There are eight billion people on this planet, and all of them will die. Why share this very intimate story? One day, your partner may die, and you will be left holding the bag.
Hospice Diary, December 6 - Morning
Good morning.
I sit in the presence of Karen amid the sweet sounds of a Native American flute and the electromagnetic glow of the Rife Machine, a healing device invented nearly a century ago. Karen’s slow, steady breaths provide the cadence.
Last night, as Bridget spent time with her, I watched the hideously painful swelling of her legs recede, her face lighten, and her spirits lift.
Unexpected words spilled from Karen’s inner place. “I feel such happiness in my heart. Bruce, Jacob, Nathaniel, Hillary… and bacon are in my heart,” she announced, to our surprise.
There has been some confusion about the bacon. Despite her vegetarian diet, Karen was known to sneak bacon, but we decided she meant “Miko,” our little dog.
“I would like some nutrition, plant-based,” Karen announced with weird formality. We spoon-fed her a smoothie until we backed off (too rich) in favor of chicken pot pie innards.
“The colors are so lovely,” Karen remarked, eying the scene. “This is just so lovely.” She said “lovely” a lot.
We took shifts for the wee hours. I already lost two nights of sleep, so I declined a shift — and then stayed up anyway. My mitochondria were still on duty, so I massaged Karen’s feet with the Pinion Pine Original Salve Shelly, the healing intuitive recommended. I spent a second hour massaging vitamin E oil on her abdomen. Time felt so precious, so I savored every lifebeat.
You may or may not have been with someone transitioning. If this were a surrealist movie by Luis Buñuel, for example, when the not-really-dead Viridiana was laid out as a bride corpse, I could imagine Karen popping up to announce, “I’m done with this shit,” but the trajectory was clear, and her work was palpable.
There was not a shred of sadness or grief in the house.
That veil will descend in due course. Writing is healing – a form of integration. Putting words to paper releases grief from the pent-up crevices that make us human.
Thanks for lending an ear and feeling connected. Tomorrow is my birthday. I have asked a handful of people to join me for a slice of pie. In lieu of gifts, I have asked for four bits of Bondo:
A feeling of connection.
The feeling that the connection is of now and not then.
The feeling that the connection will continue into the new year as an ongoing connection.
A get-out-of-jail-free card if my Chicago humor is ever misunderstood.
That’s my morning report. May your heart feel lifted with Karen’s.
Hospice Diary, Tuesday Evening, December 6.
There has been a sameness to our hospice days – except today. This catapult into transition feels like a prolonged labor. Did I mention that Karen was a labor and delivery nurse? New people, qualities, and challenges cross our threshold, all part of Karen’s big exit.
Last night was my chance to sleep—from 2 a.m. to 7 a.m. I’m not complaining. I had another chance tonight, but instead, I wrote this missive at 2:30 a.m. — probably a mistake.
I’m staying up because I cherish every moment Karen is part of our world. I stumbled down the stairs to find the 3 a.m. team (Jacob and Hillary) still there while Julie – our saintly healing savant – attended to Karen with the focus of a love clinician. I started a pot of oatmeal, which would not be eaten, then jumped from one decision to another. I found time to make a batch of Bitchin’ Sauce* to serve for lunch.
Daphne asked me about funeral preparations, but I couldn’t go there. I think I watched too many funeral satires – from The Loved One with Jonathan Winters to HBO’s Six Feet Under. And let’s not forget my childhood hero Mike Nichols with Elaine May and their 1965 skit lampooning the cost of funeral arrangements:
Death magnifies the thin line between absurdity and despair.
The uneasy truce between two extremes stems from the existential dimension contained in every good joke. Fortunately, Karen researched green burials four years earlier, so we had a plan and a plot in Conyers, Georgia, at the monastery where Karen took her students each semester.
Mary, a long-unseen friend from our Sufi days, called out of the blue wanting to visit. She had just picked up her restrung harp in Alpharetta.
“Yes,” I replied. “Please bring your harp.”
Within an hour, Mary’s lilting harp filled the space.
As Mary packed up, Fey, the Hospice Atlanta nurse, appeared – another saint hitting her cues perfectly. I imagined Fey swooping around in a Southern sequel to Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire as the earthbound angel who helps souls pass from one world to the next.
“Karen is standing on Holy Ground,” Fey announced with angelic wisdom.
“Her passing is imminent, a matter between Karen and her Maker.”
Fey brought us back to earth, using hospice-speak to describe yesterday’s temporary euphoria as Karen’s “rally.”
Debbie, Karen’s sister, called, sadly out of the loop. As a gesture, I turned on FaceTime so Debbie could say goodbye to her sister. Awkwardly, she was at the dealership sitting in her Audi.
I also FaceTimed Zora, who assured Karen that I would be okay. (Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I wasn’t so sure).
Other people came and went, including Teri biking through the neighborhood. I couldn’t erase the Hollywood scene where a well-wisher attends to her dying friend wearing full cycling regalia.
Karen’s respiration rate and blood pressure dwindled to signal ominous clouds on the horizon. I embraced her sweet, warm body, feeling our magnificent journey of love and loss — hugging, bawling, and mourning our grand adventure — the stuff of novels. How did we get here? So many signs were missed over many months. I forced myself to abandon the “woulda-coulda” and, instead, let myself die on the cross of the Present Moment.
Karen’s final hours played like a mise en scène where the lights dim and the strings begin. But first, one last jump cut as the kids served a pint of Karen’s favorite Kulfi non-dairy ice cream transported in dry ice on a sixteen-hour road trip from the Three Sisters Ice Cream shop in Providence, RI. Kulfi marked the pinnacle of Karen’s visits to Providence, partly because of its cardamom, cinnamon, and pistachios inside a non-dairy almond base.
Holy shit! Karen was suddenly up smiling, talking, and eating Kulfi.
Buñuel — quick, action!
The script shuffled again when our neighbor Ella entered, inviting us to sing. Nathaniel grabbed Karen’s ancient ukulele and bashed out “Hey Jude” while everyone heartily sang the verses and na-nah-nahs. Karen, of course, started beaming, waving her arms to the beat. I put on Van Morrison’s “Be Thou My Vision” to fill the room with holy triumph. She and I arm-waved as if dancing. The pinnacle expression of our love was dancing heart-to-heart in a swirling embrace. Oh, how I will miss that.
It was that kind of day. I sobbed with her body held close, then swish-panned to choose a scruffy burial plot over the phone. Nichols and May, you nailed it.
It’s been less than two weeks since Karen noticed a sudden swelling as she climbed the stairs to bed. In that time, we have been whip-sawed from one reality to the next – and now hospice.
Karen wanted me at her side in the too-small hospital bed — quite emphatic about it.
If you’re wondering about the through-line in dying, it’s all about the love.
We slid her immobile body to make room. She emerged from her deep place to stroke my face. There are no words to describe the delicious blend of alchemy that makes for unconditional love. Reshad used to give talks on the Alchemical Marriage. I doubt he achieved it, but I know it in spades. Knowing that tonight may be my last time to savor that essence—her soul signature—was a hard pill to swallow.
Between sips of Karen, I sneaked a peek at the election results to make sure that Raphael Warnock was defeating the doofus, wife-beating football legend Herschel Walker in the Georgia runoff election.
With the Senate appearing safe, I texted back and forth with Bridget:
“I’m getting to the hard place,” I texted.
“You might want to place one hand on your heart and one on hers,” Bridget softly directed. “And breathe gently. You can talk gently; she can hear you. You want me to come over?”
“I’ve been unflinchingly strong for so long,” I lamented. “Not sure how much fuel is in the tank. My creative juice comes from our connection. I’m an empty shell without her.”
“No need to keep on unflinchingly. Hold her gently, and let others hold you. We all soften as the Mystery comes over us. You have been magnificent and still are, even when you feel broken. She’s changing form.
“Okay.”
“You will know the connection again,” Bridget reassured. “You are afraid, of course. The connection is morphing, not dying. She has been afraid, too. You feed each other, breathing or not.”
“I will talk to Bhagwan in the morning,” I offered as a non-sequitur. “But I don’t want spiritual insight, just the felt sense that everything will be okay.”
“Yes. Breathe through the fear. Sending much love to both of you.”
“Thank you,” I sputtered.
“More love.”
I put the phone down to consider: She’s changing form.
Butterflies, moths, beetles, bees, frogs, and salamanders undergo metamorphosis. They belong to the superorder called Holometabola—a word that can be interpreted as “complete [holo-] change [metab].”
Hi Therra, I followed your remarkable love journey with John when I was in the thick of it. As a fellow writer, and you will understand, feedback and reflections mean a lot. Thanks for reaching out. As a moisture lover, I'm not sure why you went out to the dry and crazy West, but hoping you make the best of it. Be well, Bruce
My husband John transcended at Hospice Atlanta, in my arms in the middle of the night. Changing form indeed. Blessings to you.