This past Friday evening, I went to a "Dharma Talk: Discover What Death Teaches About Living Fully" by Frank Ostaseski, organized by Insight San Diego. Though I have been volunteering with Elizabeth Hospice for almost two years now, I did not know much about Mr. Ostaseski or his work in the Bay Area. The subject of death was what attracted me to this event.
My expectations were different, so I was not very impressed by the talk. I thought there will be some Dharma insights, it turned out to be a book sale pitch for The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully. My bad, I should have researched before I went. I sat in front on the cushions, expecting an enlightening discourse, and all I saw was a lot of black and white pictures of deceased hospice patients, and a very well practiced presentation on why we should buy the book. But I listened intently to every word that was spoken. Two things struck me as good, and I will share them with you here along with my own hospice/ end-of-life thoughts.
I think of death often, as a reflection of everything that is arising and passing away. For the common man, it might seem that I have a morbid obsession with death and some have said that to me, but I don't think so. I find that the modern man is trying to run away from it as much as he can, but like a shadow, it is always there, attached to its being. Some mouth the words - "Yes, I know it is there, I accept it." But I find they really don't deeply accept it. Have you ever seen little kids, who when they don't want to hear something, put hands on their ears and loudly go "La La La La La....", in an attempt to drown and negate the other voices around. I find most people who say they "accept death" doing just that. The rest are very fearful, and therefore do not want to imagine such a situation ever, they try to drown the voice by indulging excessively in activities and pleasures. I don't know why? I do not understand this behavior at all. I have been thinking of death from the age of ten or so, when for the first time I saw my maternal grandmother lying on the floor in a filthy hospital in the outskirts of Kolkata, her tummy swollen with liquid, and all my aunts and uncles, including my mum and dad, looking very solemn and worried. They tried to shield me from the view of impending death, but it was really okay. It did not scare me at all. In fact, I found it fascinating. That a human will pass away like that, exit without any cognition of the world after they leave, they will not know the people they left behind anymore. It was amazing to me. I had probably seen other dead things before, like mouse, or birds, and fish, and meat from goats and chicken, but they did not make me think this way.
Fast forward many years and many deaths of friends and family members, today I find myself visiting the patients at their end of life. I make house calls to chat with hospice patients, sometimes I watch TV with them, or play games, or talk about their history, just plain and simple chit chat. I feel they find it very refreshing that I do not see them as dead people. One patient said to me - "You know, the doctors and nurses look at me as a machine and keep tweaking this and that, and my family look at me with sorrow and confusion. They don't know when I am going to die, so they cannot prepare for it. Sometimes I feel they want it over with so that they can go to the next thing that is bothering them. They really don't look at me, they look at death. You are different! You don't seem to see death, it is so cool!" I laughed and we high-fived. I see death, I see it in every passing moment, in my body, in my sensations, as they change. Maybe because I see it so much, he felt I don't see it, or resonated with the acceptance I have.
I also sit in vigil as death is imminent. I did that for a 99-year old lady few months back. As I sat there beside her in the nursing home, I breathed with her in sync. She was attached to several monitors and heavily sedated, with no cognition. But for six long hours I sat by her side. At times I wondered how her life has been, born in the early 1900s, having been through so many intense political and economic cycles, including the recent dramatic change brought about by hand-held electronics and the internet. I wondered how her personal life might have been. Today she lay, a mere breathing skeleton with sunken eyes and few strands of hair, but there must have been a time when she was desired by many a youth, some courted her, wrote poems on her dazzling beauty and looks. Then she led on to have a long family life with husband, kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, was witness to so many marriages, so many births and deaths, so many moments of sheer joy and also depressing disappointments. The world serves us so many rounds on the rollercoaster of exhilaration and let downs. And here I was, sitting there by her, a total stranger, breathing her last breaths with her, and about to share one of her most intimate moments on this planet. I felt deeply honored by this gift.
What happens when we die? There have been many intellectual books written on this subject including Frank's. I have stopped reading them, because they seem to say the same thing, and after you have read a few, they begin to sound boring. At the beginning of the talk, Frank said something very well about three steps. While I have often thought it, I never articulated it the way he did. I am reiterating his theme, with my added commentary.
Death is a three step process, or takes three things to happen. First, the medical angle has to be worked out. It is making sure that the machines are working properly, that the morphine, if needed, is being applied appropriately, etc. All that is structural, and essential for physical comfort. I remember "project-managing" this aspect during my mother's death in 2012. It takes quite an effort to get it right, and the patient's condition is changing so rapidly that constant vigilance is required. Some people, including doctors and nurses and attending family members, however, obsess about this aspect so much that they don't consider the other two. Which is a shame. Some wise family members understand this, and some patients themselves too, so they add on the second aspect - that is spiritual support. People tend to play religious music or chants in the flavor of the patient's inclination, and at times they have chaplains or priests attending. Whatever the belief or fear that is present leading to death, it is assumed that the presence of a person of the cloth may assuage that fear a bit and help the person to be brave. But the last step one has to take all alone, they have to walk through that door all alone by themselves. And that last bit is unknown, shrouded in mystery. Whether one believes in rebirth, or in heaven and hell, or the presence of a God or not, or whatever, it really does not matter. They are still beliefs, held on in this worldly mind, the frontier to be crossed is still unknown and un-experienced. One can be drugged up for this moment, and to an observer it may seem that this person died in their sleep as their body shut down. But you know what, when the mind disengages from the body, all the senses fall off one by one, there is no pain anymore, the moment is inexplicable. If there is fear in that moment, it is really hard for the patient, for the feeling of loneliness is intense and irreversible and they know it.
It is this passing away that we can train for in meditation, to be equanimous and at ease with the last profound change of this life. The practice is to train the mind so well, while living and going through the senseless vicissitudes of daily life, that at this moment of radical change, we are at peace. It is a very fruitful training - to watch everything material and emotional arise and pass away every moment, to watch the frenzy of thoughts and opinions as they form and grow and then disintegrate, to be present there as a mere observer totally disengaged from the happenings, just enjoying the show as it unfolds. If one can practice this when living, and become an expert at this, then during the dying process, there will be no fear. The disengagement and the release will happen with ease.
Last, but not the least, below is a poem that Frank narrated. It is written by one of his patients. He said that in the Zen tradition, they write death poems. This one is from Sono, who was a feisty woman in her time, full of zest and panache. I found it very inspiring. It lays out the essence of living more than that of death. I thank her for this lovely poem, and trust she is happy in her next life. I am grateful to Frank as well, for having shared this with me.
Sono's Death Poem
Don't just stand there with your hair turning gray,
soon enough the seas will sink your little island.
So while there is still the illusion of time,
set out for another shore.
No sense packing a bag.
You won't be able to lift it into your boat.
Give away all you collections.
Take only new seeds and an old stick.
Send out some prayers on the wind before you sail.
Don't be afraid.
Someone knows you're coming.
An extra fish has been salted.
My expectations were different, so I was not very impressed by the talk. I thought there will be some Dharma insights, it turned out to be a book sale pitch for The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully. My bad, I should have researched before I went. I sat in front on the cushions, expecting an enlightening discourse, and all I saw was a lot of black and white pictures of deceased hospice patients, and a very well practiced presentation on why we should buy the book. But I listened intently to every word that was spoken. Two things struck me as good, and I will share them with you here along with my own hospice/ end-of-life thoughts.
 |
| "Someone knows You're coming. An extra fish has been salted." |
Fast forward many years and many deaths of friends and family members, today I find myself visiting the patients at their end of life. I make house calls to chat with hospice patients, sometimes I watch TV with them, or play games, or talk about their history, just plain and simple chit chat. I feel they find it very refreshing that I do not see them as dead people. One patient said to me - "You know, the doctors and nurses look at me as a machine and keep tweaking this and that, and my family look at me with sorrow and confusion. They don't know when I am going to die, so they cannot prepare for it. Sometimes I feel they want it over with so that they can go to the next thing that is bothering them. They really don't look at me, they look at death. You are different! You don't seem to see death, it is so cool!" I laughed and we high-fived. I see death, I see it in every passing moment, in my body, in my sensations, as they change. Maybe because I see it so much, he felt I don't see it, or resonated with the acceptance I have.
I also sit in vigil as death is imminent. I did that for a 99-year old lady few months back. As I sat there beside her in the nursing home, I breathed with her in sync. She was attached to several monitors and heavily sedated, with no cognition. But for six long hours I sat by her side. At times I wondered how her life has been, born in the early 1900s, having been through so many intense political and economic cycles, including the recent dramatic change brought about by hand-held electronics and the internet. I wondered how her personal life might have been. Today she lay, a mere breathing skeleton with sunken eyes and few strands of hair, but there must have been a time when she was desired by many a youth, some courted her, wrote poems on her dazzling beauty and looks. Then she led on to have a long family life with husband, kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, was witness to so many marriages, so many births and deaths, so many moments of sheer joy and also depressing disappointments. The world serves us so many rounds on the rollercoaster of exhilaration and let downs. And here I was, sitting there by her, a total stranger, breathing her last breaths with her, and about to share one of her most intimate moments on this planet. I felt deeply honored by this gift.
What happens when we die? There have been many intellectual books written on this subject including Frank's. I have stopped reading them, because they seem to say the same thing, and after you have read a few, they begin to sound boring. At the beginning of the talk, Frank said something very well about three steps. While I have often thought it, I never articulated it the way he did. I am reiterating his theme, with my added commentary.
Death is a three step process, or takes three things to happen. First, the medical angle has to be worked out. It is making sure that the machines are working properly, that the morphine, if needed, is being applied appropriately, etc. All that is structural, and essential for physical comfort. I remember "project-managing" this aspect during my mother's death in 2012. It takes quite an effort to get it right, and the patient's condition is changing so rapidly that constant vigilance is required. Some people, including doctors and nurses and attending family members, however, obsess about this aspect so much that they don't consider the other two. Which is a shame. Some wise family members understand this, and some patients themselves too, so they add on the second aspect - that is spiritual support. People tend to play religious music or chants in the flavor of the patient's inclination, and at times they have chaplains or priests attending. Whatever the belief or fear that is present leading to death, it is assumed that the presence of a person of the cloth may assuage that fear a bit and help the person to be brave. But the last step one has to take all alone, they have to walk through that door all alone by themselves. And that last bit is unknown, shrouded in mystery. Whether one believes in rebirth, or in heaven and hell, or the presence of a God or not, or whatever, it really does not matter. They are still beliefs, held on in this worldly mind, the frontier to be crossed is still unknown and un-experienced. One can be drugged up for this moment, and to an observer it may seem that this person died in their sleep as their body shut down. But you know what, when the mind disengages from the body, all the senses fall off one by one, there is no pain anymore, the moment is inexplicable. If there is fear in that moment, it is really hard for the patient, for the feeling of loneliness is intense and irreversible and they know it.
It is this passing away that we can train for in meditation, to be equanimous and at ease with the last profound change of this life. The practice is to train the mind so well, while living and going through the senseless vicissitudes of daily life, that at this moment of radical change, we are at peace. It is a very fruitful training - to watch everything material and emotional arise and pass away every moment, to watch the frenzy of thoughts and opinions as they form and grow and then disintegrate, to be present there as a mere observer totally disengaged from the happenings, just enjoying the show as it unfolds. If one can practice this when living, and become an expert at this, then during the dying process, there will be no fear. The disengagement and the release will happen with ease.
Last, but not the least, below is a poem that Frank narrated. It is written by one of his patients. He said that in the Zen tradition, they write death poems. This one is from Sono, who was a feisty woman in her time, full of zest and panache. I found it very inspiring. It lays out the essence of living more than that of death. I thank her for this lovely poem, and trust she is happy in her next life. I am grateful to Frank as well, for having shared this with me.
Sono's Death Poem
Don't just stand there with your hair turning gray,
soon enough the seas will sink your little island.
So while there is still the illusion of time,
set out for another shore.
No sense packing a bag.
You won't be able to lift it into your boat.
Give away all you collections.
Take only new seeds and an old stick.
Send out some prayers on the wind before you sail.
Don't be afraid.
Someone knows you're coming.
An extra fish has been salted.
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