A friend has been forwarding me emails from a friend of hers whose wife is a quadriplegic and is on a respirator. She has been in Intensive Care for over 40 days. She could be kept alive as a quadriplegic on a respirator for possibly a month or two and yet they are now having the discussion about what it means to make a conscious choice about the number of days.
I don't think any of us can know what we would do.
My son Chris was here for a week and left on Sunday, and I felt a huge hole in myself, and waited to wash the sheets, and still haven't washed his towel. It is my way, I suppose, of keeping him here a little longer. What would it feel like to say a final good-bye? I can't imagine. I don't have the experience. I haven't been with anyone as they died. I haven't known anyone who had to make this kind of choice.
My mind says we could each prepare a little each day, could notice thresholds, and passing through doors from one room to another, and hellos and goodbyes. My mind says that. My heart - oh, my heart.
I don't know how we prepare for something like this. Maybe we can't. It is so incomprehensible. I meditate a great deal on life and death. I know there are cells dying in me right now, and birthing. Stars birth and die, and it is transformation that occurs, not death, and yet, we so love these forms, these people who are part of our lives, our life, our precious soul-mates, our heart's desire, fulfillment, expansion, growth.
Senna and Jeff were here on Sunday. I sit on the carpet where Senna lay, smile at the plant that he thought meant it was a place to lift his leg. Senna was here. Jeff was here. I miss them. There is a hole.
This man requests "peace and clarity and wisdom". May this flow through them, and each of us.
May their decision expand their pain, all pain, into knowing even more love and trust.
We can't hold onto those we love, even though we want to so very much.
My prayer: May water flow, loving each stone, each harvest hold, along the heart-pierced way.