The continuum of life and death

I recently had the honor of accompanying an incredible woman in her final life journey, as she passed from living form to spirit form. I want to share this experience as a way to continue destigmatizing how many of us approach, avoid, or even fear death. Because if we are able to truly connect with a person — and all their loves, accomplishments, interests, relations, and personality — then we can integrate their identity with the reality of death, loss, and grief.

I met this client after her adult daughter reached out seeking a different type of support than what most assisted living and memory care facilities have the bandwidth to offer. She was seeking spiritual support, the gift of time spent with her mother, and a genuine curiosity about the person in the bed in that single room. She knew there was more than just a westernized medical approach to her mom's illness, and felt her mom deserved more. What an honorable thing to seek. She found us online and reached out. I was thrilled to be the one to initially work with this adult daughter and her mother, and set out to create a rhythm of visits, emotional support, and the presence of a listening heart.

I learned that this woman was an avid — AVID — creative force. A photographer, teacher, traveler, mentor, and a force of curiosity and longevity. I use the word longevity here to describe an endless interest in learning, teaching, and creating. Longevity does not need to be defined only as length of life. I prefer to think of it as a distillation of spirit, of heart, of wonderment, and of endless seeking. Her walls were lined with oversized black and white prints from one of the numerous bodies of work she had created. Not only am I a fan of this style of photography, but even if I weren't, it would have been hard to ignore the depth of emotion and story she caught in each click of her shutter. I asked about her work. She shared. Even with limited speech and eye movement, she glistened with remembrance and wonder when describing it.

We listened and sang to Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell. We sat together in companionable silence. I asked if she was scared. She shared her thoughts and frustrations. She shared her love of her daughter, who is a recurring protagonist in her art. She had lived in exciting, bustling, creative cities when important movements were afoot, and no matter when I visited, she'd be rocking an old t-shirt and corduroys — the uniform of the creative masses, the style of the innovative, the alternative, and the gender-blind artist. Her spunk came through even with very limited mobility. Her arms and fingers danced and reached out in front of her, partly from the progression of the disease, partly from her need to express herself as she searched for and found anecdotes and stories from her past. She would pluck them from the air like a dandelion seed gently floating off into its future.

Her daughter expressed gratitude that we saw her mom for her personhood. Not just her disease. In our minds and hearts, her disease was in the background, being taken care of by loving professionals. We were interested in who this woman was when she walked her path on this well-trodden earth. The loves she had, the experiences she took in, the pride of motherhood, and the conflicts of being a creative in our modern world.

I always come back to the themes of honor and privilege in doing this work. I have always loved story-catching, and to sit next to an elder and hear their stories has always filled me to the brim with love, interest, and connection. I am deeply privileged to be one of the people who gets to sit next to someone as they enter this magical, often challenging, liminal space. Authenticity rings out. Pretense is kicked out through the back door. Connection is deep, even when no words are exchanged. How lucky am I to accompany a person in this rich and final moment of their life.

This woman brought beauty into the world through her art, her motherhood, her love, curiosity, and care. And in her death, she will continue to tread forcefully but lightly on the earth. With her body now resting in a photographically beautified vault in a quiet, serene space, the eventual composting process will turn her into rich soil — soil to be used to plant new life in the form of a tree — and her remains will be shared with others who want to seed new growth. The cycle of life can be gentle and forceful and spirited and hard, and I am honored to have had this experience with these two strong and kind women, who showed great strength and love in a challenging moment.

Thank you, J.H. and J.T., for the opportunity.

by Danielle Gordon with Johanna Munson (This was a team doula effort due to planned medical leaves of absence.)

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