“I’m not afraid of dying…

But I’m not ready to give in yet”

Lisa Brassington spoke with us in October as she was receiving support from Marie Curie Hospice, Bradford. Here she talks about how the kindness of Marie Curie staff made all the difference to her wellbeing.

By Lisa Brassington

I was diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2011. I’ve had years of radiotherapy and chemotherapy, but I’m on the very last chemo now. After that, there are no more treatment options. The tumour has started to spread to my temporal lobe, so it’s affecting different areas of my body and I’m paralysed down one side. I now need a lot of support.

I used to go to the gym three times a week and I loved food and cooking. I love reading and history. I fostered and rescued Bassett hounds. I had a Bassett hound called Ralph who I walked daily, but I had to give him up. A fantastic rescue charity found him a beautiful home and they keep me updated on his progress. I’ll never be able to have another dog. That breaks my heart.

Before coming to Marie Curie Hospice, Bradford, I’d been stuck in my bedroom at home for over eight months. My husband and I had been looking for care that whole time and couldn’t find anywhere that could support my needs. I felt so unsafe and frightened. Eventually, we found the hospice, and now I feel so safe, cared for, and even loved.

Nothing better than a hug

The Marie Curie Hospice in Bradford is fantastic and it had such an impact on my outlook. It’s not just the unbelievable care they give, it’s their kindness as well. I’ve never experienced kindness like it here, and I’ll never forget that. The staff are always smiling, and I get hugs and lots of care and attention. There’s nothing more important to me than a hug.

Before I arrived, I hadn’t eaten for a long time, so I had no energy, but the food here is delicious and the nurses encourage me to eat. Now everybody is saying I’ve got colour in my cheeks – it’s amazing.

The nurses offered to take my bed outside

There’s a lovely bath here that I can use, and I have a beautiful view of the garden outside of my room, I can watch the squirrels and birds feeding on the bird table. The nurses even offered to take my hospice bed outside if I wanted them to. Because of my condition, I wake up and I don’t know what day it is. I’ve been FaceTiming friends and family thinking it was the evening, but it’s actually been the morning. The nurses write down on a board what day it is and who is supporting me, which is so simple but so helpful for me.

When I first arrived, I told the staff that I love dark, West Indian rum. They told me I can have some here, and so I have my little rum nightcap, which is lovely. Nothing is off limits.
— Lisa

The healthcare assistants and nurses always find time to come and charge my electrical devices, which keep me in touch with family and friends. They’re constantly busy helping people, I can hear their buzzers going off all the time calling them into different rooms, but they still find time to come and charge my things for me and spend some time with me.

A sense of achievement

The hospice has got a fantastic physiotherapist team who have helped me to use the gym. I’ve even taken four steps, which is amazing. It’s not just the sense of achievement for me, it’s the feedback the team gives. I constantly get praised and encouraged. I never realised how important encouragement was until I came here. They have given me some exercises, and I do what I can to try to get my body working.

We’re all dying… I’m one of them

I’ve had a fantastic life, I’ve done everything I’ve wanted to do, I’ve been everywhere I wanted to go. I’m now doing my bucket list. I’ve jumped out of aeroplanes, I’ve gone down to the Spinnaker Tower, I just love doing something different. I’d love to go on a zip-wire, in fact I had a joke with the team here about the hoist in my room!

It was frightening when I first heard the word “hospice” because I just thought of dying people. There’s nothing wrong with dying people, we’re all dying, but it scared me to realise that I’m actually one of them. Now, I’m not afraid of dying. In fact, sometimes, I think it’s going to be a release. But, I’ve always been a fighter and I’m not ready to give in yet.

Complete Article HERE!

Planning for end-of-life expenses amid soaring costs

By

In the realm of financial planning, agents and advisors diligently guide their clients through the complexities of retirement savings, investments, and insurance. Yet, there’s a critical aspect that often doesn’t receive the attention it warrants until it’s too late: the cost of dying. Recent data reveals a stark reality: The price tag attached to end-of-life care and funeral expenses is climbing, propelled by inflation and escalating health care costs. Let’s look at the implications of these rising costs and outline strategies financial professionals can employ to assist their clients in preparing for the future.

The unavoidable cost of dying

The Consumer Price Index indicates a notable 4.8% increase in funeral costs over the past year, signifying the upward trajectory of end-of-life expenses. An average American now faces more than $24,000 in medical and funeral costs at life’s end. Specifically, end-of-life medical expenses average more than $16,000, while the median funeral cost nears $8,000. These figures highlight an uncomfortable truth: even in death, one cannot escape the financial implications of inflation.

Deepening funeral costs

The average funeral in the U.S. costs between $7,000 and $12,000, encompassing expenses from caskets and embalming to transportation, plots, flowers, services, headstones and funeral home fees. Opting for more elaborate services or higher-end options can significantly inflate these costs. This financial burden is not one most individuals wish to impose on their relatives posthumously.

The true ‘killer:’ Medical care costs

Although funeral expenses are steep, the cost of medical care in the final stages of life is even more daunting. Medicare provides some relief but hospital, palliative care and hospice care costs continue to surge. Hospital stays can exceed $10,000 per day before insurance. Despite a preference for dying at home, only about 25% of individuals do so, with the majority ending their lives in some form of medical care facility.

Planning for estate and legal considerations

Beyond medical and funeral costs, there are estate and legal fees to consider. The process of settling an estate and distributing inheritances involves a complex web of legalities, adding another layer of expense that can easily propel total end-of-life costs beyond $50,000.\

Strategic planning for end-of-life expenses

  • Savings and investments. One approach is for clients to allocate a portion of their savings or investments specifically for end-of-life expenses. This proactive measure can mitigate the financial impact on loved ones.
    • Insurance solutions. Life insurance or specialized end-of-life insurance products can offer a safety net for funeral and other final expenses. However, seniors may face high premiums, and those with existing life insurance policies may be overinsured if they plan to use these funds solely for funeral costs.
    • Life insurance settlements. For seniors facing steep life insurance premiums or those with more insurance coverage than necessary, a life insurance settlement presents a viable option. Selling their policy in the secondary market can provide them with a lump sum to cover end-of-life expenses, freeing them from the burden of escalating premiums.

    The role of agents and advisors

    Financial professionals play a pivotal role in navigating these complex waters. By conducting policy appraisals, advisors can determine whether a life insurance settlement is appropriate, potentially reallocating those funds toward long-term care insurance or directly covering end-of-life expenses. This strategic planning can alleviate the financial strain on clients and their families, ensuring a more manageable and dignified end-of-life experience.

    As the costs associated with end-of-life care continue to rise, agents and advisors are tasked with a crucial responsibility: to help their clients plan comprehensively, considering not only the joys of retirement but also the inevitable costs of dying. By exploring all available options, from savings and investments to insurance products and life insurance settlements, financial professionals can guide their clients toward peace of mind for themselves and their loved ones. Inflation may be an unyielding force, but with thoughtful planning and strategic advice, navigating the financial aspects of end-of-life can be less burdensome, allowing individuals to focus on living their final days with dignity and grace.

    Complete Article HERE!

Human Composting

— A Green Way to Return to the Earth

Human composting turns death into an opportunity to help the planet heal.

A natural burial is good for the planet and lets you be reborn as a part of nature

By HONORAH BROZIO

When someone dies, they can be put in the ground or an urn — but many are unaware that there is an alternative that returns the body to the earth in a natural way. Instead of traditional burial or cremation, there is human composting, which honors the natural cycle of life and creates a memorial specific to our loved ones without harming the earth.

Human composting is a simple process that lays the body on a bed of wood chips, alfalfa and straw. The body decomposes and turns into fresh usable soil in five to seven weeks. According to the human composting facility, Recompose, one human turns into about one truck bed of soil which can be used for a garden, tree or even spread among a forest.

Why is human composting better than traditional embalming or cremation practices? It is important to consider the average postmortem process. One day a man named Body dies. Body hangs out with the mortician who pumps him full of embalming fluids, drains his blood, removes his organs and creates a chemically preserved thing that is not natural, not human and definitely not Body.

When I think about modern death practices I wonder, why do we ignore death when we can embrace it?

The work involved in the embalming process is not natural for a human to experience and it exposes the mortician to harmful chemicals. The National Funeral Directors Association claims that embalmers inhale high levels of formaldehyde and are at risk for coughing, nausea, facial irritation and, in some cases, leukemia.

After the preparation, Body’s family picks out a casket, plans a ceremony, buys enough flowers to start a flower shop and buys a plot of land. So, is it worth it? Is it worth it to expose morticians to harmful chemicals and waste resources for a process that attempts to slow decomposition and maintain a body that is no longer alive?

Modern funeral practices involve cement vaults and caskets in order to preserve our loved ones for as long as possible. We delay the decomposition process for about a decade so that our bodies resemble canned goods in the bottom of a cement bunker. We waste time, thousands of dollars and land all because we want to look at our loved ones and imagine they’re still alive. When I think about modern death practices I wonder, why do we ignore death when we can embrace it?

Human composting is the opposite of traditional burial. With human composting, our bodies replenish the earth, not take from it. The process allows us to be among the trees or a meadow where we will forever contribute to the circle of life.

The possibilities of soil are endless. When I die, I want to become a carrot patch. With human composting, you could be a lemon tree or a tulip garden, and your family could make a garden and sit under the shade of your tree.

You are not a preserved lump at the bottom of a cement vault or a pile of ashes on the mantel. Rather, you would nourish the roots of your favorite plant and your family would be with you, laying under the sun.

Each individual is capable of changing the way we see death. After all, America’s extravagant funeral practices and embalming methods are relatively modern. The Library of Congress associates America’s booming death care industry with the Civil War because families wanted their loved ones preserved and returned from war. Embalming remained popular after the success of President Abraham Lincoln’s embalmed body during his lavish funeral tour. If luxurious funerals and embalming were influenced by societal changes, I believe human composting can reach the same degree of acceptance someday.

Moreover, human composting is crucial to the future of our planet. In 2019, the Population Reference Bureau notes that roughly 3 million Americans died. Typically, more than half of the population chooses cremation and the rest choose traditional burial meaning millions of people harm the earth for funerals on an annual basis.

If luxurious funerals and embalming were influenced by societal changes, I believe human composting can reach the same degree of acceptance someday.

Recompose claimed on their website that: “Cremation burns fossil fuels and emits carbon dioxide … Conventional burial consumes valuable urban land, pollutes the soil, and contributes to climate change through resource-intensive manufacture and transport of caskets, headstones, and grave liners.”

Earth Funeral, a human composting company in New York, shared similar data claiming one cremation produces about 535 pounds of CO2. While cremation saves land resources, it usually involves burning embalmed bodies which releases toxic chemicals into the air.

Unfortunately, human composting is only legal in seven states including Washington state, Colorado, Oregon, Vermont, California, Nevada and New York. Even then, there are only a handful of human composting facilities in the country. Earth Funeral is accessible for people in New York, but if someone from Texas wanted to be composted they would have to transport the body all the way to a different state with a facility. 

The U.S. needs to legalize human composting in all 50 states because everyone should have the option to decay. I find it ridiculous that America’s legal burial options harm the earth but natural decomposition is illegal in 43 states. We’re allowed to be preserved and burned but not returned to the earth. We’re allowed to kill the planet but not help it.

Everyone can help promote human composting. It’s easy to spread awareness by sharing websites such as Recompose or Earth Funeral with your friends and family. Additionally, you can follow Recompose’s legislative tracker, a resource that updates visitors on which states are in the process of legalizing human composting.

By destigmatizing environmentally friendly burial options, we can move away from harmful burial choices and make decomposition a common burial practice. Normalizing human composting starts with the small steps of educating our peers until the knowledge reaches the legislature. Instead of scarring the earth, we can return to it.

Complete Article HERE!

Why I imagined my husband’s death

— What if fiction can alter the real world?

By

In my new novel, A Book of Days, a husband is dying slowly. While I was writing it, my own husband died suddenly, with no warning. He died in his sleep, I was told. His children and I hope that is true. He was 400 miles away, and on his own when it happened. The thought of his loneliness, if he was conscious and aware of what was coming, is unbearable, so we do not think of it. Or we try not to. We do know that he was in bed and his window was wide open; before he could hear nothing more, he would have heard the sea breaking on the rocky shore just below the cottage.

Ever since, I’ve been thinking about the lived experience of death. I don’t mean the first-hand testimonies of people who have actually died. If Lazarus told his sisters what it was like to be dead, they did not record it. If Jesus ever described the loneliness of the tomb, his words have been forgotten. No, I mean death as experienced by the living, the survivors.

The experience of death was once far more widely shared. Two hundred years ago, around 15% of babies in Britain died before their first birthdays. “Death borders upon our birth and our cradle stands in the grave”, said a 17th-century bishop of Exeter. Childbirth was dangerous for mothers too. And back then, most people in this country died in their own beds at home, with their families watching. If they did not, if they died on Flanders Fields for instance, their deaths were still not private in the main. But now many people reach adulthood without ever seeing a corpse.

I have seen several corpses, but I did not see the dead body of my husband. For complicated reasons to do with autopsies, transport and distance, neither I nor our children saw him until he was in a sealed coffin in the back of a hearse. I put my hand on his coffin as we filed past it on our way out of the crematorium, but I wish now that I had asked for it to be unsealed. Or that we had gone to the mortuary where he was. If you don’t see that the one you loved is really dead, how can you believe it?

My main feelings when he died were disbelief and a stony sort of shock that left me dry-eyed and clear-headed. And then there were weeks and weeks of paperwork and practicalities that left no space at all to think about my unfinished novel. There was only the haunting fear that by writing a death I had brought a real one into existence. My rational self knew that was not true. Fictions are not premonitions, any more than dreams are. But still.

“There was only the haunting fear that by writing a death I had brought a real one into existence.”

Even when life returned to something close to normal, I could not write the novel. For a while, I thought about writing a memoir instead, a painfully truthful one, about my husband, my grief and anger, and how complicated mourning is. Truth seemed somehow more relevant than fiction; I kept remembering something novelist Rachel Cusk said in an interview: “Once you have suffered sufficiently, the idea of making up John and Jane and having them do things together seems utterly ridiculous.” I made a start on the unvarnished work I had in mind and then abandoned it almost at once. I knew then that I had had more than enough of me.

If I had written and published that memoir, I would have been asking you, the reader, to sympathise with me. Even, perhaps, to identify with my lived experience of grief. Why should you want to do that? My experience is particular but not in any way unique. If, on the other hand, I could write imaginatively enough to transcend the limits of that experience, to widen it, to bring to it the resonances of other lives, other ways of seeing — well, that I felt would be worth doing. I, as the author, would be opening windows for the reader, not beckoning them to follow me into a shuttered room.

Autofiction — fictionalised autobiography that dispenses with the traditional elements of the novel such as character and plot — is arguably the prevailing literary mode of our time. It suits the general demand for self-revelation in life as well as art: in print, on screens, in public, people share the most intimate of details and bare their souls — or seem to. For years, aspiring writers of fiction have been told to “write what you know”, to stick to their own experience and their own boundaries, and by writing their own lives in thin disguise they are demonstrating their obedience to the rule. This is in many ways a good thing. Care must be taken not to trespass clumsily on territories of gender, racial identity, or sexual orientation. But there’s a difference between unacceptable cultural appropriation and creative imagination. That difference can be described as empathy.

However carefully curated, whatever balance it strikes between “truth” and “story”, auto-fiction requires ego. It says: look at me, even though what you see may actually be a mask. And it implicitly assumes a degree of mutual recognition between writer and reader. It’s a mirror, not a clear window. This can often be immensely valuable. But how, then, can a reader step outside their own personal experience, to feel as Keats felt when he first read Homer: “like some watcher of the skies / When a new planet swims into his ken”, breathless with anticipation like Cortez’s men, “silent, upon a peak in Darien”? How, indeed, unless writers can still write of lives beyond their own known and confined realities?

Great writers don’t need lived experience to convey emotion. The psychologist Steven Pinker described an experiment in which people listened to an interview with a heroin addict, who was either a real person or an actor. When the listeners were asked to take the addict’s point of view, they became more sympathetic to addicts in general, even when they knew the interviewee was acting. In other words, they did not need to believe the “addict” was sharing a lived experience in order to empathise. We can see this in William Golding’s astonishing novel, The Inheritors, which takes us into the world of the last Neanderthals and shows us how it feels to be on the wrong side of the cusp of change: disempowered, under threat and fearful. He achieved this masterpiece through an empathetic leap across millennia that owes everything to his brilliance as a writer and his understanding of unchanging human nature, but little to his own experience of life in 20th-century England.

As T.S. Eliot said: “What every poet starts from is his own emotions [but then transmutes] his personal and private agonies into something rich and strange, something universal and impersonal.” To me, that’s a counsel of perfection, the highest of aspirations. My husband’s death caused me great grief, but when eventually I could write that grief upon the page, through voices that were those of imagined people who lived centuries ago, I hope I turned it into something shared, something that could strike chords in hearts other than my own.

Complete Article HERE!

How to Support Someone Who Has Lost a Pet

— The death of an animal companion can be every bit as devastating as other types of loss.

By Catherine Pearson

On “The Daily Show” this week, the host Jon Stewart broke down as he announced the death of his beloved, three-legged brindle pit bull, Dipper — a raw, touching segment that exemplified the deep grief many pet owners feel.

When an animal dies, owners lose companionship, affection and “just plain unconditional love — and we don’t find that in many places in our lives,” said Sherry Cormier, a psychologist and author of “Sweet Sorrow: Finding Enduring Wholeness After Loss and Grief.”

Our society tends to be “grief-phobic,” Dr. Cormier said, and there is a sense that the feelings prompted by the loss of a pet are relatively low in the hierarchy of suffering, or that it’s something that people should be able to cope with and move on from quickly. Dr. Cormier and other loss experts said that is not always true; and they shared ways to help a loved one through the loss of a pet.

Validate the owner’s loss.

Pet loss can lead to disenfranchised grief, meaning it is not validated or acknowledged by the wider world, said Michelle Crossley, an associate professor at Rhode Island College and vice president of the Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement. Therefore, “a lot of individuals end up grieving in isolation because of fear of rejection from other people,” she said, adding, “They worry that they won’t understand or they’ll minimize the loss.”

Keep it simple when expressing your sympathies, Dr. Cormier said. She suggested something like: “I know your animal was such an important part of your life and family. I can see how much he meant to you and how much you’re already missing him.”

Pet grief is often complicated by feelings of guilt if your friend or loved one opted to put an animal down to minimize suffering, Dr. Cormier said. She has done so with two golden retrievers, but noted the circumstances were quite different. One lived a long, happy life; the other had to be put down unexpectedly because of an aggressive brain tumor.

Resist the urge to say “I know how you feel,” she cautioned, even if your intention is simply to express empathy. “Everyone’s grief is unique,” she added.

Ask how you can help honor the pet.

Rituals are an important part of the grieving process, Dr. Crossley said, but they are sometimes overlooked when an animal dies. Perhaps your friend would welcome a memorial service, she suggested, or would like to make a memento box with photos and a few of his pet’s favorite toys.

If your friend or loved one is experiencing anticipatory grief — that is, she knows a pet is getting old or is likely to die soon — you might ask whether you can help plan any “bucket list” activities that she would like to do with her pet. You could consider giving your friend a meaningful gift. For instance, Dr. Crossley has seen people turn a pet’s water bowl into a planter. (She has a shelf where she keeps the ashes from the five dogs she has lost, along with their photos and paw prints, she noted.)

Keep in mind the physical component of your friend’s loss. “People report really intense physical longing, oftentimes comparing it to what they imagine the loss of a limb feels like,” said Judith Harbour, a veterinary social worker with the Schwarzman Animal Medical Center in New York City, who helps run pet loss support groups (which are another option for people experiencing acute grief after the passing of a pet). There is not an easy fix for that longing, she said, but sometimes an object to hold or cuddle with, like a blanket that belonged to the pet, can help.

Reminisce with your loved one.

The fact that people sometimes feel embarrassed to open up about how much they are missing their pet can contribute to feelings of loneliness and isolation, Dr. Cormier said. Simply encouraging them to share stories, photos or videos of their pet if they are up for it can help them feel less alone in their suffering, she said. And, if possible, listen more than you talk.

Be there for the long haul.

All of the experts noted the common misconception that pet-related grief doesn’t last as long as other types of grief. But it is cyclical, Dr. Cormier said, and she urged people to check in with friends and loved ones not just days or weeks after a loss, but for months or even years after the fact.

Do not ask whether your friend or loved one intends to get another pet, Ms. Harbour said. She lamented that almost everyone she had counseled after the loss of a pet had been asked that question. Mourning takes time.

“Don’t forget about them,” Ms. Harbour said of grieving pet lovers. “Check in and give them time to chat about their pet with you. That is really meaningful, because people often feel that the world is turning and time is passing and no one remembers their animal.”

Complete Article HERE!

Speaking of death

— Christians have an opportunity to eschew euphemisms and talk honestly about mortality.

By Rachel Mann

When my father died a couple of years ago, my family asked me to take the lead in organizing his funeral. I was happy to take this role: I am an experienced cleric used to working with funeral directors, and I have a strong understanding of the funeral process. What I’d never previously experienced—at least not from the point of view of a grieving person—is how readily those involved in the ministrations around a death speak in euphemisms. Perhaps it was a token of my grief, but I was annoyed by how many people couldn’t even say that my dad had died; most people, including the funeral director, said, repeatedly, that he’d “passed.”

Does it matter? At one level, no. The phrase “passed away” has been used to refer to death for 500 years. Still, it troubles me theologically. I fear that the prevalence of using passed as a way of speaking (or not speaking) of death indicates a society frightened by the finality of death, one that has opted for an overly spiritualized response to the last enemy.

A common refrain in my clergy circles is about how, on visits to plan funeral services with the bereaved, the only person prepared to use the “D” word is the priest herself. The bereaved will typically resort to any number of euphemisms to avoid it. This is entirely understandable. Shock is a natural reaction to death and, as creatures of language, we may be inclined to retreat to clichés that seem to soften the blow.

Indeed, at one level, euphemisms are entirely comprehensible as strategies to avoid the things we struggle with most. As Voltaire noted, “One great use of words is to hide our thoughts.” This applies to any difficult aspect of life, not simply death. Terms like downsizing and rationalization have been used for decades in business settings to avoid speaking directly about job cuts. In almost every area of life that really matters or troubles us—from sex through to war—there are forms of words that have been found to smooth out what’s difficult.

If death is the greatest human fear, it is hardly surprising that most of us will find ways of avoiding talking about it. The sheer number of ways humans have of avoiding the “D” word is both a testament to our creativity and an indication of how much we fear death.

Yet I think one of the imperatives on us as Christians is to be as honest as we can about death. Priests in particular are called to help people to pray and prepare them for death. Ironically, in an age when Christians are often parodied as delusional fantasists, we in fact have something powerful to offer as people who model realism and honesty about death. And one way we do that is by avoiding euphemisms at the point of death. If euphemisms are deployed in part to soften the nature of something shocking and appalling, ironically they serve to draw greater attention to that which they are meant to conceal. By being carefully and humanely honest about the singular finality of death, both priests and laypeople may be key agents in helping the bereaved to come to terms with the simple fact that, in this life at least, their loved ones are gone.

I am not suggesting that Christians should be crass. I trust we will always be sensitive to death’s ability to strip any of us of our certainties. But the quiet acknowledgment of the final nature of death may be significant both pastorally and for mission. In being clear that death has a shocking finality about it, Christians—as people who are committed to resurrection and new life—may be better placed to speak the good news of Christ. One thing we should not be afraid of in our faith tradition is the bleak reality that God incarnate, Jesus Christ, actually died and died horribly. He did not fall asleep or pass over or, to quote George Eliot, “join the choir invisible.” He died, in a vile and appalling way.

Resurrection is predicated on death. This is a powerful message in an age and culture in which technology and market economics have created the illusion that life and growth are almost endless. Growth is taken to be always good—and to be fair, growth is often a sign of life. Yet Jesus invites us to remember that unless a kernel of wheat falls and dies it remains a single seed. Jesus himself models a way of living abundantly that is grounded in the unavoidable reality of death.

Increasingly I read stories of billionaires seeking to cheat death altogether. In a culture where medical technologies have extended life among the wealthy to unprecedented levels, Christianity retains a potent voice on the inescapability of death. Even more powerfully, the figure at the heart of the Christian faith, Jesus Christ, signals that a fulfilled and rich life is not by its nature dependent on its length. At a time when religious faith is often parodied as absurd, childish, and fantastical, there is a profound opportunity to speak to the privilege of individuals and societies that seek to isolate themselves from the facts of human existence.

I know that there is nothing much I can do, as an individual, about the use of passing as a euphemism for death. At the same time, I can think of no greater vocation as a person of faith than to speak honestly about death, trusting in that even deeper reality of God’s resurrection.

Complete Article HERE!

I’d only met my neighbor a few times. When she died I took in her dog.

— As we walk the halls of the children’s hospital, I hope my neighbor is smiling, knowing how much joy her dog brings to everyone she meets

Lisa Kanarek with her dog Gaia, who she adopted after Gaia’s former owner died. Gaia is now a pet therapy dog, and the two regularly visit a children’s hospital. Gaia’s birthday is Valentine’s Day.

by Lisa Kanarek

In the early morning after Thanksgiving, I awoke to red lights blinking through the blinds. I slipped a long, puffy coat over my pajamas and rushed outside.

An ambulance idled in my 80-year-old neighbor Sandra’s driveway as paramedics rolled a gurney into her home. Although I hardly knew her, my neighbor’s last trip to the hospital would set off a ripple effect that would change my life and affect others she’d never met.

I remembered Sandra had a large dog, so I texted her friend, Gilda. She took care of the pup any time my neighbor was away, and Gilda and I had exchanged numbers once. Gilda was out of town and told me where to find the spare key to Sandra’s house.

During the three years my husband and I lived next door, I had only been inside Sandra’s home twice. The first was a few weeks after we moved in. I rang the doorbell, and Sandra, dressed in a colorful skirt and blouse, invited me in. I guessed she was in her late 70s.

After introducing myself, her dog walked up to me, sniffed my shoes, then lay on her side.

“I’m Sandra, and this is Gaia,” she said. “She loves having her stomach rubbed.”

I liked my neighbor immediately. She was direct and matter-of-fact with her conversation.

“Trash pickup is on Mondays, and introduce yourself to the security patrol so they’ll know who you are if you need them,” she said as she wrote down her phone number and the security number. She told me about neighborhood parties. “I don’t have time for those,” she said. “I have other things I’d rather do.”

The second time I saw her was a month later when I brought her a plant. She had thanked me for the gift but hadn’t invited me in.

I thought of Sandra and our last conversation as I turned the key and stepped inside her home. The caramel and white husky strolled toward me, her head down and her eyes locked on mine.

Unable to remember the dog’s name, I looked down at the silver tag on her collar. “Hi, Gaia,” I said. She dropped to the ground and rolled on her back so I could rub her white belly.

I texted Gilda to ask if the pup could stay with us until she came back to town. “Sure. Thank you!” she wrote back. During the next few days, Gilda called to tell me she was trying to find someone to watch the dog while Sandra was in the hospital. I told her not to worry; my husband and I would take care of Gaia. I walked her twice daily.

A week later, when Sandra returned home, Gilda temporarily moved into the second bedroom and became her full-time caregiver. As my neighbor’s health deteriorated, Gilda and I became friends. I asked her if I could continue my walks with the dog.

Each time I picked up Gaia, Gilda and I chatted for at least 10 minutes. During one of these conversations, she asked me a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Do you want to keep Gaia when Sandra is gone?”

“She’s not going to live with you?” I asked.

“I wish she could, but we might be moving, and the new yard is too small for her,” she said.

“We’re happy to adopt her,” I answered. “We love Gaia already.”

>Less than two weeks later, Gilda texted me: “The hospice nurse is on her way. I think it’s time.” Within an hour after I arrived at her home, my frail neighbor took her last breath. I waited in the kitchen as Gilda and her husband said their tearful goodbyes.

The hospice nurse called the funeral home, and Gilda’s husband stepped into the kitchen. He patted Gaia on the head and scratched her back. “It’s time to take her to your house,” he said.

I attached her faded orange leash to her matching collar. By the time we crossed Sandra’s driveway and stepped onto my lawn, tears dripped onto my coat. I was mourning a woman I’d only talked with twice, but I felt connected to her through her animal companion, now mine. For weeks, I watched Gaia closely, knowing she would be sad, confused and possibly disoriented moving to a new home.

A month after Sandra died, I completed training as an end-of-life doula. Gaia was calm on our daily walks, even around the small children who stopped to pet her, so she seemed to be a good match as a therapy dog.

I finished the online training with Pet Partners, passed the in-person test and then applied to volunteer at a local children’s hospital.

On our first day at the hospital, I hid my shock at seeing a young girl with a shaved head and tubes attached to her arm, a patch on her hand to hold the IV needle in place. I knew the hospital specialized in treating complex cases, but I hadn’t mentally prepared for what I would find behind each door. Gaia had a different reaction, not hesitating to pad up to the bed and let the girl scratch her behind her ears.

Now, every other week, I slip Gaia’s purple therapy dog vest over her neck, and we head across town to see patients and their families. Before leaving the hospital room, I hand the child a trading card with Gaia’s picture on the front and facts about her on the back: favorite food, activities she likes and her birthday. When I could not confirm her date of birth, I listed my neighbor’s birthday, Feb. 14.

More than eight months later, I’m no longer surprised by the young patients we see. I follow Gaia’s lead and focus on making the children smile. They rub her back and tell me about their pets. Recently, one little boy asked for her phone number, while another told his mom, “Look at her badge, Mom. She’s a doctor!”

Gaia’s life changed when she became part of our family. She interacts with the kids down the street (her fan club) during our walks, and she provides laughter and levity to sick children, all with her tail wagging. She goes with us on road trips and to outdoor festivals where she knows that people will stop to run their hands down her fluffy back or ask her for a high-five.

My life is different too. Meeting dozens of people during our visits has brought out the extrovert tendencies I lost during the pandemic. Before I knock on each patient’s door, I breathe in, then greet families with confidence, knowing the reaction my sidekick will receive. The same skills I’ve learned through being with Gaia, I use as an end-of-life doula. One of the first ways I bond with a patient or a family member is through a conversation about our dogs.

Adopting my neighbor’s dog has allowed me the opportunity to pay it forward in ways I’ve never experienced before. As we pass through the halls of the children’s hospital, I think of Sandra and hope she’s smiling, knowing how much joy Gaia brings to everyone she meets.

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