Facing Dying; A Hospice Worker Tells How

[The Straight Story]

Facing Dying; A Hospice Worker Tells How

By Loretta S. Downs

People I love die. My pets die. My rose bushes die. People I do not know personally but to whom I feel an attachment, die. I will die. In light of all this, I have decided to make death a good experience, a “practice” in my life.

In the 1980s, my circle of friends was heavily populated by gay men who accepted me by wrapping me up in their intelligence, creativity, courage and colorful lifestyle. Theym showed my sad spirit how to dance. They opened an artistic world I'd never known, in which I felt at home. When my friends began to die of AIDS, from California to New York, I found myself frozen by feelings of inadequacy. There was nothing I could do to stop the loss of people I cared about. It was difficult to be with them when they were sick because I was helpless to stop the stampede of ugly symptoms that would trample them to death. They mirrored my own fragile mortality, which induced more fear in me. In 1987, not yet 40 years old, I attended 14 funerals of men younger than I was. My burden of grief was like an iceberg, the tip visible and intimidating, but the more dangerous part concealed beneath the surface of my stoic facade. My heart knew there were many more deaths yet to come.

Sending cheery cards and making cheery phone calls once in awhile were easy enough to do, but with each inadequate assist to a friend I felt a failure at friendship. As people I loved were writing the last chapter in the book of their lives, I was no more visible than a comma in the middle of one sentence. John Welshons writes in Awakening from Grief “ a large part of our grief is the sense of lost opportunity, and that most of the lost opportunities occurred while we were with our now-missing loved one.”

My response to my pain of not doing enough to help my friends, of not being there for them, was to work harder and longer, make more money and spend more; to drink and eat and smoke more; to never say “No, I can't do that;” to run as fast as I could; and to attach myself romantically to unavailable men because I would not have to grieve their eventual departures.

After my father died in 1991, with all of us in denial that he was dying , I went into therapy to deal with my food and cigarette addiction, a cover-up for the real issues. A year later, beginning to face my avoidance of emotional pain, I stopped drinking. Then I stopped smoking. Exercise slowly became a routine. I got food under control. My relationships changed from giving to receiving. Men became available for me. Work got balanced with play and rest. In her autobiographical exploration of grief, In Lieu of Flowers, Nancy Cobb writes, “Coming out of a depression, I suppose, is a bit like coming back from the dead. It's learning to breathe again. And it is certainly as humbling to rediscover the most basic of life's pleasures as it is to lose them.” The Universe slowly and gently led me forward, presenting opportunities to make new choices. My “practice” began.

http://www.yogachicago.com/may04/dying.shtml

[Big Blue Marble]

1. A beautiful journey to wisdom, deep wisdom.

Thank you for posting this.

[lamp_shade]

2. Thank you. That was inspiring reading.

[laylah]

3. Thank you

for posting this. What a lovely story.