Dates of death sounds odd, but death is odd. For me, it’s normal albeit not welcome. A hospice nurse, Barbara Karnes, wrote the best guide to losing your loved ones entitled “Gone From My Sight” and the “Final Act of Living.” What I liked about both of her efforts is the mega dose of reality in one simple concept: “Just as there is a labor of birth, there is a labor of dying.” I can’t thank the author enough for that perfect summation of the normalcy of death. December 20th arrived and I was prepared to usher Mummy into the next life. It was still painful, but it was my job. When I was born, she did a super job of getting me out of her womb, Leslie’s little ocean, and into my new vast world of air. She continued to sacrifice, inspire and grow while guiding me through her lifetime.
So there we were, Mom and I, December 20th getting through those last hours and minutes and seconds of her life, together. We never liked saying goodbye; it was always uncomfortably heartbreaking. For whatever reason, both of us were acutely aware that one day we would be without the other. Tim, my husband, and I experienced the same urgency in our satisfying 17 year union. We knew that it would end in death and the best case scenario is that day would creep up on you. We had time to say goodbye to each other as did me and Mom. And they passed in their own beds at home; what we should all strive for.
August 10th was Timmy’s death date, date of expiration, last day in our world as living people know it. The next day, two insane rainbows lined up above our rancher from bedroom to back garden and several trees of lightning reached down cracking over our bedroom, where he gently took his last breath. His head was in my hands; it was 430am. Somehow you just know when your loved one will go. I slept in our king next to his hospital bed in our master. I would hold his hand while I slept for fear of missing that moment, where I might be instrumental in aiding his comfort during passing. Miraculously, you do wake up at the right time to be present and help that labor of dying be a spiritual, combined process between you and your person.
Same with Mom, 12:15am was her time of passing and the first night I slept in my own bed. I had been sleeping with Mom all week. But that night, I slept with Tim. He heard something different and woke me up. We spent the next 30 minutes at Mom’s side. Her favorite hospice nurse came over. Blackee, Mom’s favorite little kitty, crawled up the hospice guy’s leg at the moment of Mom’s passing. She stared at Mom for a few moments as if to confirm she was leaving. The nurse called time of death after Mummy took that final breath. It was good for me. The hospice nurse was ecstatic he was the one present for Elizabeth Ann Belton’s labor of dying.
I was not there March 20th for Dad’s passing. He was surrounded by other family and nurses. He saw it coming and had time to comment on what he would see and feel. The rain from outside like the autumn leaves falling would come inside. He could touch the drops with his hands and catch the leaves as they fell. On occasion a woman in black would appear. Early 1900’s garb maybe, heavy material, but she had nothing to say when Dad would call out asking how he might help her. When Myles, son #1 and I would arrive, Dad, Charles Artaud Byrne, would ask how we liked the cabin. He often thought he was on a train car. We were visiting him on his journey. He wasn’t confused; he was moving forward with awe and honesty. His labor of dying was also perfectly good, a job very well done by both professionals and family alike. I wonder what mine will be like. Thank you Barbara Karnes.
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This post was previously published on Change Becomes You.
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Photo credit: Leslie Byrne
The post August 10th, Dec 20th, March 20th appeared first on The Good Men Project.
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