Ars moriendi…

…ars vivendi est.

In that order too.

A Calling’s Claim:

I’ve answered.

At the end of July, I’ll be engaging in a couple of workshops that will certify me as an official Hospice volunteer with EvergreenHealth. This calling was growing louder in me for a number of years and it was my plan to do this upon my retirement from education. Then Dad happened to us (no, we MADE Dad happen to us as a gift to ourselves and to him), and I was able to experience first hand the work of intimate, 24/7 caregiving with a loved one. THAT experience only fueled further the passion for this kind of service—thus indicating that this thing, this hard to explain affinity for grief-work, death-work, and service to the “living while dying,” and their families, is not so much something that I’m in control of. Rather, it’s something that has claimed me. I am fortunate, with my present circumstances, and the support of Kristin, to listen to this inner voice of calling to see where it will lead. Something will come of this service. It’s exciting to not know just exactly what yet. But it will be meaningful.

Which leads me to the Latin:

Our dominant, Western culture has lost both the wisdom knowledge and the skill to die wise—to die artfully and gracefully. We don’t talk about it so the wisdom that once existed among our Elders has died with them. Now, the generations that are still alive, as a whole, no longer have the intimate knowledge of death and how to “do death” well. Instead, we’ve given up that skill and knowledge to medical professionals. In our country, most deaths (excluding deaths from traumatic accidents, natural disasters, war, or intoxicant overdoses) occur in a hospital. My mom’s death occurred in a hospital. Even though the onset of her active dying occurred very fast, within the span of, really, 24 hours, we didn’t do mom’s death as well as we could have.

But we didn’t know any better.

Which is exactly my point.

A Tale of Two Parents:

We just did what we thought we had to do. We didn’t know, because, again, we weren’t Eldered differently, that we could have asked different kinds of questions—to everyone: the doctors, the nurses, Dad, each other, those who’d gone before us in supporting a loved one in this state and who experienced something similar. By the time we were given the news, by the attending ICU physician, in the hallway just outside her room, that the coma she was in was likely something she would not recover from, we were told, because we did ask about Hospice care, that the fragile state of her current condition could mean she might not have survived the transition to the Hospice care center there in Yakima. Visions of what that might have meant were not satisfactory to us. So, we made the decision to keep her in the hospital. A place where others came in to make her comfortable, check her vitals, gave her sedatives and morphine, sponge-bathe her, and change her bed clothing. Most times we left the room when much of that happened; sometimes they would let us stay in the room when some of that happened.

The space she was in was not her space—it was the sterile, whitewashed, uncomfortable (for us) rented space of a hospital room.

Contrast that with Dad’s death and dying.

The experience with mom proved to be good Eldering for Dad as he made the decision shortly thereafter to set into writing his Advanced Directives. We knew his preferences were to be home, among family, and cared-for medicinally so that he would be comfortable and pain-free. In other words, just what in-home Hospice provides.

His space here was calm, peaceful, comfortable for everyone who came to visit. Music played often in the background. Those around him had comfortable chairs and beds to rest in—and his surroundings were full of life, color, warmth, and beauty. In other words, he was home.

With Dad, we did have the luxury of time and, unlike with mom, we knew to expect Dad’s active dying which gave us the ability to be as prepared as we could be. That preparation, coupled with knowledge, skill, and wisdom, allowed Dad, over the course of his last 8 months, to die artfully and gracefully—to the degree and ability, at least, that an 84 year old retired farmer with dementia could muster. But the point is, we learned how to do his death differently. And despite some fear and trepidation in the unknown, those being very natural human feelings, we resolved to live Dad’s wishes to the full. Which meant we welcomed and embraced, within compassion’s grace, all the fear, trepidation, angst, and sorrow that flows naturally from the dying of a loved one.

Which made the entire experience, for us all I think, but for me personally, very beautiful. We made the choice, a full year+ before his death, to provide him the assurance we would grant his final wishes—that he die at home among family, and pain-free.

Because grief works its wonders and unique gifts individually for each person, it’s hard to truly know if the way we lived Dad’s dying and death eased our grief to any degree. I think it did, at least for me. There was no mystery to Dad’s death, even all the way through to his burial. There was mystery with mom’s. For example…

…when mom died in the late afternoon on Tuesday March 8, 2016, those of us present in the room stayed for just a short while before we all got up, gathered the few personal belongings she had or that we brought into the room, and left. Left her body behind. In doing so, we actively invited mystery into the experiential space. We didn’t care for her body, someone else did. We didn’t clothe her in “her clothing;” for all we know, if she were clothed, it was likely with one of those hospital gowns, the ones with the opening in the back and that you tie together to offer some bit of modesty; but in her state she could no longer feel modesty or be worried about it, so they likely didn’t bother to tie it—if she were wearing a gown that is. We didn’t bathe her one last time anointing her body with lavender and oils—no one did. We didn’t accompany her body to the crematorium retorts—someone else did. We trusted her body to unknown strangers.

With Dad, we did it all. Which included giving him his pain and anti-anxiety meds as he slipped into his final deep sleep; bathing him using a beautiful and hand-crafted “Lavender Kit” from the folks in our Hospice, and dressing him in one of his favorite yellow polos with “comfy” sweatpants. We placed flowers and rose petals on his body. We met and talked with the nice, respectful young man who came to our home to transport Dad’s body to the funeral home. We lifted Dad’s body onto the gurney. We escorted him out of the house for the final time. We lifted him into the vehicle. We held his hands and kissed him. We were there, as we promised him, when his body was positioned in the retort where we held his hands and kissed him one last time. And then we gently joined his urn with mom’s in the same vault in the cemetery.

Two VERY different ways of dying and death. As I’ve learned, the difference between the two lay in the knowledge of how to do it differently and then the will to actually follow through and do it differently. Although it was novel (to us, never to our ancestors) and filled with sorrow, the way we did Dad’s death was not the hardest thing we’ve ever done. In fact, it was 100% completely natural. And although sorrow was present, so was beauty—and calm and peace. These are not mutually exclusive. In fact, true beauty folds in and encompasses all the sorrows of life. Those are what add the vivid color, hue, and texture of deep and poignant beauty.

And, before you know it, YOU will be faced with this exact same, yet-to-be written narrative; of your own or someone you love. You’ll have choices; you will be faced with having to make hard choices—or not. The difference is a matter of life and death and vulnerability and courage and wisdom and…love.

Ars Vivendi as Alchemy:

The art of a graceful death is actually all about living an artful and graceful life. When we remember that upon our birth, we were also given our death sentence, and if we practice our life well, with our death as our constant yet silent companion, then every moment of our life, when approached with reverence, can be, for our offspring and for others who bear witness, an embodied “master class” of how to die wise and well. “The art of dying IS the art of living.” THAT is how we Elder others: by living our lives fully, deeply, authentically, and with grace and love. In other words, artfully. And wisely.

It IS a choice. And we have to know and remember constantly we CAN choose this mindful and skillful way to live. The other three “choices” available to us, those of avoidance, ignorance, or forgetfulness serve only to perpetuate the fear and mystery surrounding death in our culture. Avoiding, ignoring, and forgetting do not serve us; those aren’t the ways of wise Eldering, what I call “Sage-ing.”. Most of us will not outlive our sons, daughters, grandkids, or anyone else born after us. So all those eyes will be on us when it is our body’s turn to take its last breath. They’ll be watching. And they’ll be learning.

Avoidance, ignorance, and forgetting are not components of an Alchemy of a Life Journey. Avoiding, ignoring, and forgetting do not serve to create beauty; they serve to create only suffering.

If you have resolved to try to “not avoid,” “not ignore,” and “not forget” that your death will come and you can choose to do it (die) differently and well and wise, for the benefit of others, then next may come a natural question if this is new territory for you:

“Just how do you live so that you have an artful, skillful, wise death?”

Yeah, good question that. Right?

I cannot answer that for you. I can only share, and live, how I’m doing it. This is why I’ve chosen to write; why I’ve titled this blog the way I have; why I’m making the choices I am making now on how to spend/invest my time and serve; why I’m living the life I’m living in the way I’m living it. I’m NOT saying my way, my example, is THE way. Hell no! I’m just as much an explorer and wonderer and fellow traveler as you and the next person are. One difference might be that every day I remind myself that I’m going to die, that my body will become compost for new life at some unknown point in the not-all-that-distant future (relatively speaking), and that my Soul will “live” on. And with every new day, upon waking, and realizing I have awakened, then to respond in really the only appropriate way: with gratefulness.

The rest is up to you. It’s always up to you. No, I don’t know YOUR answer: how YOU will live so that you die an artful and wise, beautiful death. But there is one thing I do know:

Your answer?

It’s there, within you. Within your True Nature.

Just…

…carpe diem.

“Make your life extraordinary.”

Always and Ubuntu,

~kert

🙏🏼

PS: Now THAT’s art!