stop thinking of myself as a victim of abuse or neglect. It is time for me, to go on, and thank God for all the special blessings he has put on me.
He gave my husband and I three of the most beautiful children. They are great and I love them all with my heart.
Talking about my husband, I couldn't’t have asked for a better one.
Of course, my mistake from the beginning was that I “thought” I had to give up good, wild, daring sex to keep the right man. Being that my past relationships were based on crazy, blood racing, sex. I think I thought I had to make a choice. Choosing the best husband, best father, I knew in my heart that he was the one for me. I truly heard, “You may now kiss the bride, the first time we kissed”. My lovely aunt told me I would know, and I believe that is true as well.
How do I tell myself that it is ok to be real, and want what I want?
I have to keep reminding my self that my opinions are true and correct.
And prepare to say my truth at the first, “slap”.
As the outer shell starts to degrade, I believe that the inner self/soul starts to awaken and wants to explore the things that are important to the person. My Dad loves to watch food networks. He grew up in Italy at the start of WW2. He never complained about the lack of food then, even though his siblings, and there were five of them cried every night for they were hungry. The joy of food and the enjoyment of cooking and engulfing your being with the aromas, is what he craves now. He wants to cook, but his body wont let him. He wants to find the beauty in food and enjoy a beautiful colorful meal, but he cant. You see, he lost his appetite last year. He hasn't’t had a lovely tomato since then. Food isn’t what is was. “everything is sweet, I can’t even eat beef” he has said to me. He has lost so much weight and lost all his hair. After a year of fighting this sickening disease of Cancer, I see the man, my Dad, becoming a quarter of what he was. The strong man I remember him as.
I am confused at times of the ignorance of my family. But, now I wonder if it is just because they can’t see the reality?
There comes a time when you stop looking at the body and see the spirit inside, and nurture it and help it in any way you can. I believe that is the humanly thing to do. How Godly is that? Helping another soul.
My father passed on December 1, 2007. The days preceding this day, I will never forget nor ever regret. Call it a sixth sense or something but I predicted the day my father would pass. I spent the last 3 weeks of his life taking care of him, in any way I can. Just spending time with him was a fabulous time. Sometimes we wouldn’t speak, we would just watch the foot network. Or pop in a movie, one of the last ones we watched together was The Pursuit to Happiness. My eldest daughter, my niece, and I did the most loving thing. We gave my Dad a pedicure and nice foot massage the day after Thanksgiving. It probably was one of the last times he talked in sentences.
The day I knew the end was near, I just couldn’t help him in any way anymore. I realized I didn’t have the qualifications to care for him. We called the Ambulance on Thursday, and he was on his way to die. I was certain of it. It made me sick to think about it. It was time to think the worse. I just couldn’t get myself to leave the hospital that night, even though my eldest was singing the same song I sang for my father so many years before at a concert that she was doing because she was being inducted into the music honor society. Until my father told me to “Go home, Donna.” I wasn’t prepared to go. But now I knew we had tomorrow still. I was so proud of my daughter when she sang, “What I did for Love” I knew my father would have loved to hear that. So I brought the video camera to the hospital the next day, and let him and my mother see the tape.
My father was in and out of it this day, and I don’t think he actually saw the tape, but I would like to believe that he heard it. We brought our children to the hospital this day to say goodbye to the man that was and ever will be their Papa. They were saddened and I comforted them as best as possible.
The next morning I arose early for I knew it was the day he was going to die. I got to the hospital around 9:00 a.m. to assess the situation and let my siblings know it was time. I held his hand, and told him everyone was coming, and that mommy would be ok. I told him as soon as my brother and sister get there it would be time to go home. He was so so skinny, and he didn’t even look like my father anymore. Through his yellow eyes, I still saw the spirit of my Dad, and I just couldn’t sit back and watch him die without talking to him. My brother and sister arrived and they couldn’t believe the status of our father. I assured them that he waited for them, and it was time to let go of him.
My Dad seemed to be seeking the light, or trying to stretch his neck and see beyond, but that seemed to agitate him, so we decided as a family to give him something to relax, and close his tired eyes. Forty five minutes later, he was searching again, and we knew it was time for his blessings from the Father. We gave him another shot of anti-anxiety and watched him breathe. Finally after a few breaths, his chest stopped raising. The nurse told us that he was still breathing, but different patterns were about to happen. Death was very near. My sister counting the space between each breath. She started at 8, then 10, then 20, then 29, and lastly stopped counting at thirty. Thirty seconds between a breath and my father of 42 ½ years was gone. Just like that. My mother and I stayed to make sure he was handled properly, and taken to the funeral home. His services would be in a few days. That was when the actual spinning began.
Sunday morning, after his passing, my little daughter wanted a yogurt with the Oreo crumbs that get poured into it. My husband fought her about it, and finally we gave in to it. What was the big deal, it was just a yogurt. Well, we all were getting ready for breakfast, and were cooking eggs. When all of a sudden our littlest daughter yells, “Hey, Mom and Dad, look at this!” We all went running to see what she was looking at. And there in her spoon was a final drop of yogurt, with a perfect smiling face staring at her, made of cookies crumbs. We were all amazed at how perfect it was, and it did resemble my Dad. How wonderful, he is in heaven, I thought. I felt relieved. That evening after having a stressful day dealing with a football dinner, and preparing photos for a video memorial, I retired to my bathroom to wash up for the night. I put cold compresses on my face and then my pajamas, and proceeded to go downstairs to my family and all the photo albums on the table. As soon as I got to the photo of my Dad, the movie, The Pursuit to Happiness started on the TV. (ironic) No, I KNEW it was my Dad again. I cried out of sadness and comfort, and said out loud, “I would love to watch this movie with you again, Dad” The last sign I received to prove to me that my father is happy and in heaven, was on Monday after his passing. My husband and I were at the doctor’s office for an afternoon appointment and upon arriving home, I always check my email, I went for my email, and what did I find on my desktop? All his pictures, his wedding picture, his pictures from the Army, jumping out of a helicopter, and so on. I was flabbergasted. I yelled to my children, “Who put this on my desktop?” They didn’t even know what I was talking about. So no, they didn’t. I truly believe in my heart of hearts, that he is safe and watching over us for as long as we need him.
Donna
posted 2/15/08
I remember a moment in my life where I was in deep process with grief. I was amazed with the depth and intensity of letting myself be in this energy fully. Suddenly I became aware of a presence in the room. I sensed it above me, somewhere on the ceiling? All this happened within 3 to 5 seconds. I abruptly stopped crying, the presence was so palpable. Was it the spirit of my mother who recently died come to assist and comfort? Was it a spirit guide or angel. It was distinct, real, present, hovering above. And practically no sooner had these questions crossed my mind that a tangible, physical presence flooded through me from the crown of my body to the tips of my toes, all within one second. I was immediately bathed in a cellular felt sense and awareness that I had NO words for. I was washed in an energetic bath of TOTAL, UNEQUIVABLE, LOVING ACCEPTANCE. I remember thinking "If this is what it is like when you die and are free from the constraints of the body I can't wait." I sat for the next hour radiating in this presence. It was some kind of grace I did not understand.
I wrote this poem after my mother passed. Many deep processes are involved with grief. And it may indeed be true that my country, America, has an issue with death. . . and thus grief. But there is a larger connection, even through the personal, and I believe grief CAN be a holy passageway, through the heart, that can connect us to this larger space. . . and that is indeed an offering of dark grace.
Chrysalis Evanescent
(in memory of my mother)
In the season of falling leaves,
where the musk of russet apples stings the air with a yielding anticipation, you passed in ebbing breath from the constriction of doubt’s vagrancy to claim
your victorious release.
Beyond the glaring wall of grief
your presence shimmers,
the Mourning Cloak transformed.
Your liberty declared in
the purging flame of grace,
is revealed in the milkweed’s flight,
it’s gossamer wings revolving
a delicate pageantry that spirals in ascension;
and is rapturously received
in the music of the rising sun
cascading benevolent kisses
upon petals of the rose;
and is reverently seen in
the urging of the goddess moon
whose open face heralds
Winter’s naked grace.
Now the season of our bond is
numbed in blue loss,
and the stillness of falling snow
blankets the youthful branches
of my grieving salutations
like long white fingers
soothing some hollow shadow.
How deep the sting of Death’s severing;
its pungent blade entering
the wound of time,
camouflaged in pulse of blood,
until a luminous seed liberates
its unencumbered bloom,
unseen
by the burrowing of heavy eyes.
And with this harsh liberation
comes a subtle green afterglow,
a whispering of gentle assurance
mingled with the throbbing
of a single heart
seeking some intercessor to the womb.
The paradox of healing
through emptiness seems unresolved-
the only refuge being faith,
which moves beyond the known,
past the gleaming edge of reason,
to where there is space for all-
Between atoms imperceptible
and exploding stars,
there is space unbounded
to weave our connection
through the silent pulse.
A space that flows this loss
through unimagined currents,
a rainbow symphony
rectifying the impermanent-
in the expansion of love
in the purity of the present
in the unclouded core of
Being-
of what always was
always is
past time
beyond definition
yet its pieces echoing something whole-
even in the eloquent journey
of a single tear
Thanks, Michael
The following poems about my son Robin 1962-1990, are all written after his death. His life remains an inspiration to his family. Tasha
For Robin, February Light
Watching water rush from under the melting snow,
I think of you. The February sun shines on the rivulets
Making them sparkle. Were you walking the earth
You'd be ordering your seeds and planning for spring.
Now you are where weather is no hindrance
Where flowers bloom and fruit ripen on the same branch.
Your spirit inhabits the Spring, the Fall, the year entire,
While I must live each season day by day.
You live on in my garden as in my heart.
Beneath the snow, the soil readies for Spring.
As the water seeps through the thawing earth
My heart receives my tears and opens to life.
Remember Me With Joy
Tears gathered in my eyes
I watched the robins hop and peck across the lawn.
My son’s voice spoke in my mind.
“Remember me with joy.”
Oh dearest Robin, son, I miss your laughter
The grace of your reverence for life,
The simplicity of your longings.
Precious years are fled.
Remembering those years with joy
I feel tears fall,
Bringing joy in their wake.
Loving The Earth
I first felt it yesterday: a stirring in my chest,
A warm glow, then it spread out, making me warm all over.
Sweet mounds of earth
I see you through my windshield,
Grass growing like fur upon your sides.
I stroke you with my eyes. Dear lumps of clay that give with every breath,
Ask little in return; I breathe love back to you and murmur thanks.
Upon the anniversary of my son's birth
I have received this gift. now more than ever
He is part of my experience each day.
Feeling this love I know it as both his and mine,
And him as one with it. not in his grave,
But singing in the soil.
Dear son, you loved the earth with all your heart,
I never realized how much. Now I too share that love;
And with it all the joy it brings us both.
As I receive and give that love each day,
Beloved son I thank you in my heart.
A Death In The Family
When there's a death in the family a black hole appears in your family universe
But once the grief is spent, the black hole can become your window into the Eternal.
Elise Caswell
Physicists say a black hole is uncreated matter waiting to be shaped: E=MC2.
Time tells space how to curve, space tells time how to be.
Einstein opened our eyes a little we are learning to open them more.
A spark ignites a fire, under the right conditions it burns on by itself.
We burn to know, or sink in the quagmire of unknowing.
There is no in between. Signposts there are aplenty when we see them:
The pole star shines at night for the navigator, the sun by day.
Ourselves to know, we look out through our windows
Seeking in the reflection who we are.
But the only true knowing is within, and to discover it
We must listen and be quiet for the listening.
Death opens us to life, restoring our attention,
Diverting it from all the littleness that would consume us whole.
Death impacts us, making us aware of all that lives still
As the shadow defines the light, as the edge defines the surface,
As our skin defines what is not-self from self, bodywise.
But we are also all-that-is: mind is the builder,
The destroyer, swinging about in a wild dance of ecstasy
Quite beyond our comprehension.
Who or what is this that shapes our universe that writes, directs, produces
And then views the play? It is the self who lives, who dies, who is.
And in the universe that is my self I look to see what's there to learn
That I may do what I can do to fill my role in that great dance known as creation.
Whole and part, as in a hologram, I make my choices:
Move, speak, or keep still. I am the orchestra, conductor, audience.
The music plays; I rest within the chords,
Conscious of attunement or disharmony, I guide adjustment, listening again.
At times I peer into the black hole turned window which was once my son
Telling myself, "Be still and know that I am that I am.
Sorrow is recalled when least expected.
My sorrow seems quiescent until it is stirred.
Then it rises to the surface:
Bits and pieces from the bottom of a lake.
Tonight I saw the ragged blanket
You used to wrap your last gift to me,
The old ache swelled; a lump grew in my throat.
When I step into the water,
Grief swirls to the surface, then resettles.
I breathe, release, and let it go.
Thinking Of You, for Robin
When I come to Maine is when I think of you alive,
Tending your garden,
The long rows of your loving devotion.
Now you tend Heavenly cabbages,
With you there, God's garden is well tended.
Ten Years
In a blaze of glory,
Ten years ago you departed—
Bravely, as you had lived.
Like a knight of olden times you strove,
Living a tapestry of stress and heroic action.
Doing your best as long as strength remained.
Beloved son, surely you quest still
Into the uncharted territory.
Where we in life cannot follow.
When you have time
Will you return and tell me tales?
I yearn to know more about your adventures.
I hope in time to come,
That you will be my guide
When I am free to venture where you dwell.
Beloved son, far away in a that other land
I feel your presence when our spirits touch.
And think of you, as always, with love.
February 18, 2001, for Robin
Echoes of my grief
Sound, like a bell
That rang once,
And the echoes
Still sound,
Though diminished,
Still sound,
Though not often,
Reverberate yet,
To remind me
That the bell rang,
And that that sound,
Having been,
Will always be.
Mourning, March 4, 2001
Sadness is—for all the forlorn, torn songs
That never sang, and the fine lines never drawn.
There is peace, and there is sorrow;
And there is understanding,
That a fragment is the whole,
That however many notes there are
Must be enough,
And that blank canvas
Has become blue sky.
Brief Candles
There are those who are born
To live and give,
Then shortly depart.
We miss them when they go
Yet they can’t stay.
Their brightness has consumed them;
Their lives have burnt out,
Leaving as a legacy
Their light upon our path.
Bells Ring Time
I heard the bells of time,
Chiming, ringing the years away,
Heard them on your birthday,
Tolling the passing of the years
The bells of time chime now and then
You, eternally young, are timeless.
I growing old, hear the bells toll.
Robin's Birthday 04
Church tower bells rang out the hour.
I thought of you.
This day you came into the world
Trailing your beauty,
Glorious beauty that you hurled
With wild abandon everywhere.
Too soon the bells were hushed and still
For you, too great of heart to be
Limited to this mortal flesh
Set your spirit free
The years toll on, and I grow older,
Winters colder, you are unchanged,
At least to me.
And yet somewhere beyond my knowing
You grow on and one day when
I am set free to follow you
I will discover for myself
You, beyond the reach of years,
Amidst the sound of heaven's chimes
Unfolding still.
Robin’s Birthday Poem Feb. 17 2007
Tomorrow is your day of birth.
As we count time here
You would be forty-five.
More than sixteen years
Of sand grain moments
Have slid through the hourglass.
My mirror reflects their passage
My memory does not.
Dearest Robin in heaven
Even as I grow older
You do not change for me.
Beacon of Joy thank you for shining.
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This sharing comes from Mark who writes: We were very impressed with the hospice system and it was a great blessing during dad's last few days.
I realized that my book "Soul Proof" would be a great comfort for those who are transitioning, their family and their care takers. You can learn more about this project at www.soulproof.com
Please let me know if you have any contacts you might help share this convincing evidence that death is just a 'see you later', not a good-bye.
I choose, with Marks permission to break the anonymity in this case as some of SOL readers may find comfort in his web site and workshops.
Changing Worlds in Eight Days:
Lessons from the Life and Death of Bill Pitstick
Having lived a rich and wonderful life, my dad Bill Pitstick recently made an equally wonderful transition from this earth.
Dad was diagnosed with severe leukemia on May 7th and was given 2 to 4 months to “live” with severe fatigue, shortness of breath, bleeding, and being bedridden.
He was always one to handle every situation magnificently and decided the only way to win this one was to check out ASAP. He crossed over just eight days after his diagnosis—an awesome display of how we have much more control over our lives than most realize.
During his last waking moments two days before his passing, dad described how he was feeling. Here are some excerpts:
- “I feel the best I ever have in my entire life. Everything is very smooth, like I'm covered with plastic. Everything feels soft, all around me and I feel soft—like a new towel that hasn't been washed yet.”
- “If things in life don't work out how or when you think they should, don't worry about it. Everything happens in God's time and in God's way.”
- “Don't be afraid of dying or anything in life. The Lord will never put more on you than you can carry.”
- “My, oh my, I've had such a great life. I've had so many wonderful experiences, met so many great people, so many family and friends. I'm so blessed.”
- “I’m going to take a nap. You guys are talking me death!”
Vintage Bill Pitstick: a wonderful mixture of humor, gratitude, faith, love and adventure.
It was obvious that his soul was already slipping away and he was feeling the peace and bliss of being in fuller connection with Spirit. He wasn't on any medications, by the way, that would cause delirium or euphoria.
He became tired and it was time to say good-bye. We all gave him a big hug and kiss. Dad told us to watch for a hawk on the drive home. He loved hawks and always spotted them wherever he went. He said, "I love you all", gave us a big wink, and closed his eyes.
Those were his last words and about thirty six hours later, he flew away.
On the drive home, a huge hawk flew so close in front of us that we almost hit it. We looked at each other and said, “Well, there’s grandpa’s hawk!”
May you all deeply know that living and dying are totally safe, lawful and exquisitely designed for optimal service, adventure, growth, and enjoyment.
When people ask if they can do anything, I say 'yes', do all you can in these four areas in which dad excelled:
1. Love with all your heart and don’t hold back
2. Follow your dreams and serve others with every fiber of your being
3. Enjoy every moment of every day—even the little things and the cloudy days
4. Laugh often, loud and long—like dad did.
Voltaire said that God is like a comedian playing to a crowd that’s afraid to laugh. If this earthly life is all there is, it seems like a sad and painful tragedy sometimes. However, when we remember that life is eternal, we can remember to laugh and enjoy this wonderful comedy, adventure, romance, and inspiring drama we call life on planet earth.
When people pass on, their birth and death dates are listed below their names, as if those were the beginning and end of their existence. Here’s another way:
William Aloysius Pitstick
Body: 7/3/27 – 5/15/07
Soul: timeless, ageless, deathless, immortal, infinitely one with Creator
* * * * * * *
We love you dad/husband/grandpa/great-grandpa/uncle/brother/friend/servant of God.
We miss you greatly, but rejoice in having known such a special human being who lived such a rich life. We’re proud of you for all you did and all you were. You taught us how to live fully and were always a bright light—even during dark times.
We know that death is not a ‘good-bye’ but, rather, just a ‘see you later.’
We look forward to our glorious reunion when we cross over. We joyfully anticipate getting a big Bill Pitstick hug and seeing your ornery grin.
See you later dad. Let’s keep in touch.
Love,
Mark
P.S. In the original German, ‘Aloysius’ meant “famous warrior.” I never knew that, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise me.
DEATH COME LIGHTLY -- Marilyn,
You are called The Reaper,
You are called Compassion,
She called you Adventure,
Death, come lightly for her
She gave herself to living,
She walked it through for learning,
She took cancer for her teacher.
Death, be patient, she’s ready soon.
“Have I finished all He gave?”
“Are my tasks all truly done?”
“Will the unsure come to know?”
“I wish for all, these lovely skies.”
She gave herself to dying,
She breathed it through for loving,
She begged her soul to bless her Lord,
Death, be kindly, she’s coming now.
She waited softly for the change.
The moon passed by, the dawn,
The sun came bright and filled her face,
Death took her lightly...
A Series of Personal Poems on Grief by Naomi
Part One
The day wears itself out
with sadness.
I reach the crest of a wave
of human longings
and aching pain
melting
into a sea of love
receding
like the wave
into the deeper places
of the heart and
settling there.
Morning reveals
only a reflection
of new light
telling so little
of the journey
of tears
of the night.
They pool and
gather into
a prayer
of surrender
to help me live through
one more day.
Part Two
A mourning dove
dips into the darkness
and grabs the edge
of a grief laid bare
and soars away
leaving a trail
of shredded dreams.
Dirge-like sounds
of muffled moaning
spill over
into the night
as wings of faith
struggle for the light
There is no sense
to this flight
of dreams.
There is hope
born in the
long low cries
that still remain
waiting
to be fashioned
into a nest
that will cradle
this still tired heart.
Part Three
I open a drawer
and a picture appears
aiming an arrow
at the small spark
of life
trying to grow
in my soul.
It smothers and steals
my breath
like water thrown
on a flame.
Sleep moves in
like a rescue
and disguises
the ache
in a shroud
of night
only to spit out
images
in my dreams
that look strangely
like the picture
in the drawer.
Part Four
A friendly voice
penetrates
the emptiness,
and a warm hand
gives me a flower
declaring love
has not forgotten
who I am
even though
I can no longer
remember.
The heart knows
that a voice is gone,
a face is missing
and will never
be again.
I put the flower
in water
hoping it will
bloom for me
and help me
find
my disappearing
self.
Part Five
I lock the door
and draw the curtains
and unhook the phone
and throw my book
across the room.
I don't want
anymore
consolations.
I don't want
platitudes!
I want my father
and mother
and sister
back again,
alive and well
and difficult
as hell.
I am sick of
making good
out of misfortune.
I need to spend
this rage
in a blizzard
of tears
before I even think
of picking up
the pieces
of whatever my life
once was.
Part Six
The pain of one I love
hurts worse
than my own.
It would seem easier
to bear a sword
in my own side
than to be
a spectator
to the pain
and the anger
and frustration
of one
so close to me.
There is no answer
to the cry in the night,
only a willingness
to stay awake
and care enough
to feel the wound.
My steps are heavy,
and my life on hold.
My sleep is a vigil
until I can live
into the healing
of time.
Part Seven
The grey skies
still hover
over my days
and brown earth
shows through
the dirty snow.
There is no beauty
to behold.
Winter chokes
the hope
from my words.
I long for new snow,
the green tip
of a plant,
or a cardinal
to color my yard.
Something is stirring
in my soul
that remembers
caring
and even sharing
and daring
to live
in the face
of death.
Shelby shares:
Thank you so much for your wonderful publication. It came right after I learned my Mom "might" not live much longer and also dealing with my son's very serious illness and my beloved pet Dupper who is over 17 years old and not here for long. As I read it, I was comforted and realized how I am certainly not alone with dying or with losing someone or some thing.
My brother, Dennis, died in June 1989 at age 42 and of course he will remain that age for me.
I'll share a poem I wrote on his birthday that year September 17, 1989. (Not great poetry by any means but it helped me to write it.)
"Still Here"
In one way you left us that Thursday dawn.
Still I don't think of you as really gone.
Tho you climbed that mountain to heaven, tis true,
I can feel your Spirit still here with us too.
Maybe Life is not what it seems -
But, rather a lot of all our drams.
For sometimes in dreams, I can see you face,
Smiling, laughing and joking - in that happy place.
As I hear "Nearer to Thee" playing on the air,
It's as tho I can almost hear you singing there.
I see you still working with beautiful wood,
letting it reflect your life as only you could.
There's Rascal happily running by your side,
Walking thru familiar paths both near, far and wide.
Ocean waves pick up the sunshine as it sparkles and plays,
And, I see you again and upon your face I gaze.
Looking toward the stars in heaven at night,
There once again you are in my sight.
Dennis, wherever you are or desire to stride,
you can go with dignity and you can go with pride.
Although I know you're with Jesus and His love Divine,
In my heart you're Still Here, dear, dear brother of mine.
Thank you again for your publication. I will subscribe when I can.
5-17-07
Dear Lynn,
Someone put your newsletter in my box at HospiceCare. I am one of the bereavement counselors here. I wanted to say it made my day. It is a wonderful offering. The articles are more in-depth than the Hospice Foundation of America newsletter called Journeys, which we mail out to our bereaved clients, and which is very good too. But your newsletter, especially the interview with Ann O’Shaughnessy, goes much deeper.
And I do believe you will find your niche. As a former publisher and art teacher, I want to say that the illustrations were great. They really spoke to me. With that said, I would remove the woman in the almost fetal position—even though it spoke to me in my present situation in a very powerful way. There are men out there who also are grieving, but grieve in different ways than women do. They might be put off with that illustration. Also the woman looks very young and the bereaved come in all ages. We in hospice see grief hit across the age board.
Loved the owl, but if it is at all possible, I would change the illustrations as often as possible on the web site to keep it fresh and upbeat.
I’m also published writer and teacher of writing, and I’d love to submit some things to you when I have time. Also am a Divine Science minister and an independent Religious Science practitioner and the body/soul/connection is very important to me.
Blessings,
Rev. Happy
“When I die if you need to weep cry for whatever separates you from anyone you love. And when you need me put your arms around each other and give whatever you need to give or receive from me. I wanted to leave you something, something better than words or sounds. Look for me in those I have known or loved and if you cannot give me to them let me live in your eyes and touch and not in your mind. You can love me most by letting hands touch, by letting heart reach out to heart. And by letting go of anything that makes you unfree to love each other Love doesn't die, we do. So when all that is left of me is love, give me away to each other”— Author unknown
“Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle Autumn's rain. When you awaken in the mornings hush. I am the swift up-flinging rush of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”—Mary Frye
Send your original, personal stories or poetry to:
I invite you to share within the limitation of this publication. Tell your story, your perceptions, your truths about your transitions. Share your innermost soul. Open your hearts. Keep it positive, as the intention of this publication is as a tool of finding the light, of recovering. Share how you are making/made it through, what helped you keep moving forward? How did you overcome the depression, isolation, pain? What specifically helped you? Original poetry, quotes and art are encouraged. Short stories desired. By sending them, you acknowledge and authorize that SOL may or may not use them and distribute them.
Seeking Out Light/SOL hopes, through its community, to change societal attitudes toward grief and loss, by offering to those who are in the midst of experiencing it a forum in which they can express their feelings and witness, without judgment, others who are going through a transition, so that our communities become more understanding and accepting of the process we call WITNESSING AND BEING WITNESSED.
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