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MOMENT OF MINDFULNESS: THIS BLOG CONTAINS SOME SENSITIVE DEATH-RELATED IMAGERY. IF YOU CHOOSE TO READ ON, PLEASE BE AWARE OF YOUR OWN VULNERABILITIES, PERSONAL EXPERIENCES WITH DEATH, AND YOUR CURRENT STAGE OF GRIEF. FEEL FREE TO SHARE YOUR OWN REFLECTIONS IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.

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I was 17 when my cousin died from cancer. At 31, he was the picture of vitality—fit and tan, with flowing hair that was universally described as “epic.” He was a free spirit, creative and passionate, and seemed to find joy in everything he did. He was building his life on the West Coast, so back home in Chicago, we were somewhat removed from his process as it was unfolding.

I remember he came home for a “visit” once, when his California chemo treatments were on-hold due to an adverse reaction. He was bald, and so swollen from steroids, I wouldn’t have recognized him but for his quirky and tireless sense of humor: he danced off the plane singing songs from Spinal Tap in funny voices, captivating everyone with his charm and sparkle. As bad as he looked, he didn’t have the feel of a sick person, and it made me think that maybe having cancer, the way the adults had been talking about it—in hushed tones and uncomfortable generalities—wasn’t as horrible as everyone had made it seem. He was showing us, and the world, that even with this disease in his body, he had a healthy perspective, and that the most important parts of him were totally okay! In fact, better than okay. I mean, he was always a character, silly and playful in a way that people notice, but at the airport that day, it was like he knew something we didn’t, and so, even though he was the patient, he was taking care of us.

I was in-awe of his energy; he seemed so enlightened, like the laughing Buddha, as he reluctantly, but with good humor, accepted the wheelchair with his name on it. Maybe it was the Spinal Tap-effect, but his mortality made him appear like a rock-star to me, and I was happy to be his luggage-carrying groupie, anything to be close to whatever was generating such magnetism. I just wanted to connect to whatever this feeling was that he seemed to be radiating: strength, wisdom, and confidence, he seemed so grounded. And as everyone was hovering around him, tending to his needs (or their need to tend to him) I felt oddly jealous, like if I could get a handle on what he had figured out, I might be liberated from the teenage angst causing my own deepest suffering and dis-ease.

On our way to the car, we got caught in a warm, summer rain shower, and as they scrambled to keep him covered and dry, my ignorance and aforementioned teen angst came out to play. Following his model for using humor to diffuse the cancer-energy all around him, I made a joke of my own: “People, relax…it not like cancer makes you allergic to water! Come on, G… we’re singin’ in the rain…” But nobody was singing with me. In fact, in their stress, they picked up the pace, as if to distance him from my awkwardness. So I offered again, perhaps more aggressively than intended, “What’s the matter??? Is he m-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l-l-t-i-n-g???” (I said it in the wicked witch of the west voice, because that was something he would do!)

I could not have been more mortified by the public scolding that followed my performance: “HE COULD DIE if he catches cold, Meagan… can’t believe how insensitive…totally inappropriate…” The discomfort hung in the sticky humid air, and although he winked at me, as if to assuage my guilt, he didn’t even have the strength to stand, let alone stand up for me, and so was my first painful lesson about the family-dynamics of dying.

I didn’t see him again for over a year, until he came home for his final transition. He was skeletal-skinny, and his hair had started to grow back, dark and course making him, once again, unrecognizable as the man he was in life—although it was the overwhelming consensus that right at the end, he looked like Jesus. All of the hospice arrangements had been made for him by the family, and in a symbiotic reflection of life coming full circle, his hospital bed was set up in his childhood bedroom.

His mother was protective and almost territorial at his bedside. For days she directed the nurses and visiting staff about his needs, and managed every detail like a stage director during dress rehearsal—from the music and candles for exactly the right ambiance, to the number of people allowed in the room at once, where they should stand, and the volume of their voices. She managed meds and chapstick application, and determined when and how he needed to be adjusted in the bed to keep him comfortable, because mother knows best. She needed to be involved, engaged, and in control, in a show of therapeutic ambition that was perhaps more about her own grief than honoring his process. That being said:

Any parent who provides care to their dying child (of any age) gets a free pass for just about anything they need to do to get through it—it is a trauma of unnatural proportions.

To this day, she maintains that she was there by his side in his final moments, and while there is no purpose in arguing, and no satisfaction in being “right”, those who were in the room know that it really couldn’t have happened any other way. Her pain was too great and her spirit too fragile, and I think he knew it. Although it was more subtle at this juncture, once again, HE took care of HER! So as long as she held him, he would would stay, and let her be the mom for a little while longer. Although she was saying the words “it’s okay to let go” he wouldn’t. She birthed him into the world—that was her job, and she did it with love. But now, she could not be a party to the process that would deliver him through this transition.

So after a particularly painful emotional outburst about the volume of our laughter being …INAPPROPRIATE!…a compassionate nurse, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, invited her take a break and to get a bite to eat. “He’s stable now. We’ve just given him meds, and there is a lot of love in this room so he isn’t alone.” Within moments of her exit, there was a crackling and rattling in his chest, and the time between breaths suddenly felt endless. It was hypnotic, everybody intuitively breathing together in solidarity, and holding our breath in anticipation of the inevitable outcome. We all knew why we were there, yet it all felt surreal and nobody could actually believe it was happening.

I can’t be sure how long it all took, as death transcends time and defies all the rules of the physical world, but in that room, with a few key family members bearing witness, not only could I feel the love that nurse was talking about, but I could swear for a moment, just after he was gone, I saw it:

Vibrantly colorful, perfectly geometric Fibonacci spirals (I didn’t have the language for it at the time) spinning slowly out of a pyramid that cast a warm orange glow that was distinctly not from the candles or the sunset; it had a Presence and a very particular “feel” that can’t really be described as a “personality” if it’s not connected to a person or being, can it? It was patient and intentional, turning playful pirouettes around the room, appearing to engage each one of us before floating off into the tree in the backyard. And then, just like watching the sun set over the course of an hour, as the last sliver of light disappears into the darkness, G was gone. The space felt cold and empty. There were uncomfortable tears—the numb helplessness of grief, like everyone had grown roots in place, and couldn’t move or look away. None of us would ever be the the same after this, and yet, they seemed stuck in place, just feeling the moment.

I was positively giddy, like I could’ve danced right out of my skin. I remember looking around the room for cues about what was “appropriate” now, since the whole world had changed. I asked my dad if he saw it, and he smiled weakly, encouraging me to describe it, but in the moment, words didn’t make sense and the mind couldn’t put it into context—trying just sent my own body into an uncontrollable twitching fit, like electrical impulses remapping my entire system to make space for this new information and perspective. There was no going back…

Meanwhile, I couldn’t take my eyes off the body, now a mere shell that, without the warmth and animation of life, appeared plastic and unnatural. It was like an alien vessel had crash-landed and I wanted to touch and explore it to make the whole thing seem more real. But I didn't. It wasn’t my place.

I thought I should cry, and even tried, but only laughter came out. Not out of discomfort, and certainly not to be disrespectful. It was like seeing something so beautiful that you can’t help but cry… but with so many tears of grief and pain already flowing, what was needed to bring balance, was what he had been holding the space for from the beginning: whimsical, cathartic, transformational laughter that he embodied in life, and so perfectly orchestrated in his death, as if he wanted ME there to witness, embrace, and then carry on.

When his mom re-entered, she assumed the position of grieving mother, draping herself over his body, tracing the lines of his face with her fingers, and smoothing his hair, wailing that her baby was gone. As she closed his eyes and mouth, it struck me that this was something I had seen in movies—this means he’s really dead… But, true to the form he took on in life, whatever was left of my silly playful cousin in the body that remained, feeling less and less “human” as time passed, G came out to play one more time. The eyes…they wouldn’t stay closed! I wanted to laugh, and even choked back a giggle as she wrestled with his eyelids and mouth. “Damn it, G!!” she exclaimed. She didn’t want to see “him” like that, with no life in his eyes; and so she kept trying to gently adjust. But every time, slowly but surely, they would pop back open, until she broke the ice with laughter of her own, and it was okay to join in. And he took care of us.

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10 years later, when I started working at the cancer treatment center, I first heard the statement, “people die the way they live.” As profound as that statement is, I think I already knew it to be true. When I was 17, I had a teacher who was a rockstar and beloved by all. He was bright and brilliant and wise beyond his years, because he lived a full lifetime of humor, inspiration, and Love concentrated into 31 short years…

We are spiritual beings living a physical existence. Is it possible that some spirits are actually too big for a body to contain them?