A perspective on death

In my opinion, there are few professions more admirable than that of a person who works in the field of hospice and palliative care. At one point in my life, I thought I could be one of these people and pursued an education to enter the profession.

As many people, I have experienced death primarily through the loss of loved ones – the most hard-hitting being two of my childhood best friends and grandparents. Over the years, their departure has made me think more about mortality and our shared humanity.

From an early age, I have always been acutely aware as to how we rally around things that bring joy – births, weddings, birthdays, etc. But, when it comes to death, particularly the dying, we, as Westerners (meaning, in the greater sense of the world), have been conditioned to fear the unknown that surrounds death and taught to mourn love lost.

Through Eastern cultures, specifically that of Asia, I was taught to view the world in terms of yin and yang. Without life, death would mean nothing, and without pain, we’d never know happiness. Get the idea?

For me, the idea of death has always been strangely beautiful. As I travel through life and find myself becoming complacent and numb at times, it has often been death that serves as a reminder of the glorious life I have yet to live.

Bob

On the afternoon of May 24, 2013, my American Airlines flight was just touching down in San Diego (my hometown) as I powered on my phone. A text from my mother appeared on the screen: “It won’t be long.” This wasn’t exactly what I had planned for vacation, but somehow fate managed to land me in the right place at nearly the right time.

We immediately headed to see my uncle who was in hospice. As we left the airport and drove across Harbor Island (a neighborhood of San Diego), I remember sitting in the back seat and staring off into the ocean, which reminded me of Bob’s stories of his time in the Navy. I then turned my head to gain some reprieve from the immense amount of pain building inside of me, but instead caught a glimpse of the former General Dynamics building, where he spent his 30 year career. It was as if he wanted to make his presence known.

We eventually arrived to a nondescript house where Bob went to spend his final days. Inside, I was met by family members who gave me the knowing glance of, "Sorry, you just missed him."

As I entered Bob's room, my mother closed the door behind me. Before she did, she made sure I knew she was right on the other side should I need her. I nod. "I'm OK."

I pulled up a chair to his bedside and grabbed his hand. It was still warm – or should I say, not cold – but becoming stiff as it molded itself around mine. I kissed him on the forehead, pulled his blankets up to his chin and tucked him in.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I tell him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He was at peace. And, as much as it pained me to stare at my lifeless uncle, I was, too.

I haven’t always had the ability to meet death or process loss with grace.

Why

"Why do you want to be in this profession?" my professor asked me, but I had never thought about it before.

I am really good at dealing with grief – the kind that bleeds the air from your lungs and leaves your tear ducts in a drought. As an adoptee, I’ve carried an immense amount of grief with me for the better half of my 40 years, and the best way I found to process the overwhelming feeling of abandonment was to view the the bond – between my birth mother and I – as a death. The finality of it all provided some peace.

I know it sounds dramatic, but, in dealing with “death,” I had to give into the heartbreak wholly. In my experience, I found that when I feel something so deep that it physically hurts, it makes me feel more human, and over time, in this humanity is connectivity in its most purest form. It’s where our commonalities exist and our compassion for each other grows.

So, for me, I thought that’s what I wanted to be. When I meet a hospice worker, I see a person who is doing the most selfless act by helping others while carrying the greatest burden. I see a person who has suffered debilitating personal loss, had the courage to confront it, the strength to overcome it, and now has the unique gift to empathize with others experiencing similar pain.

So, to all the hospice workers, I tip my hat to you.

Change

In 2007, I took a position with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and an internship with the ALS Association at the University of San Diego Department of Neurosciences, where I was learning how to conduct intake assessments for those newly diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). So, for three years, death became part of my daily.

I will never forget the experience of interviewing my first terminally-ill clients; one in particular, a man in his late 40s who arrived to the clinic – shackled at the wrists and ankles – escorted by prison guards.

Prior to meeting him, I could hear my supervisor, the physician and prison guards discussing if I should be the one conduct his assessment. In their opinion, I was too young and pretty to meet with a man convicted of heinous crimes against women. I assured them I could do it.

When I walked in, I didn’t see a criminal. I saw a dying man in need of compassion in his final days. To strip him of that – in spite of everything he had done – angered me. I introduce myself, explain my purpose for being there and asked if he felt comfortable speaking with me.

"Yes ma'am," he said, as he stared at the floor.

"You can look at me," I told him, as I reached out my hand to hold his. Tears began to stream down his face.

I stared at him as he cried. I wondered about the circumstances in his life that lead him to this point. I wondered if he had love as a child. I wondered what kind of abuse or neglect he had endured throughout his life. Because, when you seek to understand, you start to see others through softer eyes.

Once our assessment was complete, he was immediately lifted from his chair. As he walked out, I heard a faint "thank you" fall off his lips. It's an experience I have yet to forget.

The people I met, the stories I heard, and the struggles I witnessed were eventually too much for me. I cried every day on the drive home. It depressed me. I realized I couldn’t change the inevitable.

Lessons

I invested a lot of my love, energy, time and money in those years, and I learned that no effort is ever wasted. But, I also learned to recognize when something is over – a stage in life, a relationship or a job. Whatever it is, it doesn’t mean I deny its importance – it just means I recognize its validity and accept that its time to let go.

I have learned that I don’t have to take on such an emotional load to make a difference in the lives of others. I can live by example or through my writing. It can happen in the smallest day-to-day interactions – a smile, a compliment or by providing an open ear. As for those vexations that occur throughout my day – which are inevitable when you talk to as many people as I do – they require my acknowledgement, but not my all.

It was death that taught me to live this way — knowing in my core what is important — to live wholly, compassionately, completely and in a way that I’ll never regret what I’ve been to someone else.