Dying as coming home

When contemplating death, as i often have, the thought of what i would leave behind is enough to send me into a whirlwind of panic (and when needed it has been usually been enough to drag my sorry butt away from the brink).  The house is a mess, my "affairs" aren't in order, there are too many half-finished projects, loose ends, unresolved issues, and then there are all those terrible poems and stories i wrote...  It's a bit like that manic packing to go away on holiday when you are trying to remember everything you need or might possibly want as well as tidying the house so that the neighbour coming in to feed the cats and water the plants doesn't think too badly of you.

When faced with the reality of death it would seem that is is more like packing up to come home.  Much simpler, much calmer and much better for al those involved.

Christine has her bags packed, no i think she only has one bag with a few precious items, and she is just waiting for her flight to be called.

I came across this poem by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979):

I am in need of music that would flow
over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
with melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
of some song sung to rest the tired dead.
a song to fall like water on my head,
and over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is magic made by melody:
a spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
and floats forever in a moon-green pool,
held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

On Sunday morning i sat with Christine so that Robin could go to Meeting for Worship.  It was another special time of being, of waiting, listening, talking too but mostly being.  She asked me to fetch her copy of "Poems in Scots and English" by William Soutar.  This book was the result of her father's work.  He selected the poems and wrote the introduction too.  It features a wonderful illustration of an unchained unicorn redrawn by James A Finlayson who was a friend of the poet and who had originally designed it in 1934 for "The Solitary Way".

Christine read "The Children" to me.  It came to mind immediately following the shootings 18 years ago and could have been written as a response to that tragedy but was in fact written many years previously, in 1937.  She also read "Song" and "The Hunt", which is about the unicorn and the importance of it being unchained.  She cried.

After a snooze Christine awoke, sighed deeply and stated that she had gone from feeling in a state of astonishment to being in a state of grace.  She feels immensely loved and supported by people around the world.  As i took my leave it felt strongly that this would be my last goodbye.  She does not expect to see me again and i must accept that it is unlikely that i will see her again.

Gang Doun wi' a Sang dear Christine.

Death Doula: "Being" beside the bed

I spent the weekend in Dunblane, visiting Christine mostly.  She is dying and it was a privilege to be at her bedside for several hours on both Saturday and Sunday but it was also poignant, sad, and surreal.

The last time i saw Christine was in May last year when she came to our wedding.  She arrived for the afternoon and i have a wonderful memory of seeing her arrive and of being enveloped in the most wonderful hug, quickly joined by Caitlin and then Arwen too.

Throughout my visit Christine drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of conversation, recalling memories, sharing insights.

The following are mere fragments of my time with her:

Christine's father, in the very late stages of heart failure, remarked to his daughter that nobody had told him how difficult it would be to die.  Recalling it now, Christine understands exactly what he meant.  She is ready to go, even eager to go but feels the many tugs that come with having lived a full life.  She wants to be given permission to die, needs to find ways of loosening ties, breaking (perhaps even severing) cords, untying threads and reworking them to another, not-yet-dying friend whose tapestry is still developing.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers... Wordsworth

With tears slowly falling on to her pillow she tells me that she longs for the peace and quiet of Strowan Woodland Cemetery, where Alison is already buried.  Then she recites some William Soutar, in full, in a thin, slightly reedy whisper that is a shadow of her hale and hearty voice so familiar to many:

"Song" 1935

Whaur yon broken brig hings owre;
Whaur yon water make nae spun';
Babylon blaws by in stour:
Gang doun wi' a sang, gang doun

Deep, owre deep, for onie drouth;
Wan eneuch an ye wud droun:
Sout, or seelfu', for the mouth;
Gang doun wi' a song, gang doun

Babylon blaws by in stour
Whaur yon water makes nae soun':
Darkness is your only door;
Gang doun wi' a sang, gang doun.

That was on Saturday.  I didn't know what the poem was but i spoke with Iona when she and a few other crones came over to spend time with me.  She suggested that it was probably Soutar and thought that it would be "Song".  Christine confirmed this on Sunday morning.  And i will write about that in my next post.