Tag Archives: spirit

Unexpected Holiness

As a practicing Death Doula, I have the privilege and honor to walk people home. Sometimes the human I am assisting has a goal they want to accomplish before they die or they want specific music playing throughout their stay with hospice. The sky is the limit if I can get it done.


My most recent client, Alden* (not his real name), is one I’ve known for well over a decade. I have been his caregiver for several of those years and his POA for the last few months.

He never married or had kids except for his beloved cats whom he referred to as his kids. Puttyhead and Topper were his world. Puttyhead was 15 and died the day Alden came home from an extended stay at an after hospital rehab facility. Topper is also 15 and lovingly small.

Only a month later, Alden was back in the hospital in critical condition. When he was stable enough to communicate, he expressed a longing to see Topper.
After he returned to a rehab facility, I brought the two together. It was extremely emotional for everyone involved.

Three months later, Alden was again admitted to ICU. This time was far worse than before which prompted end of life discussions. He again, miraculously pulled himself back to stable-ish.

He was given a choice between four options with hospice being three of them in different places. The fourth was terminal reduction of oxygen which was immediately rejected.

Hospice option one had him remaining in ICU but he couldn’t see Topper, but his loved ones could all come visit.

Hospice option number two had him still in the hospital but in a room where he could see his “child”.

The third hospice option was for him to go home to his cat, but the condition was that he couldn’t be on the heavy duty breathing support. He had to be able to be on a cannula. But each attempt at weaning him hadn’t lasted longer than five to six minutes.

I asked him to think about hospice. There was zero pressure to choose. Breaking the hospital/rehab cycle is too personal for me to make the call. I’m there to support them and offer as many feasible options as practical.

I returned the following morning to find him holding steady on a cannula! Three hours at that time with no stat drops. Alden looked pleased with himself and he decided no hospice.
I finished the visit and headed home.

A short while later, I got a call from Nurse Beth explaining that things weren’t working well. Bring the people who love him, which I did.
Within the hour, a small group gathered by Alden’s side. We talked with him, hugged him, shared stories, and then he rallied (It’s rather common for someone to have a surge of energy and seem like their health is improving when death approaches).

The following morning, Alden was awake, alert, and writing down his wishes. He wanted to go home to Topper. We got hospice on board. But Alden wasn’t strong enough for transport.

With a lot of logistics and a stand-off with the administration about bringing in Topper, we figured it out.

Topper arrived and spent two and a half hours sharing time together. These two “old men” said everything they needed to say to each other. Topper crawled up onto Alden’s chest and fell asleep while his dad stroked his fur. The room was filled with so much love and beauty it was heartbreakingly holy.
Alden was tired. He asked me to bring Topper home.

I returned to the hospital and saw symptoms of end of life occurring. (Changes in coloration of fingers, eyes glassy and unable to blink for example). We pulled in a sleeper for me but I stayed with him until he died early morning.
The silence. The absence. The intensity of ancestral grief honoring the life that was and the life that is. The punctuation mark ripped from the book of the living, transferred to the book of the dead was complete.

Paperwork finished, I looked out the window to see the pre-sunrise colors warming the purple sky. I thought, “This is the first sunset my friend can’t see. Another day for me but not for him.” (For clarity, the contrast between the sunrise I was seeing and his sunset shortly before).

I watched the purple change to pink then orange as the sun granted light on the dark day. I felt the love we shared as friends grant me strength and purpose to walk my people home.

Giving up grief

I’ve given up on grief.

It’s too small of a word

To contain the absence I feel 

To cover the sorrow that blooms 

Unexpectedly 

When I make coffee in the morning 

Or taste a muffin

Like you used to make

I’ve given up grief

It’s too small of a space

To hold all that was you

The way you laughed

The scent of your body

Fresh out of the shower

Or sweaty with work

I’ve given up grief

It’s too shallow for a feeling 

That is deeper than I thought

Although I suspected,

Your love holds me buoyant 

In the ocean of our commitment 

Yes, I’ve given up grief

Because the world requires 

The gift of who you were

Through my eyes. 

I can’t hold that when it,

Like you,

Were born to shine even now

Gail 1948-2025

How long will you linger on the pillow where last you lay your head?

What rose will remind me of the scent of your life that has evolved into dead?

What chime will ring out over the earth

That may likely forget your value; your worth?

Will the blushing dawn sing of the mourning you gave

Will the fiery sunset trumpet over your grave?

Will the willows tell your legend for eons to come

Whispering your legend in branches like drums?

Hats of many colors

I wear a lot of hats in my work life. Three of them are braided together for maximum service. I am a non-medical caregiver/companion. I am a commissioned lay chaplain. I am a Death Doula.

During the course of my relationship with my clients, I learn their quirks, their wants, needs, and their humor. I get to witness their family dynamics working and sometimes dysfunctional. I see them at their most vulnerable. I bathe them, change soiled clothing, help them maintain mobility, and because of and despite the messiness of aging, I fall in love with them and their lives.

As a lay chaplain, I feel comfortable and confident speaking to them about difficult topics such as death, dying, and how they want/need things to go as the reason for hiring me becomes more intrusive on their physical and therefore spiritual journey. I help them articulate what’s most important to and in their lives. To me, it feels holy.

As a Death Doula, I work in tandem with hospice. I help the families and my clients to understand what is happening, what is likely to happen, and insure the end of life is as smooth and comfortable as possible. I sing to my people. I read to my people. I hold vigil and space in silence. This feels sacred to me.

When my person dies, my love does not. Although I make myself available, families often go the way of the winds after my purpose with their loved ones has been fulfilled. The anchor has been lost and they drift away into their new normal. It’s not my favorite part of what I do, but I understand that vulnerability is not comfortable and I’ve witnessed them being so.

This past week I’ve lost two people I loved, cherished, and cared for. I’m currently serving a third. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s living and loving grief in a complex respect and surrender. I don’t have all the answers but I’m good at what I do.

As an accused angel in a meat suit, I will continue to serve, adapt, grow, learn, and embrace my own inevitable death because that breathes life into my soul. This is my happiness and my calling. It is my honor to walk my people home.

Hurricane Gale

I honestly feel like I am the eye of the hurricane 🌀.

No matter what happens around me, it’s going to be how it is.

I have control, such as it is, over my reactions even with big emotions.

I feel centered and balanced.

I’m shifting with the currents, adjusting my sails, allowing the journey to reveal itself as it comes.

I am calm.

This is my peace.

Deconstruction

At twenty-one I planned to die,

with a beer in one hand while getting high.

Nobody could see me, I didn’t exist

I screamed myself hoarse

while in their midst

Ironically, I didn’t tell

the secrets I had borne in hell

Imploding shrapnel from darkest places

Repulsed by misleading “loving” embraces

As I grew older, I refused my name

Pushing anger towards familial blame

I gave away my power

before it could be taken

If someone actually saw me,

they’d surely be mistaken

I never did because I knew I never could

It didn’t matter the effort

no matter how good.

I believed pain was love

because that’s what I was shown

Throughout my childhood

into the adult-self grown

I was Destructive in the sense that I had to tear down who I thought I was, who I believed myself to be. I had to dismantle the neglect, anger, bitterness, and apathy that were hidden under the guise of Love. Some of the wounds still ran blood. Some of them still had the knife protruding from my body. I walked around a victim, convinced I would cease to exist one day and that event would go unnoticed, under-appreciated, and quickly forgotten.

I was lied to, given gossip about my unworthiness for breakfast. I was taught values: The value of my vagina, the worthlessness of being barren, that I deserved wrath and disdain because, after all, I was the one insane.

I was force fed my inferiority until i vomited the parrot back to those whom despised the thought of me. The people who used every flicker of my light to read and implement my oppression. I allowed it, encouraged it because they lied love in the guise of vulnerability.

Despite all of that, I’ve broken that cycle. I know I am worthy of love. I know I am loved. I know I am kind, compassionate, loving, giving, helpful, wickedly smart, emotionally intelligent, with the sense of humor of a 12-year old boy who relishes bad jokes, fart jokes, dad jokes, irreverent and dark jokes.

I have accomplished more in the last five years because I believe in myself, my power, my skill, my experience, and my North Star; my loving heart. And best of all, I have a cheerleading band of friends who both keep me grounded and celebrate my successes in flights of fancy.

What a fantastic journey I have forged from the ashes of my youth. Nourishing the needs of my soul/spirit has been the best present I’ve ever given to myself. It leaks into the world like a floodlight of hope. Even better than that? I know it’s rightfully mine.

Lost Religion

There is a Spirit in the soil

The place where life begins

and to where it again returns

You have to run up to the very edge

of your very own grave

to understand how deeply

your Spirit’s truth can go

How connected we all are

as transient souls;

seperate but one

The Spirit calls out to us every moment

rarely is it heard as the truth

Destructive forces we are against it

We are poor stewards of our gift

our home, our residence, our church

#2699

Darkness when I close my eyes. Pinpoints of light flare and fade against the backs of my eyelids like constellations. I imagine myself walking along …

#2699

“But our past selves are a kind of ancestor too, I realize.”

I’ve packed up my old selves.

Some are in cardboard boxes

Not neatly arranged, but haphazard

Strewn about through my ages.

Some are neatly painted wooden heart-shaped chests.

There are broken pieces of sharp wood and rusty nails scattered about

If you peek inside the ones with the missing pieces;

Lids askew,

You’d see a lot of damage on the remnants of me in those

But if you put on the complimentary rose-colored heart-shaped glasses

You’ll know my intentions were true, even if theirs were not.

Some are in disco 🪩 balls sending spectrums of reflection outward

Loud, frantic movements, jutting hips and ruby painted lips 👄

But who I’ve become is more than those but still the sum

Healing Hugs

I hugged shame

I loved disgrace

I encouraged peace

To the weeping face

I heard confession

I felt mercy

I held his hand

Told him he’s worthy

Removed the prison

Of spoken word

Showed him value

By actions served

He sobbed for relief

From a god he doubted

Regret his badge

His sight; sin clouded

Visible pain

ached his soul

But his words dictated

Desperate control

Will he surrender?

Forgive his heart?

Remember his humanity,

That is tearing him apart?

I can’t fix him

Or make things better,

Just let him feel loved

Releasing the debtor