The Hard Truths of Deathwork
A few months ago, I made my weekly visit to an elderly friend on hospice care who lived in a long-term care facility. When I arrived, my friend was sleeping on a sofa in the TV Room, propped up by pillows and snuggled under a blanket. I knelt down beside her and held her pale hand, quieting my mind as I thought about what precisely I could offer to comfort her in this moment. Settling on pure presence, I tried my best to connect with my breath, open my heart and visualize the golden cord of energy running like a stream through me, into my palm and spreading gently into hers. After a while, my friend still resting deeply, I began to return to myself by rolling my neck, wiggling my fingers and toes and opening my eyes. It was then, through my peripheral vision, that I sensed a shadowed figure in the corner amidst the potted faux banana tree and the dusty standing lamp. I felt more than saw, similar to seeing the impression of where you sat on the bed. As soon as I detected it, my instinct was to direct my gaze away but my impulsive thought was, “There’s Death, she’s here with us.”
Reading this beautiful collection of John O’Donohue’s words (“Walking In Wonder”), I find so much comfort and solace in the idea that death is always with us. Though I don’t usually sense her in the room there with me, the glimmer of her that day was a reminder to me: She is always present. In the months that have followed, that impression has remained with me as I’ve sat at other bedsides, grieved my friend and otherwise gone about the business of living my life. It’s as if she (Death) wanted me to know she’s always there and those we share in common (all) are never truly alone. And just as I was companioning my friend in her dying hour, so too was I stepping in to visit with Death, herself.
As usual, John O’Donohue beautifully articulated what feels like a deep truth of my soul. It sounds much less spooky and esoteric when he says it, but I know exactly of which he speaks.
