I have been searching and thinking about this :
Here are some thoughts on dying, from a volunteer chaplain at a hospice, Kathy Stewart
(Written for use on Spirithome.com.)
Yawning, I drove toward the nursing home, already depleted as I responded to a request to sit with a hospice patient who had been agitated and fearful since the previous night. Her daughter who herself was ill had been sent home to get some rest; the mother was afraid to be alone. I wasn't altogether happy about this; I had just returned after being gone all day, a day when nothing had gone particularly right. Yet it seemed I should go. When I prayed I felt no clear direction, only that I would be given what I needed. When I arrived I found a tiny woman sleeping peacefully beneath a picture window; outside gray clouds threatened rain. Though the nurses said they hadn't thought she'd make it through the previous night, she didn't look very near death to me. Not that I'm an expert by any means. I spent most of my hospice volunteer training with a wrenched back due entirely to fear: fear of death, fear of illness, fear of hospitals and particularly nursing homes, fear of anything having to do with medicine. Since that time I have learned that working with the dying is just about people. Sometimes I remember with a start that this amazing vibrant person before me may well be dead sometime soon: next week, next month, next year, and that makes our time together feel precious and poignant.
Nurses and caregivers stopped by to check on the patient. One told me she wheeled her around outside in the middle of the night for hours because she was afraid of the cramped room. I heard that she loved to garden and spent most of her time outdoors. I settled into a chair and took out my book; it was going to be a long night. I read a paragraph, then set it down. I'm not here to read; there's something more. I had just been to a workshop on working with coma patients. Though she was asleep, I told her that I was going to touch her wrist. As I lightly touched her, I began to match my breathing to hers; in, out, fast and shallow, the ventilator keeping time. Anxiety? Fear? I wondered.
When she became restless I called the nurses to move her to make her more comfortable; they had told me it would ease her pain. I moved my chair to the other side of the bed, positioning it between her and the window. She was frowning now, obviously in distress. She opened her eyes and looked right at me for the first time. "Help me", she pleaded. My heart went out to her as if she were a suffering child. Standing, I lay my hands on her, gently as I knew she suffered from arthritis, and I prayed. Out loud, at first and then, because it felt more natural, in silence. Jesus, I said, come for your child. Heal her, ease her suffering. She was in pain and with a start I realized that her pain was beyond physical; it was spiritual. With certainty I knew that my prayer had been heard and I thanked God with the confidence Jesus had praying outside Lazarus' tomb. After a time I removed my hands and sat back in my chair. She seemed at peace, perhaps she'd drifted back to sleep. Her breathing had slowed drastically, she was no longer restless. I literally felt as if I were sitting in the portal between heaven and earth. A deep abiding joy enveloped me and I thanked God for the privilege of being his servant; this is all that matters, all I want. I wasn't alone; all around me, just beyond the veil, angels waited. The ventilator continued to hum as her breathing became less regular, less frequent.
Silently I prayed the Lord's Prayer, realizing for the first time the great spiritual power this prayer has, not only in our realm but in all realms of consciousness. It was as if this prayer was bridging every layer of reality between heaven and earth, God and man, until all was one. Forgive us our debts, I prayed, as she drew a last breath. Joy, I felt, great rejoicing, as her spirit lifted. Gratitude, love and peace. . .
An hour later, her son-in-law told me that since they got the call from the nursing home that their mother had died, a vivid rainbow swept the horizon, staying just ahead of them as they drove to town.
I have been changed by this encounter, this journey I was asked to take to accompany God's beloved child to the brink of eternity. It is the closest I have been to death and I know it is nothing to fear. It seems to me that dying can be hard work, a time when we are asked to trust in a very great way. To trust that when we let go, someone will be there to catch us.
I have learned something from every dying person I've had the privilege to accompany on their journey, whether it is for minutes, hours or months. I have learned how to live; I have learned how to die. If I live well, if I live a life of love, if I truly live, embracing each moment, each person who comes before me as the precious gift they are, then I will die well. If I love, I will not die alone. Every gracious gesture, every act of generosity, is repaid a hundredfold. There is something special and sacred about the spirit of a dying person; I've heard it said that as the body is cast off, the spirit grows and I believe I've seen the truth of this with my own eyes. If I love God and love my neighbor as I love myself, there is nothing in this world or the next to be afraid of. Love is the key; love is what matters. Love is what we take with us and love is what awaits us when we have at long last arrived.
