Mindfully Sharing Dad's Death
Mindfully Sharing My Father’s Death – (March 22, 2010)
Cathy Eaton
Dad stopped eating and stopped drinking on a Thursday night at the end of February. He had decided that he no longer wanted to live. I wasn’t surprised; at 93 and mostly paralyzed from a stroke, he had not wanted to keep living without being able to walk, stand, read, turn over on his bed. Without being able to help anyone else do something. I needed in my heart to support his decision, to really listen to his wishes, and to support his choice.
My beloved sister waited three days before she told me on a Sunday night two weeks before Spring Break.
Instead of wallowing in anger at my sister for not telling me sooner, I stretched my ears to listen to her reasons of not wanting to disrupt my life and work, and I honored her for her caring. At the same time I didn’t bury my annoyance, but I did decide it was irrelevant to spend energy on it.
I revved into high gear to organize the next two weeks of classes, recruit professors to substitute for some of my classes, shift writing exercises and assignments to be posted on Blackboard, and to appeal to the students to meet and work on their own.
Guilt: Should I have left instantly to fly to California to be at my father’s side?
Guilt: Was it okay to abandon my students?
Instead of suppressing my guilt and breathing through the tensions that bubbled inside me, I paused, examined my guilt, allowed my guilt, and then rushed through two days of classes and packing for a journey that I didn’t know how long it would last.
Flying to California and leaving my son still recovering from the injuries of a rock climbing accident filled me with gushes of scalding tears that leaked out of my eyes without warning and made my nose snuffly and made my chest heave. I let the sadness happen. I acknowledged how I felt so helpless. I stayed it the moment of the emotion and found that it hurt less to accept and honor those emotions.
After eight days of no eating or drinking and after Dad’s systems had begun to shut down, after days of barely hearing what he was trying to say, he suddenly bellowed, “Isaiah, beer.” He drank a beer and loved it and then began sipping more water and asking for other beers. It was wonderful to give him this treat. But then when suddenly he asked for a grilled cheese, two dove chocolate bars, and a bottle of beer,” my sister and I felt panicked. Had Dad changed his mind and decided he wanted nourishment, decided he wanted to live? And was it too late for him to revive because his organs were already shutting down.
In the days and nights of Dad dying, my sister and I (spelled by a VA caregiver four hours a day) cared for Dad. Some nights I slept on a camping mattress on the floor beside my dad’s bed. One turbulent night when Dad was agitated and saying he was drowning and suffocating, Elizabeth and I stayed at his bedside and tried to find a medication that would calm him and alleviate his panic and pain. When I finally fell asleep, Dad said, “What’s that noise?” Elizabeth and I laughed, and I had to be comfortable with taking myself and my snoring to another room. Humor and laughter were central to this journey.
As Dad’s breathing became labored and his swallowing became phlegm-congested, Elizabeth gave me and her children, who often visited, a metaphor that helped us be in the moment-to-moment of Dad dying. She told us that “Dying is like being in labor, both for the one dying and those at the bedside of the one dying.” For those of us who have given birth or participated in the birthing process, we know that giving birth to a life is a hard labor of love. So is dying. That metaphor allowed me to become a coach for my dad and myself and for my family. Whatever happened each moment, no matter how hard it was, was okay.
When I fixed a meal and ate a meal, I didn’t hurry. Knowing Dad was never going to eat again, never going to drink again (except those beers and some strawberry ice cream J), I savored each morsel of food, appreciated each distinct flavor. I slowed down my chewing and enjoyed the sensation of eating. Meals were not something to hurry through so I could rush back to Dad.
When I sat by Dad’s bedside, I practiced the yoga heart breathing. Ahhhhh haaaaaaa. As I concentrated on my breathing I sent from my heart to Dad’s heart, and as I concentrated on the energy streaming down from the sun to Dad, I mind-spoke my mantra words: Courage, Gentleness, Harmony, Joy, Kindness, Love, Peace, Tranquility, Wisdom, and Compassion. I filled my heart and the space around me with images of Dad and my family that captured moments that epitomized those emotions. My sadness at losing Dad didn’t go away. But my joy of sharing his journey sustained me.
Each day I found time to walk. When I felt my shoulders tense as if someone was tightening a series of screws that attached my neck to my head or when I noticed I wasn’t noticing anything around me and was stuck in thoughts of my dad’s labored breathing, I relaxed my shoulders, paid attention to breathing the fresh air (unburdened by snow), and focused instead on the mocking bird as it went through his repertoire of melodies. I bent down and examined the fairy dew drops on blades of grass that sparkled in the sunlight. I forgave myself clichés because sometimes they capture the moment.
For 11 days I acompanied Dad on his final earth-bound journey. I learned that being open to the scariness, the unknown, the bubbling laughter, the unexpected, the pain, the calm moments, the raven visiting us… how being receptive to all the emotions and sensations was a blessing.
The morning he died, Dad’s breathing was heart-breathing. Ahhhh-Haaaaaa. Elizabeth and I let Dad go and celebrated his journey. The raven on the telephone pole outside his window and the hawk perched in the vineyard were waiting to take him on the next part of his journey.
Cathy Eaton
Dad stopped eating and stopped drinking on a Thursday night at the end of February. He had decided that he no longer wanted to live. I wasn’t surprised; at 93 and mostly paralyzed from a stroke, he had not wanted to keep living without being able to walk, stand, read, turn over on his bed. Without being able to help anyone else do something. I needed in my heart to support his decision, to really listen to his wishes, and to support his choice.
My beloved sister waited three days before she told me on a Sunday night two weeks before Spring Break.
Instead of wallowing in anger at my sister for not telling me sooner, I stretched my ears to listen to her reasons of not wanting to disrupt my life and work, and I honored her for her caring. At the same time I didn’t bury my annoyance, but I did decide it was irrelevant to spend energy on it.
I revved into high gear to organize the next two weeks of classes, recruit professors to substitute for some of my classes, shift writing exercises and assignments to be posted on Blackboard, and to appeal to the students to meet and work on their own.
Guilt: Should I have left instantly to fly to California to be at my father’s side?
Guilt: Was it okay to abandon my students?
Instead of suppressing my guilt and breathing through the tensions that bubbled inside me, I paused, examined my guilt, allowed my guilt, and then rushed through two days of classes and packing for a journey that I didn’t know how long it would last.
Flying to California and leaving my son still recovering from the injuries of a rock climbing accident filled me with gushes of scalding tears that leaked out of my eyes without warning and made my nose snuffly and made my chest heave. I let the sadness happen. I acknowledged how I felt so helpless. I stayed it the moment of the emotion and found that it hurt less to accept and honor those emotions.
After eight days of no eating or drinking and after Dad’s systems had begun to shut down, after days of barely hearing what he was trying to say, he suddenly bellowed, “Isaiah, beer.” He drank a beer and loved it and then began sipping more water and asking for other beers. It was wonderful to give him this treat. But then when suddenly he asked for a grilled cheese, two dove chocolate bars, and a bottle of beer,” my sister and I felt panicked. Had Dad changed his mind and decided he wanted nourishment, decided he wanted to live? And was it too late for him to revive because his organs were already shutting down.
In the days and nights of Dad dying, my sister and I (spelled by a VA caregiver four hours a day) cared for Dad. Some nights I slept on a camping mattress on the floor beside my dad’s bed. One turbulent night when Dad was agitated and saying he was drowning and suffocating, Elizabeth and I stayed at his bedside and tried to find a medication that would calm him and alleviate his panic and pain. When I finally fell asleep, Dad said, “What’s that noise?” Elizabeth and I laughed, and I had to be comfortable with taking myself and my snoring to another room. Humor and laughter were central to this journey.
As Dad’s breathing became labored and his swallowing became phlegm-congested, Elizabeth gave me and her children, who often visited, a metaphor that helped us be in the moment-to-moment of Dad dying. She told us that “Dying is like being in labor, both for the one dying and those at the bedside of the one dying.” For those of us who have given birth or participated in the birthing process, we know that giving birth to a life is a hard labor of love. So is dying. That metaphor allowed me to become a coach for my dad and myself and for my family. Whatever happened each moment, no matter how hard it was, was okay.
When I fixed a meal and ate a meal, I didn’t hurry. Knowing Dad was never going to eat again, never going to drink again (except those beers and some strawberry ice cream J), I savored each morsel of food, appreciated each distinct flavor. I slowed down my chewing and enjoyed the sensation of eating. Meals were not something to hurry through so I could rush back to Dad.
When I sat by Dad’s bedside, I practiced the yoga heart breathing. Ahhhhh haaaaaaa. As I concentrated on my breathing I sent from my heart to Dad’s heart, and as I concentrated on the energy streaming down from the sun to Dad, I mind-spoke my mantra words: Courage, Gentleness, Harmony, Joy, Kindness, Love, Peace, Tranquility, Wisdom, and Compassion. I filled my heart and the space around me with images of Dad and my family that captured moments that epitomized those emotions. My sadness at losing Dad didn’t go away. But my joy of sharing his journey sustained me.
Each day I found time to walk. When I felt my shoulders tense as if someone was tightening a series of screws that attached my neck to my head or when I noticed I wasn’t noticing anything around me and was stuck in thoughts of my dad’s labored breathing, I relaxed my shoulders, paid attention to breathing the fresh air (unburdened by snow), and focused instead on the mocking bird as it went through his repertoire of melodies. I bent down and examined the fairy dew drops on blades of grass that sparkled in the sunlight. I forgave myself clichés because sometimes they capture the moment.
For 11 days I acompanied Dad on his final earth-bound journey. I learned that being open to the scariness, the unknown, the bubbling laughter, the unexpected, the pain, the calm moments, the raven visiting us… how being receptive to all the emotions and sensations was a blessing.
The morning he died, Dad’s breathing was heart-breathing. Ahhhh-Haaaaaa. Elizabeth and I let Dad go and celebrated his journey. The raven on the telephone pole outside his window and the hawk perched in the vineyard were waiting to take him on the next part of his journey.