Content warning: religion, suicide, profanity, cupcakes
The good news is I chose well in keeping all 27 of you as my remaining Facebook friends, because since I announced my plans for my life-ending fast, I’ve only gotten love and support in return. Not one of you sent me threats of eternal damnation, so that’s a definite win.
But earlier this week my rally of support was pierced by my hospice CNA--- or more specifically, by her brand of Catholicism. Once she learned of my plans to hasten my exit on my own terms, her usually warm and sunny demeanor morphed into a frozen lake of disapproval. Gone were her easy chatting, eye contact, and offer of my optional sponge bath, replaced only with her hard silence, set jaw, and after washing my hair, a curt exit. She didn’t even laugh at my jokes, though I’m pretty sure they were above average for a Monday afternoon.
I get it, we all have our different beliefs, but a punishing God simply isn’t big enough to preside over every situation. And sometimes Jesus’ most outspoken followers are the least capable of understanding his basic teachings. In either case I suspect whenever our rigid morality outweighs our human compassion, we’ve lost the thread.
This same Monday, six days before I was scheduled to start my fast, my industrious nurse friend Sarah found out I’m actually still eligible for Medical Aid In Dying (MAID). It’s the Colorado law passed by voters in 2016 which gives us “6-months or less” folks the option of a humane death instead of being forced to allow our diseases to ravage us slowly and painfully. The doctor who told me two years ago that I was ineligible because I couldn’t hold the cup of liquid medicine myself was simply wrong. Ah right, yet another reminder to-always get a second opinion, and push back when need be. .
So here’s what this means in plain terms: I now have the option of forgoing the fast, which would have likely involved a dreaded catheter, uncomfortable bed pans, a growing constellation of pressure sores, the unknowns of coma, the not-small side effects of painkillers, and the hunger, thirst, and potential (however small) for unanticipated suffering for however many weeks it takes for my organs to start collapsing. Instead, now, I could wake up on the day I’ve chosen to be my last, eat a nice breakfast, have a little visit and ritual with the friends/family I’ve invited to surround me, drink a strong med cocktail in pineapple juice, fall asleep within minutes, and slip into the spirit realm within thirty minutes to three hours.
But before you conclude this is a no brainer, please know I harbor generations of residual Christian guilt in every last snippet of my DNA, and am also a very good Libra. Doubt and martyrdom are my birthrights. “Wait... I’ve survived lots of suffering already, why settle for bronze when I could go for the gold? Should death be so easy? Isn’t this too abrupt? Will it shame my family? Isn’t it technically suicide, and wouldn’t it therefore cause people to judge me as weak, amoral, and ungrateful? Wait, AM I weak, amoral, and ungrateful? ” Such fun questions, and good examples of why psychotherapists the world over will always have work.
Here’s the counter questions Sarah asked me as I was contemplating all this, reprinted with her permission. “What makes suicide suicide and why do we judge it? Does suicide suck because it was secret and there was no conscious goodbye? Does suicide suck because loved ones are left behind with questions that can’t be answered and feelings of guilt and shame that they caused suffering? Does suicide suck because we are afraid of death? Does suicide suck because a moment or period of trial leads to a reactive decision with an irreversible consequence?”
Okay, these are even better questions. I suspect, in most cases, the answers are yes, yes, yes. So, what if we could take the taboo out of discussing suicidal thoughts, intentions, and urges? Let the question of morality sit this topic out for a minute. Isn’t speaking frankly about the forbidden thing the best antidote to shame and loneliness, both of which breed despair and impulsivity? Might allowing ourselves to be witnessed in our naked despair, exhaustion, or just plain doneness be an expression of strength?
Sarah continued. “This I know….You have a terminal diagnosis and continue to decline. You are consciously saying goodbye. You are choosing your time to leave mindfully and honestly. You are not running away from hardship or suffering, you are running toward what you know is next for you… and you are bringing people along in your process.”
You know those moments where someone reflects something kind, obvious and yet strangely novel back to you *about* you, or about life, and it opens a new wing of your mind and heart? That’s either a sign of good psychotherapy, or good friendship.
So yes, the plan has changed. I am now set to receive the medicine* by courier on October 13th, near the date my heart would have likely stopped from the fast, though when I drink it is entirely up to me. In any case. I’m seeing how my people and I can build ritual into this exit, so it feels just as alive, measured, and sacred as any other big life transition properly honored.
I think magic is the ultimate result of equal parts presence, reverence, intention, good relationships, and good lighting.
*Still searching for the proper name for the drink. Persephone’s Potion? Death Cocktail? Witches Brew? Libation of Transformation? Liberation Libaton? Peace Out, Bitches? So many possibilities. .
As for the question of how to do the seemingly impossible next thing, I’m betting, like literally everything else in life, its just one step at a time.
Pre memorial memorial with closest friends? Check.
Goodbye zoom calls with faraway family? In progress.
Canceling monthly subscriptions? Check.
Completing crucial amends? Check.
Passing along logistical info, updating the will, ordering a last minute gizmo for the cats? Check, check, check.
Believing my therapist when she tells me that it’s okay to show myself mercy, which by Its very nature isn't concerned with being “deserved” or not? Check.
On that day I choose in mid October when my people are gathered, I’ll be dressed in my favorite outfit. There will be flowers. Someone will bake apples so the house smells sweet. Someone will bribe cats into my lap with treats. John will fuss over me very pointedly, because he still can. I’ll implore everyone to try one last time to capture the first decent, maskless photo of me in years.
When we’ve all emotionally arrived and relaxed, and the time is right, we’ll prop me up in my hospital bed. We’ll light candles. We’ll call in my well ancestors and guides. We’ll read poetry. We’ll cry. We’ll share our prayers and intentions for each other. We’ll hold hands, and maybe for once it won’t be awkward.
At some point I’ll ask if everyone’s ready. I’ll ask myself if I’m ready. In my nervousness I’ll try to make a joke, and my people won’t laugh, but will smile with sparkly eyes, I’ll tell them each that I love them, again, and to remember to look for me, again. They will nod and squeeze me and murmur sweet things. We’ll enter further into an altered state. The air will grow thick with a potent presence. I’ll feel into the silence and wait for the invisible signal. Maybe my heart will pound, or maybe I’ll be euphoric and calm with one foot already in the next realm. And once it feels like I’m called, I’ll find just enough trust, and nod that I’m ready.
Glug glug glug, down the hatch. John will wipe my chin one last time. I’ll lay my head back and feel the rush from knowing I can’t take it back. There might be an opportunity to panic here, to question the decision which is now irreversible.. But I’ll remember to breathe because I’ll have instructed my people ahead of time to remind me, and cheer me, and beam broad lasers of love from their broken open hearts to my broken open heart.
I will fall asleep. In that timeless space, maybe I’ll remember how to surrender. Maybe I’ll make peace with the reality that Earth is no longer my responsibility or my burden, though I love her so. I’ll feel the conflicting forces of attachment for everyone I’m leaving, and hopefully---hopefully--- trust in the goodness of what’s next. And soon I’ll remember my true name, and chuckle at myself for ever having forgotten.
Meanwhile my people will whisper, pray, enjoy the silence. They will watch my breathing for changes. Eventually, someone will be the first to use the bathroom, or step outside to watch the leaves fall in fresh air. Someone will be the first to eat a baked apple, and in my fantasy they will enjoy the earthy goodness so much that they weep with a sudden overwhelming gratitude.
As I’ve settled further into this new plan over this week, I’ve grown increasingly relieved, even joyful. Some of you might remember I wrote in my memoir about the night, just a few days post-diagnosis, I had a visceral, full-body experience of falling freely through space. Many seconds later I realized that instead of clenching my body in terror, I could simply relax and let myself enjoy the fall. I never did hit any ground---instead I was suddenly released from the whole sensation. Now I understand that this experience foreshadowed my descent into paralysis, and now death. The truth is I was safe to relax all along. It’s all okay, and always has been.
So would you like to know what you can do for me? When you finally hear the news that I’m no longer embodied in this realm, I’d love it if you became outrageously, shamelessly joyful, even if you also weep.
I’m still hoping someone will eventually take a decent, unmasked picture of me that I’d want to share. If not, and barring some irresistible last minute inspiration, this will be my final post. I know now is the time and the season to get quiet and turn within, to rest after a season of so much activity. In either case I’ll remind myself. I’ve already said enough (though it feels like there’s always more to say, and I’ve already done enough (though it feels like there’s always more to do).
This is a post where I can’t interact with comments, so I’ll simply practice receiving in the coming days. Here’s a bunch of love hearts in advance, to be doled out in an equitable and satisfying manner for all involved.
More of you than you know have taught me, in whatever small or large ways, how to become a decent human being, and how to wear grace well. My gratitude is a deep and large sea.
Until we meet again, please forgive me for lying about cupcakes ~
During our weekly Zoom call my dear mother said she read my post about our broken patio umbrella, and offered to buy me a new one. I could’ve explained to her that the warranty process is important, because I had spent $6 on the policy for the $49 umbrella, so goshdarnit, the warranty people were obligated to fix this problem. Her argument was that her girl just wants to sit outside comfortably for the last few weeks of her life (so buy another gd umbrella already), while my argument was that now is still a fine time to operate on principle. Principles, mother! But instead of carefully explaining my rigid logic in the face of her kind offer, I merely winced, shook my head, and changed the subject, in a superb display of 40-yo teenager.
Apparently, even after all this, I’m still learning how to receive, too. Meanwhile, John became a different sort of mama bear when he finally got on the phone with the warranty people and roared about how difficult they were making this process. I was shamelessly grateful for the privilege of having a straight white dissatisfied male husband, because I knew if even he couldn't get the attention of the Supervisor, no soul on this Earth ever would, and I could finally surrender to the disappointment of having a $6 warranty worth absolutely nothing.
My takeaway from this week? There are such diverse manifestations of true love.
Speaking of receiving, other noteworthy recent experiences include letting one friend give me a head massage, letting another give me a foot massage, and letting another wipe my runny nose and hold me as I mini-wept. All they required from me in each case was saying yes, yes, okay, yes. I accept.
With only two weeks of food, water, and appointments left, it’s hitting me that I don’t have much time. I’m quickly approaching the point where I need to create an auto reply on my email and put my inner people pleaser to rest. “But what if people take my non response to their messages personally? What if they think it means I don't care about them? What if they--gasp--decide they don’t actually like me after all?” The opportunities for working with one’s childhood stuff never ever end.
In the past few years, my favorite method for dealing with my free-range social anxiety at any given time is to delete 10-20% of my Facebook friends. I typically choose those who I don't actually know or haven’t heard from in a while. Unfriend, unfriend, unfriend. It’s a poor strategy though because unless someone is unapologetically racist or a vitriolic anti masker (unearthed courtesy of 2020), I usually end up regretting it. Like all good addictions/compulsions, it’s a control strategy with diminishing returns. My last purge-trance included over 200 mostly innocent souls and felt cathartic at the time, but was ultimately guilt-inducing. Plus, I’m pretty sure I now only have like 27 friends left, which is kind of embarrassing. And therefore increases my social anxiety.
What’s even more regrettable is that roughly half of my remaining friends are psychotherapists, which means I’m about to receive a bunch of PMs expressing concern. We then come full circle to the question of how I respond to more messages than I can handle. So it’s official, the universe does have a sense of humor after all.
The Serenity Prayer invites us to accept the things we cannot change, find the courage to change the things we can, and express the wisdom to know the difference. Here’s some of the things I cannot change: the past. Acquiring a disease for which there is no viable treatment. The momentum of my karma until this moment. The fact that Marjorie Taylor Greene walks this Earth the same time as I, and made it to Congress. Other people’s thoughts, feelings, and actions, including whether they trust I value them even if I don’t always acknowledge their kind messages.
Here’s what I can change:
My responses to everything I cannot change. How much water I drink and slow breaths I take. Whether or not I choose to ask for help, or receive it when offered to me. How I redirect my mind when I want to catastrophize the state of the world, or my cat’s health, or running out of my favorite flavor of Coconut Bliss. Whether I feed my cynicism or feed my creativity. The conception of the God I pray to.
My gratitude list for today:
Portable fans on a hot day, and the electricity to run them. A 12-yo nephew who gives me hope for the future of humanity. My kind caregivers. My mother who taught me how to love houseplants and gift-giving, and my father who gave me good hand-eye coordination, a tender heart, and an ability to find religion in nature. Having clean water and sheets. The potential of fungi restoring this Earth someday. Monkeys who hug, and photographers who capture it.
*All individuals referenced in this post approve of this message.
Photo of monkey hug by rabe dirk wennigsen, pixabay
It’s Thursday afternoon, I told you all I’d write when I could, and I’m having a nice moment of clarity between my mind altering painkillers. So here’s what’s happening.
My caregiver Sharon is making deviled eggs, a food fit for the gods, which makes their name especially playful. It’s too hot to go outside so I’m sitting in front of the swamp cooler, combing through the twelve half-formed essays I’ve groaned over, wondering which one I could coax to life. Topics include, What to do when your planned life-ending fast will likely coincide with the first day of your period, when you reliably crave nothing except two burgers medium rare and a side of refrigerator? Who’s braver, those of us now choosing to leave the world of extreme weather events and Tucker Carlson, or those of you who stay? What do you do when you realize your abusive Buddhist teacher who was wrong about many things was right about ultimate reality being perfect and trustworthy? (My answer: relax.) And so on. Emily Dickinson told us to tell the truth but tell it slant, but finding a satisfying slant is the real trick.
Here’s what I know: my emotions---both joyful and painful---seem to be growing more labile by the day. This means I’m learning to perfect the mini-weep, because the maxi-weep is tiring and messy, especially when you require another human's hands to tend to your streaming face. Also, when I wake up in the middle of the night with my first ever panic attack, studying pictures of monkeys hugging each other is a surprisingly grounding activity. And, morphine induced nausea is a real bitch, and best avoided. And it’s okay to still have regular moments of un-profundity, even boredom, even now. If I’m metaphorically giving birth to what’s next, there’s still no shame in admitting a sudden nostalgic craving for Taco Bell. And asking my willing friend (similarly disciplined for years to noble “clean” food rules) to pick it up for me is an acceptable thing to do.
Most importantly, it’s true that you can know the goodness and rightness of a big life decision, and still deeply mourn what it requires you to let go of.
A close friend of mine from post-college days in Flagstaff died early this summer. She was ill with metastatic breast cancer for years and things were getting worse quickly, so I knew it was coming, yet still was unprepared for the Facebook post announcing her heart had finally stopped in the ICU. My insides turned to hot mush, and I shook with bewilderment. My love for her became a flooding river, and I was reminded while weeping that heartbreak is a visceral, somatic experience.
For two weeks I was glued to all the pictures and stories her loved ones posted online. I searched for her, I ached for her. I wanted to find her alive somehow, somewhere. Then one day I found her, floating next to me in our innertubes on a slow-moving river in my heart. Please bear with me. It sounds sappy and poetic but that’s literally what happened. She was holding my hand as we gently spun in circles together, giggling in her bubbly, infectious way, saying “hey mama, I’m right here. We’re always connected. You can meet me here anytime.” And I knew it was really her, it was truly real. She’s even closer to me now than ever before. And I haven’t cried over losing her since.
I know it’s rarely so simple or easy. I know if she had been in my life routinely instead of it being fifteen years since I last saw her, it would require something else entirely to make peace with the absence of her physical form, her voice, or her smile. But I believe there’s a maxim here that’s useful for those of us grieving: instead of just being a platitude, the dead do live on, and we can find them as long as we can rest in our own hearts and call them to us.
Or at least this is what I’m telling my people. One thing no one prepares you for until you join the Dying Club and get the How-To manual is the guilt you feel at having to leave your loved ones behind to face this wild world without you. So I want to tell everyone that in the death of this body, I’m not truly going anywhere. It’s just that 'Teri' has never been my true name, even if I will still answer to it. Like I believe for each one of us, I was temporarily masquerading as a river, but only ever truly belonged to the big sea.
Photo of innertube by Vicko Mozara on Unsplash
First published on Facebook, September 4.2021
My calendar for the next month has filled up quickly. Nearly every day is already spoken for with friends visiting, zoom chats with family, nurse appointments, hair washes from my CNA, massages with the hospice volunteer, or the occasional days I’ve blocked out for John alone. And then I scroll down to October 3rd, and suddenly there’s a bunch of white space. No wonder i have that anxious, excitable feeling like I’ve been strapped into a rollercoaster and it’s starting to click up the tracks.
Meanwhile, I’ve been engaging in a power trip with the customer service reps who should be helping honor my warranty for a broken patio umbrella. Before any of you kindly suggest that I should no longer have to deal with such mundane crap, please know 1) you’re likely right, and 2) I’m still not ready to fully surrender this hokey pokey between Earth and spirit. The human experience these days is filled with bureaucratic annoyance and I only have about 29 days or so left to enjoy it. There’s only so much relaxing and love-and-joy accepting I can metabolize each day, and getting a wee salty with email reps seems to be a fine way to use up nervous energy.
In other news, a friend wrote last week to say what struck her about my October plan is that it sounds like I have no fear of death. Since then I’ve wondered if this is true,. It feels true, but I also know the forces of repression, bypassing, and dissociation are strong and sneaky, and I’m just as susceptible as any other Jane.. Might my cranky exchange with the umbrella warranty people be a sideways expression of terror? Or maybe it’s grief talking? Or would all reasonable people get upset when corresponding with an insurance provider who appears incapable of opening an attachment!?
I think it’s understandable to be afraid of death, and skeptical of those who say they aren’t. Fear of death is normal. Who wouldn’t be afraid of leaving the light of the known world for the great dark mystery? On this side of the veil all we “see” of death while still living---if we physically see it at all in this death-hushed culture---is a dead body. There’s no animating force left. Someone is there, and then they’re not. You used to have conversations, and now you can’t.. And if you try to keep having conversations with the deceased, and feel you actually are getting answers, you best be careful who you confess it to; there’s still judgment aplenty out there for cross-corporeal communication.
In any case I’ve noticed most people who claim they don’t fear death are still very much alive. You Scorpios out there---I see you---are known for waxing romantic about the beauty of death, but I’ve noticed few have jumped on my suggestions to honor that attraction by volunteering for hospice. Why is that? I’m not here to start astro-rivalries though, many, many people speak with bravado about death while still holding her at a safe distance.
Yet there's a subset of people who genuinely have little fear of the transition---and indeed, call it a transition instead of merely an ending--- because they’ve had an exhilarating near-death experience or they’ve had undeniable contact with those who’ve passed. In the majority of cases these experiences simply can’t be written off as wishful thinking---they are often life changing. And those of us who prefer the easier, softer way, may have ingested enough entheogens (or other psychedelics) to claim embodied knowledge that consciousness itself cannot be destroyed. (My current best understanding is that the aperture surrounding it simply changes based on conditions of “light.”) If you try to argue with those of us who’ve witnessed as much, you won’t get far. It’s like we’ve had our own religious conversion, and materialist logic is a flimsy adversary to what we know in our bones.
But here’s the thing. Despite my trust that consciousness will survive the death of my body, it’s not as if I know where I’m going in the white space of my calendar. There’s no Fodor’s Travel Guide to the other side, and the glut of pastel-covered books in the spirituality/metaphysics sections, while sometimes compelling, are heavy in anecdote by necessity and often conflict wildly in message. Perhaps the other side of the veil is meant to be a mystery, it’s part of the design. If we could define and measure everything about Source /God/dess/HP/The Universe, I’m thinking it wouldn’t actually be very divine.
So I want permission to fear death. I want permission to feel everything and anything at the end of my life, without trying to hold myself to inhuman expectations. Grief, joy, heartbreak, tenderness, rage, lust, loneliness, despair, confusion, contentment.. The whole human shebang. Artists want access to the full color palette to express the nuance of their visions. Shouldn’t the dying/living be given the same freedom and dignity in their emotional lives? God save me from having to be “positive” all the time, because doing so only expresses terror and contempt for “negativity.” And it’s hard to be around someone unfailingly chipper. Like those who claim they never get annoyed with customer service reps. It’s suspicious.
Even if I know the roller coaster is safe, my stomach is still gonna drop during the fall. My loved ones can walk me straight to the edge of my calendar, and even if I trust there’s loved ones waiting on the other side of the blank space to catch me, i need to be willing to leap from one grasp to another. There’ll be a moment suspended in air, right? How could there not be? Sarah, my beloved nurse friend who’s coming to stay with us in October, tells me she’s never once seen a hospice patient dying who didn’t have a smile on their face or a profound air of peace surrounding them. Maybe it’s even easier than I think.
In either case, I’m sure the next few weeks will uncover much more. I’m trying to remember Ii have permission to feel everything. Everything! Until I’m no longer in human form, I want to welcome the full human experience, as messy as it can be, sans judgment. Annoyance at Allstate included. Nervous excitement included. Big love, big tears, and hopefully big laughter every day. Thanks so much friends for coming alongside for the ride---you all have really been showing up, and I’m so grateful for the good company.
Photo of woman leaping by Sammie Chaffin via Unsplash
First published on Facebook, August 20.2021
John and I have made efforts to share the news personally with as many friends and family as possible, so my apologies if you’re first hearing this now and wish it had come to you in a different vehicle. Go figure that I’m tasked with the most courageous conversations of my life when I have the least physical oomph left to muster. Nonetheless I’m now on the river with a quickly growing current, and this impulse to let my extended village swim alongside must be honored.
It’s now been four years since I could walk without assistance, three years since I could feed myself a sandwich, two years since I could string words together to voice a decipherable sentence, and one year since I could operate the joystick on my wheelchair well enough to gaze out the window when I so choose. I’m sure there’s new lessons I could still harvest from my unique embodiment if I tried, no matter my growing pain and tremors, my drool and sudden spasms, or my increasingly skeletal frame that’s now immune to comfortable arrangement. I could dig deeper and find more joy in the simple routines of the day and in the faces of those I love. I could keep hopping between my favorite islands of pleasure even as the shorelines give more and more to the sea.
And yet---mercifully, I believe---I have now reached a point where I know fighting to squeeze more life out of this body is not the most life-affirming option I have. Forcing myself to plod along waiting for “nature” to take its course would not be an act of self-love; it would be self-abandonment based primarily in stubborn fear. It would require treating myself with less regard than I believe our animal companions should be treated. The truth is I have nothing left to prove along lines of resilience; I’ve mustered enough toughness already, and have concluded grit born of necessity simply isn’t as heroic as we Americans like to believe.
Call it a “geographic cure”---I won’t argue at this point---I’m ready to travel, and have no shame about admitting it. Early this October, I’m planning to hasten my death by going to bed on a Saturday night and initiating a fast from further food and water. I’ll have hospice meds and tricks to help me with any thirst, pain, and anxiety that arises, but as my body grows weaker I’ll experience the natural analgesic (pain-reducing) effects and light euphoria of dehydration. Hospice nurses and doctors generally rate dehydration via this method (VSED: it’s a thing) as an 8 out of 10 on the scale of “good deaths.”
I very much want a good death. It feels like a special honor and fortune, especially considering the mass exodus humans seem to be making these days from this planet, often in painful, lonely, or wholly unnecessary (unvaccinated) means. I think what may make for a good death more than anything else is the extraordinary and rare privilege of getting to plan my final bow thoughtfully and carefully, with my favorite people given plenty of notice, and many of them physically at my side. While some say that dying randomly and peacefully in your sleep is the best way to go, I’ve grown to suspect that the experience I’m having, of intentionally reclaiming my autonomy and self determination from a brutal illness, choosing the conditions of my exit, and having conscious amends and goodbyes with loved ones is the most meaningful rite of passage I could have.
So please friends, don’t say I lost the battle with ALS. Yes, ALS fights dirty, but it hasn’t broken me. It doesn’t win anything. There’s power in conscious surrender. I choose. I win.
Here’s what should happen: by day 3 or 4 of my fast I’ll grow weak, and start sleeping for longer periods. Within a couple more days I’ll become unarousable as I slip into a coma. Because I’m still young and have strong organs, I may take longer than the average 9 days to slip out of my body. In the meantime I’ll have my beloved transition team making sure I’m comfortable, holding my hand, whispering sweet nothings in my ear like “it’s okay to go,” and “we’ll be okay,” and “we’ll vote in the midterms” and “we got this Earth thing” and ”fly, dear one. Just fly.”
Despite my readiness, I’ve realized there’s no way to *not* feel my death is too early in some respects. I know there’s 90 year-olds who feel the same way. Truly, when is it ever time to (seemingly) lose connection with everything and everyone you love in one fell swoop? Who would willingly leave behind organic tater tots, fur babies who purr and chirp like mine do, the genius metaphors spilling daily from an otherworldly spouse, or the chance for another guilty daytime round of the Twilight Saga? But perhaps such attachments are simply a measure of a good life. We all have our versions. I only know I’ve done the work I’ve been called to, learned over time how to treat others and myself with a little more dignity and consideration, and experimented with how to create, boogie, and rest in increasingly adaptive ways. I’m honestly not sure what could be better accomplishments, or make for a more complete life.
There’s been a couple handfuls of times in which I’ve felt a compelling, twinkling rightness of an impending life transition deep in my gut. I’ve never regretted the ultimate changes resulting from these times, even if the travel got a little rough in the liminal zones. In addition to the occasional weepiness of saying goodbye to who and what I love here, I’ve also felt the stirring, seductive excitement that reliably foreshadows my next creative romp. My ancestors are gathering to welcome and celebrate. There’s a sparkly quality in the air.
Before going to bed the other night, John sat down, sighed, turned to me and said, “it’s all gonna be okay huh.” And after pausing for a minute I was able to agree, “yes, I think it is.”
I was planning on having a juicy ripe nectarine as my last food on that Saturday night, until I remembered October is no longer nectarine season, which means I’ll be forced to settle for my next favorite fruit, tiramisu. Negotiation is the name of the game.
Speaking of fruit, I have a luscious and growing belly but I’m not sure what or when I’m expecting from it. I learned one way hospice staff gauge the nearness of death in the terminally ill is by measuring the transforming Buddha-ness ratios of one’s belly. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation having to do with increasing fluid retention or something. Maybe I’m still overly romantic but I’m also wondering if those of us who get to this point are all simply preparing to give birth to what’s next.
The main risks of sharing such an intimate decision and process on social media---which I’ve decided include being judged by a mixed audience on a judgy platform, and getting inundated with messages I’m unprepared to thoughtfully respond to--are worth the opportunity to destigmatize and un-shame another aspect of (and option in) the dying process. I think it’s good for us all to talk openly about death, and be reminded there are resources for maximizing the ease and sacredness of the passage before the day comes (assuming we’re fortunate enough to have notice).
That said, my sharing publicly is not an invitation to approach me with advice, alternative methods, self help projects, miracle cures, or Scripture, but thanks for wanting to help. I don’t need unplanned distance reiki, even though I believe in palliative medicine and generally appreciate good vibes. Instead, I welcome expressions of warmth, understanding, humor (especially from fellow pALS, dark included), poetry, improbable cat videos or groovy song links. I’d especially enjoy voice or video recordings sent over Messenger, and already have a plan to binge my favorites in my final days.
In any case I’ll ask everyone who contacts me to please do so without expectation that I’ll respond in some significant way. My time and energy is limited, ultimately just like yours, but relatively, hopefully, much more so than yours. .If I reply to your heartfelt message with nothing more than a thumbs up, take it as a sign that I think you’re fantastic and will do my part to shower you generously with glittery soul pastries from the afterlife.
I’d like to share more observations as the weeks wind down, as long as I can find the will and inspiration. I hope it’s meaningful for (you) my friends to have a view of my river before your own nears the big sea. It’s certainly nice to be witnessed in my twilight---we should all be so lucky to get to share our last lucid weeks and days crying, listening, and laughing together.
Photo by charles Lebegue on Unsplash
The quote that follows continues: "... It seems the more permission we give ourselves and each other to have all the feelings and questions--without offering tidy answers to shunt the process--the more empowering it'll feel to define our own meaning, in our own time, as best we care to."
#autoimmunepaleo SPECIAL INTERVIEW // TERI DILLION
This is the second post in an interview series with @teri.dillion, author of No Pressure, No Diamonds. Teri has ALS and types using technology that tracks her eyes (#incredible), and we are running a series of posts featuring her insights into life, healing, and meaning under the hashtag #nopressurenodiamondsbook.
👉QUESTION: It is tempting to give tidy answers in the form of advice or seek tidy answers as a way to make sense of disease or gain control. What is the impact of getting sucked into the pursuit for tidy answers? What is the alternative opportunity?
👉Teri answer: “You named it: control. I think it’s natural, when something powerful and disorienting starts taking over our lives (like chronic/complex illness), for us to try to orient towards an explanation that comforts us. We all would like to believe if we do everything “right,” we’ll always prevail with the upper hand in our fate. Capitalism and advertising would have us believe there’s always an answer to what ails us, if only we make the necessary investment. But of course life doesn’t reliably offer tidy resolutions based on simple transactions; it merely continues to unfold in greater and greater complexity. I believe it’s ultimately up to us to mine it’s lessons, no matter the challenge or conventional success of the eventual outcome.
One important lesson of illness is humility, since it begs (and sometimes demands) us to slow down, turn inward, and listen. In heeding that call, we’re afforded an opportunity to learn of ourselves on a deeper level; our rhythms, needs, longings, hurts, and hopefully, our own resources. If we allow for it, we can become students of the power of impermanence, mystery, and grace, and we can learn to engage our relationships in a new, more life-affirming way. While this process is rarely tidy, it ultimately invites us to locate and define our own empowerment---and indeed a faith in our own vitality, no matter our physical state---that we’d never have found otherwise.”
It strikes me that the holidays are as good a time as ever to talk about grief, and the holidays of 2020? Lordy, pull up a chair.
So many of us are experiencing the existential willies right now for obvious reasons, yet the loss of homes due to the growing climate disaster and loss of lives due to the pandemic mean an unfathomable amount of our literal and figurative neighbors are drowning in overwhelming pain right now. And I’ve learned the best thing we can do for pain is, first and foremost, acknowledge its existence.
When going through our own acute pain of losing my health and then losing our home and belongings, hubby and I learned firsthand which responses from others helped, and which responses left us with an even greater loneliness.
It’s worth noting that no one fully knows what to do with grief--our own or each others’--unless we’re shown. In the larger cultural pushes toward militant optimism--also known as toxic positivity--we all are encouraged away from acknowledging our wounds. We’re told to just get over it, or look on the bright side; we’re told to use the experience to springboard into a better life, or get busy creating a new reality. This would be great if such advice actually worked, but with complex or early grief, it rarely does.
In that spirit, I thought I’d offer some of what I’ve learned both as a therapist and grief survivor about the helpful (and less helpful) things to say to someone who is tossed about by acute loss.
First off, please, please say *something*. Even if it’s awkward, bumbling, and brief, your effort will be noted and appreciated. Don’t assume the grieving person knows you care without you saying so, or would be bothered by you acknowledging the loss. When a family member, friend, or coworker has lost something precious (their loved one, their home, their health, their pregnancy) and they know you know, your silence would be deafening.
If you don’t know what to say, try this:
“I don’t know what to say… But I want to say something.”
“I’ve heard. I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I care about you.”
Once we open the conversation, we may notice the urge to try and cheer the grieving person up. But if we investigate this impulse, we often find it springs out of our discomfort feeling our own pain. But I promise you, it’s safe to allow ourselves the occasion to feel our own heartbreak; the grieving person is handing you an invitation to not turn away.
So before saying the following:
“God/ Universe/ Source has a bigger plan,” or
“Everything happens for a reason,” or
“You can always find another spouse/have another child/rebuild a better home,” we can instead pause and try to empathize for another moment or two or hundred.
While these statements of faith may eventually prove true (I think few of us ever fully see the big big picture), and can feel comforting when someone arrives to these conclusions for their life on their own, they rarely comfort when lobbed toward someone freshly devastated. What’s more, they run the risk of dismissing someone’s pain, and may send the message that they should not indulge in so-called “negative” (read: difficult) emotions. Not only are fear, anger, sadness, shock, etc normal responses to loss, they will often hang around longer for anyone who feels it isn’t okay to feel or talk about them. And there is no spiritual wisdom in dismissing heartbreak, believe me.
Long story short, we need to first witness, meet, and hold space for each other in our full human emotional messiness. There will be time to harvest any silver linings later; as David Kessler asserts, finding meaning is the sixth stage of grieving--meaning a whole lotta other feelings come first, or at least come alongside.
If the ideas in this post are helpful, let me know, and feel free to share. I’d like to write a little series of posts on grief over the next month, getting more in depth about how to greet the grieving, and more on concrete ways to help. This collective storm will be more survivable if we all get darn good at helping each other through it.
Yesterday I started fantasizing about creating some grandiose post about how it’s so very un-woke for anyone to ever complain about turning forty, especially when it’s actually a huge accomplishment for some of us, and some people never get the privilege. But then I remembered competitive gratitude makes for tired tropes, and I’m sick of acting like a (cranky) inspiration mascot just because I’ve endured a wicked illness for longer than anyone expected, including me.
It doesn’t help that I’ve written a book that attempts to dismantle spiritual bypassing while also making a case for “gifts” coming out of illness. I’ll admit it’s been a tough needle to thread and most days I suspect I’ve failed miserably at pulling it off. Poor John suffers my mood shifts.
Today I cried, hard, because I want a haircut so bad. My mom took a picture of me and my pandemic hair and it’s a real catastrophe. I’m still struggling to accept that my mouth is so weak that I’m drooling in an increasing number of moments. The West is burning and it’s still a question for some whether or not Black lives fucking matter. JK Rowling has taken a swan dive into hate and Trump flags actually exist and people actually fly them. Days ago my friend’s kitten ran into the street and met a quick death, and she and her wife had to bury the little furry loveball in their yard, and sometimes I struggle to find any meaning in any of it and it sucks that no one, absolutely no one, has any satisfying answers.
In some moments I wish my powerchair had a super charged red eject button which could just pitch me into space beyond the gravity barrier so I can finally get some perspective, and float, and exhale.
But after the big feelings break through and I weep freely for America and kittens and John and my hair, it’s time for a sponge bath. And since I can’t take any more news because it’s 2020 we play good music and I get reminded that somehow, some pockets of life on Earth are still okay. After all these years Ani DiFranco still manages to name it like it is with a bebop to boot. Our space heater still makes the bathroom cozy and my exhausted husband still finds the energy to hum and smile at me while soaping up my limp arms. I can see the cottonwood leaves fluttering and yellow through the bathroom window and they are so beautiful and fleeting it hurts. And I already got to vote.
So I'll say if anyone else out there is feeling conflicted about the existential threat of turning forty when all currently available data hints you will likely live to eighty, sans paralysis, that’s okay. I’ll forgive you. Forty is an accomplishment, as is eighty, as is twelve, in this world at least, especially now. This shit isn’t for the faint of heart. I haven’t actually figured much of anything out about life but I think It’s fair to feel heartbroken and afraid even if things are generally working out personally, whatever that means---because we all know if things aren’t coming together they’re falling apart. Maybe if on some days we can only see the light reflected in tiny slivers in the world around us, that’s good enough.