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Visions of Song

Visions of Song

Category Archives: death and dying

Why Wait?

09 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by debintheuwharries in camping, death and dying, earth, Happiness, healing, nature, recovery, Spirituality, Travel, Uncategorized

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death and dying, desire, gratitude, healing, hope, meditation, nature, perception, philosophy, recovery, redemption, resilience, senses, spirituality, transformation, travel, trust

2014-10-02 pond swampy Sandhills off Hoffman Road“We never know how many tomorrows we have left: eat dessert first!” “We plan, God laughs.”

The notion that we shouldn’t waste time because we have no idea when ours will be up is all too familiar. We’ve heard it, we’ve said it. Often, it’s a loss of a loved one, or the abrupt change in personal status that makes us take a fresh look at our lives. When my father died in 2013, and a dear friend died a mere 11 days later, I experienced what I’ve just recently heard described as “zombie grief”. I remember trying to describe it to some friends, that sensation of being nearly paralyzed. I was sure, I said, that it was the body’s way of preventing one (me) from doing anything drastic. After a while, I was able to move again, but I struggled both physically and emotionally. Only in relatively far retrospect did it dawn on me that I was depressed, grieving. I felt a great deal of anger, and in a way, it was refreshing, in that I felt freer to say “no”, and I did simplify my life somewhat. I stopped giving so much mental energy to people who took my energy but didn’t replenish it. I realized that changes that had occurred in my work situation needing changing once again. I planned for my departure, taking a two month hiatus and traveled across the country, enjoying plenty of time alone, visiting friends old and new, camping, and doing a little creative work through writing and photography. I returned to North Carolina, and struggled to find a balance of work that would be meaningful as well as pay bills alongside my desire to have some flexibility to do the other things that are important to me. It has not been easy, and still needs some adjusting, but for the most part I am glad for where I am with that process.

A week and a half ago, I had a couple of biopsies done on the sole of one foot. I had been concerned about the appearance of small to medium markings that had not always been there. My father died as a result of metastatic melanoma, which coincidentally appeared on the sole of his foot, so I’d been quietly terrified that those biopsies were going to come back as melanoma. I did share this concern with a couple of friends, but for the most part said nothing. I told one friend that if the report showed melanoma of the type that my father had, there is really nothing to be done about it and I would plan accordingly. I thought for just a moment and said “why am I waiting to find out if I have melanoma before deciding to plan accordingly?” Although I continued to wake up each morning wondering if today would be the day I’d get the bad news, I also spent a lot of time thinking about how important it is for me to continue to work towards ensuring that what I devote my time and energy to is more and more in alignment with those things I hold dear.

This afternoon I got the relieving news that I should keep an eye on things, but there are no high alerts at this time. I am thankful. I also hope I have the capacity to keep my eyes towards those priorities and avoid the trap of complacency. I aim to keep things fresh, and not be afraid to shake life up as I did in the fall when I quit a job that offered a modest salary with those much-coveted benefits in exchange for days and days of adventure, exploration, time with friends, new experiences, another kind of self-confidence, creative energy, and lots of “I wonder what today will bring?” mornings.

Eat dessert first!2014-09-23 dessert first Roccio2014-08-25 torta asadaJune 2016 off 109 trailhead troy nc area

Stepping Lightly

27 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by debintheuwharries in death and dying, earth, healing, nature, Spirituality, Uncategorized

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3-26-16 at Zoar cemetery bluetsAs I walk through the old Zoar cemetery, down in the country, I step carefully around the headstones, trying to read what is written, though it is often impossible to make out names, or birth and death years. The stones, covered in lichen and faded by time, have a strange beauty, as those who love cemeteries can appreciate.

It is approaching middle springtime in the Piedmont, when a cold snap can threaten the initial bursts of enthusiasm from the early blooming plants and trees. Today, the grounds of the cemetery are virtually blanketed by bluets, a wildflower species that often reaches no more than one inch in height. The blooms are small and delicate, and they are usually gone by early summer. They are a treat for the eyes after a winter with little color on the ground. So I step lightly around them, around the headstones out of respect for the deceased, and around the delicate blue, white, and purple-tinted blooms of the wildflower with the same sort of reverence. As I do so, I cannot help stepping on the moss, the grasses, the smaller rocks that are everywhere in the cemetery. For a moment, I attempt to step around some of the more interesting (to me) combinations of ground cover. The more I do that, the more I have to try to avoid squashing with my hiking boots. It pulls me to a standstill as I consider that I have been showing favoritism for one or another plant. Why? Because I think it’s pretty, or delicate, or fleeting. But what of the strength and character and subtle beauty in the wild grasses, the moss that stay green year-round, growing plush and vibrant at different times of year, but always there, an important part of the ecosystem? Why dance among the little flowers while walking all over the rest of the earth? I am troubled by this, because if I conclude that there is just as much reason to avoid squashing the other plants among the headstones as there is to avoid damaging the pretties, well then, where do I walk? Should I even be there? Where is it OK to walk, to step all over, to squash, how is such a  decision made? Do we intuitively know that no, we have no right to do damage, but since we live on the planet we have to make some decisions? We say well we should never do such and such, but we can sometimes do this and that, but other things, well, that’s just the way it goes, buddy.

There are a few of my friends who have heard me say that in the past couple of years, I’ve gone from being the friend-who-brings-beautiful-flowers when she visits your home, to the one who cannot stand the thought of cut flowers, flowers torn from their natural (or created) habitats to be put in water in a vase on a table. I suspect it comes from having spent a ridiculous amount of time over the past several years, wandering back roads, looking closely, deeply and intimately, at blooms as they run through their life paces, on trails, roadsides, and in deep woods, that I feel like to cut a flower for the express purpose of putting it on a table for a few days for all to admire is an unnecessary assault on the plant. Let it be! I’ll bring you a bottle of wine instead. J So, how different is this feeling from wanting to protect all living things? Why do I struggle with the idea of giving up meat more than I do giving up flower bouquets? Selfishness, basically. I hold that there are ethical ways of letting live, and killing, animals for human consumption and I try to make choices around that as much as possible. Is it dancing around the wildflowers again? Yes, in a way. I’d go mad if I were to pay that much attention to my every move, every moment of each day. Yet it feels a spiritual illness not to pay attention, too. Working towards balance, every day.

early spring moss growth Zoar cemetery (2)2016-03-26 Zoar groundsPhoto credits: Deborah Marcus

Love What You Do

18 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by debintheuwharries in death and dying, Happiness, Spirituality, Uncategorized, work

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magnolia image (3)

Note: this essay is a reflection on journal notes scribbled back in July 2015.

My friend Amy had sent me a Facebook message, catching up after our being out of touch for a little while. I was dealing with the trigeminal neuralgia and other chronic pain issues that I try my best to manage and then ignore as much as possible, but which have impacted my life. Apropos of nothing, she wrote: I just want you to be happy (with lots of exclamation points)! It’s a lovely sentiment, really. It got me thinking about a lot of things, especially, you know, what is happiness? I can remember—sometimes it feels like I was still in high school, but it’s probable it wasn’t until I went off to college, having taken an introduction to philosophy class during freshman year, when I was introduced to a manner of philosophical questioning that has helped to shape how I think about things ever since–an experience of walking with my dad. Walking and talking, my memory is that we were on Fifth Avenue, walking along Central Park in New York City.  At some point, I decided to muster the courage to ask him something I’d never discussed with him. I can’t recall why I had this question, but I did and I asked: Dad, are you happy? He looked at me and said something like “I don’t even understand that question. What is happy?” I don’t remember every detail of what he said but I remember the essence of his response. Which, if you knew my dad, you’d know that I’m telling you the truth. He said that happiness it’s not some sort of amorphous, fleeting thing. I’m happy with the things that I’m doing in my life, and I feel productive. What more can anybody ask for? This response was so Dick Marcus, quick and pragmatic. It was not his inclination, as I came to understand better much later in life, to think about things in that way. He wanted to know “are you doing OK? Are you doing work that you love? Can you support yourself?” He didn’t even talk about money that much with me, it was sort of a given that it was important to be able to support oneself. He spoke more about are you enjoying what you’re doing? Are you productive? Always, always, are you doing work that you love?

This started out as a philosophical consideration, a search for some definition of happiness. But I see that it becomes for me about feeling productive, enjoying my work. For everything that didn’t go right in my father’s life, for every mistake he made—and he made mistakes—he was also a loving person, and he lived his message. He loved his job. He was retired from the NYPD for more years than he was on the job, and it was so much more than an affiliation for him. He loved his work. Even on days when the system drove him nuts, he loved what he did. He believed in what he did.

It’s a point of reflection for me, because having made a long transition from my previous work, having wondered deeply about why I am here and what is my purpose, my feeling is that I shouldn’t be spending tremendous amounts of time doing what I don’t love, and which I don’t particularly believe is serving anyone much good.

Which leads to my next questions: what is “work”, what is “good”? I’ll get around to that after a while. For now, it makes me (deep breath) happy to finally understand why it’s essential to make it a priority to always, always, do what I love. If I steady my sights on that, I’ll keep my bearings, be of the most service to others, and have the most energy and enthusiasm possible in all my endeavors. If this resonates for you, take it with you.

Three years after my father’s death, he is still teaching me important things.

Gifts Postponed

30 Wednesday Dec 2015

Posted by debintheuwharries in death and dying, healing, Spirituality, Travel, Uncategorized

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death and dying, gratitude, healing, hope, spirituality, travel, trust

gift to Brueilly from Dad January 2013

Goldie, as some of you know, is my 2008 gold Honda Civic. When I moved to North Carolina from Colorado in 2009, I pulled into town in a blue Subaru Forester towing the smallest U-Haul trailer available. Soon after I arrived, the transmission completely went out on the Forester. I couldn’t afford to replace the whole thing, so I had to let it go and get another car. That’s Goldie. I didn’t name her for a long time, and didn’t say it out loud until after the high drama of April 2015. I went off the road on a dark, rainy night, in either a hydroplane or bump in the road event. I was airborne, spinning 180 degrees and down a steep embankment, getting tangled up in some heavy brush and missing the trees below by inches. Goldie was still running! I got stuck trying to drive back up the steep hill and needed to be towed to the road, but I was able to drive home from there. That was the night I decided that I should appreciate her a little more, and call her by her proper name.

Goldie and I have been through a few exciting events. In the fall of 2012, I was hit on the passenger side by a young man who was in a hurry to leave the bank parking lot. The force deployed the airbag, which tore out the fabric on the car ceiling. That and other damages took Goldie away from me for close to two months. I finally got her back, only to have the engine overheat a week later. What?!? I had her towed to the body shop, because I thought it had to have something to do with that accident and all the work they did. No, they didn’t think so, and so I towed her over to Brueilly Auto Repair. Steve Brueilly had been recommended to me a couple years prior, for minor work. My friend told me that he was highly qualified, and just as important, he was trustworthy. If he can help you out he will, is what I was told. The next day, Steve called me and said “you’re not going to like this. You have a cracked engine block. It costs upwards of 4,000 dollars to replace, and there can be a lot of damage from the crack. I was devastated. I didn’t have that kind of money. I envisioned myself paying two car payments: one for the Civic, which I wouldn’t be able to repair, and another for a car that I would have to buy so I could get around. I called my dad to make sure that this report about cracked engine blocks sounded accurate. He groaned and said yes, it’s very expensive to replace. I decided to just think about it overnight. Steve called me the next day, saying that something seemed strange to them there, so he had called up to the dealership in Greensboro and had them run the VIN number. Turned out there was a recall on that engine block!  He told me to get it up to the Crown Honda in Greensboro, and they’d get her fixed up.

I was in a shocked state, but thanked him profusely for following up on this for me. If he and his staff hadn’t taken the time to figure out what was going on, I would have been in some hot water. I called my dad, this time with a remarkable update. He was delighted and relieved for me, and heaped praise on Brueilly for his consideration and help. “He could have just told you the cost for the job, take it or leave it, and not given it another moment’s thought. He’s a mensch!”

This second event, with the engine block, actually spilled over in 2013, mid-January. Dad had been receiving monthly chemotherapy since October, in an attempt to shrink a liver tumor, a metastatic event from a primary retinal melanoma. The retinal condition had been treated a few years prior, and he had been given clean bills of health at all follow ups with the eye specialist, but it wasn’t really gone from his body. By mid-January, he was getting ready for the fourth and final treatment, with the plan to see the oncologist in February to review whether the treatment had the intended effect, and possibly bought him some time. He expressed some pain and fatigue at that point, but we are certain in hindsight that he was not telling anyone exactly how much pain he was in. He kept about most of his usual daily activities. Dick Marcus was not one to lay around and watch television, but one day I called him, it was a weekday, in the afternoon, and he said “Honey, I’m not feeling well. I’m lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. You know that’s not a good thing.” It broke my heart, but he was not to be coddled, and it was the only time he alluded to such discomfort. Even then, he thought it was more the side effect of treatment that was getting him down than progression of the disease.

At the end of January, I received a piece of mail from him. There was a note that read “Give this to Brueilly, with my thanks. He might get a kick out of it. Love, Dad” In the envelope with the note was a plastic card, one that he received copies of every year as a member of the Retired NYPD Lieutenants Association. I put it aside, thinking I would stop by one day soon and deliver it to him. Two weeks later, I was flying to New York City to say goodbye to my dad, for the treatment had not worked, and he was gone within days of the oncologist’s report that there was nothing else to do except provide comfort care. Soon after his death, I pulled out the envelope with the card intended for Steve Brueilly. I didn’t want to go and see him and give him the card. I was afraid I’d burst into tears, unable to finish. So, I put it aside, thinking “I’ll get over there soon”. I’ve been there since for auto care, and I’ve never thought about that card. This morning, I was organizing some paperwork. I saw my father’s handwriting on an envelope, and curious, I pulled it out. I could feel the outline of the little plastic card. I read, again, the note, and held the card in my hand. I’m keeping it with me in my glove compartment. Hopefully I will remember to pull it out and present it to Steve the next time I’m over at the shop. I do think he’ll get a kick out of it.

http://www.brueillyautorepair.com/

 

 

Sights, Sounds, and Memories

14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by debintheuwharries in camping, Cochise Stronghold, Cochlear Implant and Hearing, death and dying, healing, recovery, sound, Spirituality, Travel, Uncategorized

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death and dying, healing, hearing loss, meditation, nature, perception, recovery, senses, spirituality, travel, trust

2015-10-13 16.19.55I had the great pleasure of hiking and camping in mid-October at the Cochise Stronghold campground, in the Dragoon Mountains within the Coronado National Forest in southeastern Arizona. I arrived late morning, and enjoyed a hike before setting up camp. At 5,000 feet, it gets chilly once the sun sets at that time of year, but the granite walls and sheer cliffs that surround the campground act to reduce winds that might otherwise make tent camping a bit uncomfortable overnight. With virtually no chance of rain, and little to no perceptible wind, I was able to enjoy a rain tarp-free experience, hunkering down into my sleeping bag as I peered through the mesh of my tent and watched the sky darken and fill with stars. At early morning, I was able to view the sky as it lightened and the sun came over the cliffs, the stars fading from view. I shared the entire campground with just one other camper. He arrived about an hour before sunset. I had two thoughts when he pulled in: “aw, I thought I’d have the place to myself tonight!”, and “should I be concerned?” My gut said it would be fine, that he was just camping out like me, and I was correct. We spoke briefly upon his arrival, then went about our respective business.

I had been sitting and eating my dinner when he pulled into the site. As there is no water whatsoever at that campground, I didn’t attempt to cook rice or pasta or anything that would’ve made excessive demands on my water supply (cooking and cleaning). I boiled some water, first for coffee, which I enhanced with a shot of bourbon, and then boiled more water to heat up a food packet filled with a tasty Indian spiced side dish. With that, some crackers and nuts, and the brew, I was set. While I ate, I wrote down some of my thoughts and feelings about the recent death of an old friend. Betty and I met when I was at college in upstate New York. The mom of the young man I became engaged to (but did not marry), we were close for many years beyond that time. I felt like an extended family member for a long time. Circumstance and distance changed things about 10 years ago, but we remained friendly, with my link to her eldest son keeping me abreast of developments when her health took a serious turn for the worse. Pancreatic cancer ultimately took her from this life. She died a few days after I started my journey, days before I arrived at this stronghold. I felt her presence as I sat on the bench, eating my simple meal and writing about her, about who she was as I understood her, and about her influence on my life. She taught me many things about relationships, family, devotion, and the little things that people do for each other to show love. She had a faith in God that I did not fully understand, yet I loved being around that part of her, because I felt like whatever it was that made her so special was intricately woven by that fabric, and I hoped it would rub off on me. I think it did, somewhat.

I heard so many birds calling as sunset came to the campground. Earlier in the afternoon, there were two woodpeckers nearby just having a ball, flitting here and there, banging away at trees, squawking, looking askance, I’d swear, at my feeble attempts to photograph them, to capture a focused shot or two. As I listened to the sounds around me, I remembered how thrilled Betty was for me at the success of my first cochlear implant, the technology that has allowed me to hear again after decades of severe hearing impairment. A musician, it must’ve saddened her more than she let on that I was losing my connection with the hearing world, especially with music. So as I retired to the camp tent for the night, I reflected on how much she meant to me, and how she made me feel like I mattered to her, and how cheered she would be to know that I could hear all those marvelous, musical sounds in the natural world again.2015-10-13 17.27.25

Traveling on the M57

19 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by debintheuwharries in Cochlear Implant and Hearing, death and dying, recovery, Spirituality, Travel

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Image

I was casually checking email the other night when I came upon one with the subject line “The Passing of Arthur”. Sent to a small group of Artie’s friends, his son sent an email to let us know that a few nights earlier, Artie had been riding a bus near home when he went into cardiac arrest. Efforts by doctors at the nearby hospital failed to revive him.

“Thank you for knowing and loving my father” he wrote at the end of his message, which brings on a fresh batch of tears every time I think about it.

Knowing and loving Artie, in the manner that I did for 11 years, was one of the grandest chapters of my life. It started out in an unorthodox manner, and for some, was and may remain verboten. I long ago quit caring about that, although it troubled me at the start, to the extent that it became a habit to reference him constantly and yet rarely mention him by name as the years went by.

Artie and I met one afternoon in his apartment in New York City. I was a case worker for an agency that served brain injury survivors. Artie was a brain injury survivor, a three-time stroke survivor. I remember running all over the city on that overcast day, and wishing I didn’t have that one last stop to make before heading home for the evening. He lived a long walk from the subway, and as I never liked waiting on the cross-town bus, I hustled towards Tenth Avenue. I got to the building, climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. Being severely hard of hearing, I never knew for sure when the tenant was buzzing me through the locked doors. I felt the door frame for the vibration and after a couple of false starts; I got into the lobby and made my way up the stairs. In the doorway of 2B I saw a man who looked older than the stated age on the paperwork, just shy of his 57th birthday. About 5’7”, pale skin, light strawberry blonde hair, and large, shining blue eyes. He was neither unfriendly nor especially welcoming as he allowed me into his apartment. The living room was rather dark, the blinds drawn. Up on a wooden platform was a cat. Sparkle was completely white with blue eyes, and entirely deaf, but otherwise able-bodied and very intelligent.

I began my intake process in the usual fashion, to determine the need for services and supports. I was intrigued with some of the artwork he had up on the walls and asked about them. Pictures of people and scenes of far off places, and one was a photograph of a woman lying on her side, her breasts exposed. It was a very intimate and sensuous image. I learned that he had taken that picture–an old girlfriend of his—along with most of the others on the walls. There was a story to go with every one of them, and I was fascinated in part because I am a wanderer, a traveler, and I enjoy hearing about the adventures of others. He had traveled wide and long, and often said that if he could have he would have just traveled on and on. Ultimately, the intake took about a half an hour, for he was not interested in accessing an intensive level of supports, though he eventually acknowledged the need for some daily help. The rest of the visit went on for a couple more hours, as we talked about all sorts of topics: art, spirituality, psychology, history, music. There were many interests that we shared, but that is not so unusual on its own. The feeling that was there made no sense to me and yet I was compelled to touch it; the awareness of interconnectedness with my friend, this man I had just met that afternoon. We recognized it intuitively then, and learned to articulate it later, there was a meeting of soul mates that day. I did not know it right away, but I learned that though he had many friends, he rarely had guests into his home, and yet he continued to welcome me. I felt deeply honored by that alone.

I struggled with the fact of my role in his life. Although I wasn’t providing therapeutic or clinical services to him, there was and is an ingrained message I carry with me about the people I serve in my work through the years: that regardless of anything else, there is an inherent imbalance of power when one is the provider of a service, the other is a recipient. There have been many instances in which I have gone above and beyond to provide supports to individuals I serve. I am aware that altruism always carries a measure of selfishness, and I see no dichotomy in that. Anyone who says such acts are entirely selfless is deceiving themselves. I played this role in his life for about a year and a half. I moved away, and we continued to email regularly and exchange cards at various holidays. He is one of the few people I continued to get birthday cards from via snail mail. He was the most Jewish Gentile I have ever met, a product of growing up along the J train line in Brooklyn, combined with an intense curiosity about everything. The first time I heard him use the word shul (Yiddish for synagogue) I almost fell out of my chair laughing. He understood the culture so well; he could send the most hilariously nuanced holiday cards of anyone I knew.

I could write pages and pages of stories about him and our friendship, the long walks in Central Park, wandering around the medieval architecture of the Cloisters. Meals in Indian restaurants around the city, hangouts in a place that served us coffee while we sat surrounded by greenery. He knew so much about the city of his birth, his life, and though he loved to explore the far corners of India and Africa, he always came home. He loved his children and grandchildren, and no little drama like the Great Blackout of 2003 was going to prevent him from getting from Manhattan to Newark to Colorado, where his son and daughter-in-law had brought their first child into the world. I still don’t know how he managed that, for most fully able-bodied individuals could barely figure out how to survive those difficult days, but he just pushed past all kinds of limitations and did what he wanted to do.

It wasn’t all of those marvelous aspects of our friendship that made him so exceptional to me, why I made sure that no matter what, I fit in a visit with him every time I came back to the city after moving away in 2004. It was love. I loved Artie. I loved him because he had that rare quality of being able to see what is essential, and was generous enough to share what he knew. I loved what I saw in his eyes, how he showed his warmth, his worries, his humor, his ironic view of life. And I loved that he cared for me, and how he was not afraid to show it. He taught me to be a little less afraid of the intensity of my own feelings about many things.  I’m going to miss his stories, his teachings, and his poetic messages about life.

I’m really not sure how long it’s going to take to get used to him not being around anymore.

After the initial shock of the news of Artie’s death passed, I actually smiled when I thought about how utterly fitting it was that the last thing he did in this life was ride the bus. He was traveling—from a meeting, most likely, a core feature of the past 37 years of his life, or perhaps from a meditation evening–and doing his thing. Peace, my old hippie friend. Shalom Aleichem.

Letting Go

04 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by debintheuwharries in death and dying, Spirituality

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Image

My father died last Monday. In a couple of hours, it will have been one week since he took his last breath, having done battle against a metastasized melanoma since October. The doctor at Calvary Hospital in the Bronx, a hospice facility, called the time: 2:30 AM. “He’s looking at you” she said. It was a sweet thing to say, though even at that moment I thought that it was rather quaint to suggest he might’ve been looking at me as he died. He WAS faced in the direction that I was sitting most of the evening, on his right side, first in a chair right next to his bed, and then at the end, half sleeping, half dreaming, in a recliner chair a little bit further away, still on his right side. Still, I presume that it is merely a reflex that turned his head from one side to the other.

Not a week earlier, Dad and his wife met with the oncologist at NYU and got the bad news: the immunotherapy treatments that he had gotten monthly between October and January had not impacted the course of the disease. For a couple of weeks prior to this, he’d been experiencing increasing pain and other symptoms, but continued to hold out hope that these were byproducts of the treatments, side effects that would ease with time. In fact, it was the progression of the disease that was causing such difficulty. Up until that point, my father continued to do virtually everything that he did before getting the diagnosis. He undoubtedly tolerated a great deal of pain before he finally acknowledged it out loud. “I have a very high tolerance for pain. You know that if I’m telling you it has me laid up in bed, it’s getting bad.” There was no doubt in my mind that if my father was lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, something was terribly wrong. Still, we all held out hope that the PET scan would reveal that the tumors had shrunken, and that dad had been given some extra time.

From the moment he was told that the treatment had not helped, and that there were truly no other options besides those that would bring him physical comfort, he began the last phases of dying. Just that same week he was driving with his wife down to the city for his appointments, making phone calls to deal with various business matters. “I’ll drive us” he told his wife, she offering to do so but seeing no need to intervene, as he was still capable. But after the news was digested, he began to not only be given care for his pain, he began his rapid decline. Within two days of hospice support at home, his needs became so great that he was moved to Calvary Hospice House, where he received excellent care. The call from my brother came on Saturday evening: his mom told him that we need to get on a plane and get up there right away. And so we did, he arriving from Colorado on a redeye flight, I making my way up to the Bronx from North Carolina on Sunday morning. Dad had previously expressed the desire to keep visitors limited to his most inner circle. His wife, three of his four children who could be present, his brother, and two of his former NYPD colleagues, one of whom he maintained a strong 42 year friendship, long past and beyond the scope of the job.

I have had some personal experience with hospice and the dying process, and so it was not a surprise to me that once he saw the last person he needed to see, he was almost finished with his process. I also know that there are as many ways of leaving as there are individuals. I was so preoccupied with being present, in the moment, with my dad, that he surprised me at the end.

I had indicated to his wife that I wished to spend the night at hospice with dad. I knew that his youngest son had stayed there with him the previous night. I was concerned that perhaps his son would want to stay with him again and would prefer that I not be there. I needn’t have worried, for his son was exhausted and welcomed the support. I was relieved, because I really needed to be there. I knew this was as much for me as it was for my dad. At about 10 PM, I sat in the recliner chair and promptly fell asleep. Having had about 2 hours sleep the night before, I was exhausted. At 11:30 I awoke, and alternated between sitting and holding my dad’s hand, pacing the room, and drinking the little juice cups the nurse had given me for the evening. Earlier in the day when dad was still somewhat aware of his surroundings, I acted on a suggestion made by a friend, and took a picture of my hand on his with my camera phone. Now as I sat watching and listening to him breathe, I took one of just my own arm, palm up and open. Finally, at about a quarter to two, I decided I should try to get a little rest. I held his hand once more, and kissed it, and stroked his hair. I climbed back into the recliner chair, a little further away from the bed. I fell into a fitful state for about half an hour, dozing and then glancing over at dad, whose breathing was full of crackly sounds. He looked very relaxed, no signs of distress, so I did not worry. I fell into a deeper sleep, and I began to dream that I was in a struggle with someone or something that had a grip on my wrists, on my hands. I did not feel that I was in danger, only that there was a struggle ensuing. I was in that half dream state, you know when you know you’re dreaming but you can’t get yourself out of it? I remember thinking that someone would come and help me. As I fought off the force that had a grip on me, I started to scream. I thought I was screaming so loudly that it was coming out and into the room and that someone would hear me and come to my assistance. I screamed long and loud and yelled let go! Just let go! As I shook myself awake, the door to the room opened, the light was turned on, and a nurse and aides walked into the room. One of them came to me and softly said: we need to call the doctor. He has stopped breathing. I jumped up, fumbling around for my eyeglasses, and said oh my god I just dreamed there was a struggle and I couldn’t get free of it! I looked at my dad, his eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar, but his face looked so peaceful. He had stayed on all the while I was holding his hand. As soon as I moved away, and fell into sleep, he let go. I doubt he was waiting in the sense we usually mean, but there was a sense of closure, like he was just going to hang around until I could let go. And then he let go, too.

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