December: The Good Goodbye
Often when you think you’re at the end of something,
you’re at the beginning of something else.
—Fred Rogers
I have been taking slow strolls in my neighborhood lately, the brown and brittle leaves twirling down to the ground in the crisp autumn air. Groups of Canada Geese sail by overhead, escaping to warmer places. And I have been thinking a lot about the topic of this final blog post: death.
Since this is the final writing I will be sharing with you, I must come to terms with the ending, or “death,” of this project. When I set out on this endeavor, I had always intended it to be time limited—something with a beginning, a middle, and an end. And as I wrote in the introduction, I opened this blog through the portal of grief, so it seemed only fitting to close it in much the same way.
Death is a topic that comes up in therapy quite often. Those whose lives have, mercifully, not been touched by much death are almost always afraid of it. While others, who either faced death very early in life or are living through a traumatic loss in present day, are often less afraid of it and struggle instead with anger, disbelief, or meaninglessness.
In his book The Untethered Soul, Michael Singer challenges us to think of death as a friend that provides the conditions for savoring every moment of our lives. “The wise person realizes that death is constantly giving them something,” he says. “Death is giving meaning to your life.”
I appreciate this perspective on death and have been lucky to savor final moments with friends and family members as they have prepared to pass. I put this philosophy into practice most recently last year, when we decided to put our beloved 12-year-old dog, Norman, to sleep at home.
We had given him a good life, and we wanted to give him a good death.
On the day of his death, Norman was sleeping on his bed in the back bedroom of our house. The doctor was scheduled to arrive sometime between 2 and 4 pm. I was seated on the floor next to him while I awaited her arrival.
He was sound asleep when suddenly, he awoke and alerted, sniffing the air. He struggled resolutely to his feet and walked out into the living room. I followed after him and saw through the front window that the doctor was just at that moment pulling into the driveway. How had he known she was driving up the street toward our house a few minutes prior? Norman had sensed the doctor’s imminent arrival in a way that defies logic.
For his entire life, including the days and weeks before his death, Norman lost all decorum when guests arrived at our house. In typical Boston Terrier fashion, he would erupt into barking and howling. But today, he just stood looking at the door as I let the doctor in. When she entered, he stood quietly looking at her as if she were an old familiar friend, rather than someone he’d never met. He embodied an intuitive and peaceful presence I’d never seen in him before.
I believe Norman was ready to die and knew it was time. He remained completely calm and, when the moment finally came, he passed peacefully in my arms.
We had the privilege of having time with him before his death, and every moment became sacred. By utilizing the Mindful Pause, I was able to savor every last, sacred moment with him and create a vivid imprint of him in my mind: the old, calloused pads of his paws, his graying face, the unique black-and-white patterns of his markings. Now, more than a year after his body has ceased to exist, I can close my eyes and bring him to mind. These pictures are so clear they act as portals, or gateways, that allow me to connect with him whenever I like.
Parting with him in the physical dimension was an immensely painful and grief-filled process. But I am forever connected to him in spirit, through the power of the mind and the heart. I hated saying goodbye to him but found some solace in the fact that it was a good goodbye.
For so many of us, goodbyes have been heartbreaking endeavors. But I believe a goodbye can be heartening, as well. So in the spirit of offering a good goodbye, I want to thank you for reading and to wish you a fond farewell.
I hope the ideas and stories contained here have helped to light your path in some small way, to care for yourself and others. If so, please pass along the link to this blog or point people toward the original sources I’ve cited throughout.
I’d like to leave you with an excerpt from Irish poet John O’Donohue’s For the Dying:
May there be some beautiful surprise
waiting for you inside death,
something you never knew or felt,
which, with one simple touch,
absolves you of all loneliness and loss,
as you quicken within the embrace
for which your soul was eternally made.
May your heart be speechless
at the sight of the truth
of all your belief had hoped,
your heart breathless
in the light and lightness
where each and every thing
is at last its true self
within that serene belonging
that dwells beside us
on the other side
of what we see.
As we prepare to enter the darkest time of the year, let us remember the light of our consciousness within, always with us, always ready to illuminate the world around us. May our lights continue to shine, ever brighter.
