Tag: Meditation

Posted on

A dinner party for dead guests serves up surprising connections

— My friends came to a silent supper with their dead friends and relatives so that we could grieve our loved ones together

‘It’s only minutes into the evening when it becomes painfully, joyfully clear that everyone around the table needs this communion’: India Rakusen at her silent supper.

By

I don’t normally feel worried about having my friends over for dinner. Usually, I’ll be covered in splashes of soup and partially dressed when they arrive, but tonight I feel nervous.

Figuring out who to invite was complicated. Not only did they have to be available at short notice, but they had to be up for it, open to something different. Because this evening everyone has been asked to bring a plus-one … someone who has died.

As my living guests begin to arrive, bringing in the dark and subtle nip of the October air, I have the strong sense that they are not alone. I take their coats and ask them for the photo of their guest. Out of their pockets come snapshots. Smiling portraits, a moment of laughter on the stairs, a child on the beach, the ruffled ears of a French bulldog, a matriarch blurred by clouds of cigarette smoke.

In the other room, it’s quiet. The table is laid with candles, autumn leaves from the park and bright flowers, and there are twice as many plates laid at the table as there will be people in the room. I put each photo in its place. Because this is where we will serve food to the dead. We will eat, sometimes in silence, but we’ll talk and remember and, probably, cry. This is a silent supper. A feast for the dead.

It isn’t something I’d even have thought to do if I hadn’t been hanging out with witches for the series Witch for BBC Sounds and Radio 4. I’ve rarely felt comfortable or at ease talking about the dead or talking to someone who’s grieving, but for witches this seems to be different. Over the past year I’ve taken part in seances, been to an ancestor ritual and made an ancestor bottle for the spirit of a loved one. Most witches have regular rituals and altars for their ancestors and, of course, they have a dedicated season for remembrance. Witches believe that on 31 October, or Samhain, the “veil” is thin. It’s a skin between life and death that becomes more porous throughout October until, on this night, life and death can pour into each other – a lot like the world we see around us.

There are twice as many plates at the table as people in the room

This is the idea we play with at Halloween when ghouls and night terrors come knocking at our door. There’s a playfulness and joy at the idea of the afterlife being present, but in reality it’s so far out of reach. This year, I’ve decided to search for meaningful ways to remember the dead.

I decided that hosting a silent supper – historically known as a “dumb supper” – could be a good start. Eating in silence and feasting for the dead has been part of life for centuries. In England, there used to be a tradition called “chesting”.

Prof Diane Purkiss, author of English Food: A People’s History, explains: “This was even more of an Irish wake than an Irish wake. It involved having a feast that was laid out on the coffin of the deceased person. A massive blowout meal with huge treats and sugary goo. It’s honouring the dead, but it’s also quite visceral because you’re doing it on the coffin and it almost brings them physically into the feast.”

A silent supper is one step further. “What you’re describing is a ritual around the scariest and most taboo thing, which is the dead,” she says, “and this is because witches have a very special relationship with them. I define a witch as someone who doesn’t see the dead the way other people do.”

That’s certainly true. Last year my friend, colleague and witch Tatum Swithenbank reached the age at which a much loved and needed auntie had died. So their coven held a silent supper. “Sometimes we just want a space to talk about the people who have passed and there’s not really any great comfort you can give in words,” they told me. “What’s better than listening in a neutral space? That was the power of it. I don’t think you have to be a witch or be practising to do that.” They ate cheese, skull-shaped pizzas and a pumpkin pie.

Feeling underqualified to host my own silent supper, I ask for advice. “Making it dark, with only candles, really helps because people feel they are not as exposed,” says Tatum. “And it’s important to say something at the beginning. I acknowledged that grief is messy and complicated.” Another witch who loves a silent supper is Emma Griffin, who shares the ritual with her children. “It’s really nice for them to know their heritage,” she says. “We’ll have supper and talk about death, look through photos and also talk about death bringing changes. This year we are making food that my dad would like – meat and potato pie, mash and gravy.”

She advises me to make the space sacred and gentle. “I suggest giving people a dress code. When they come over your threshold, give them a little tealight. Remember, it’s a celebration of life. And you want to burn myrrh,” she says, gently but firmly as she talks me through my first ever online myrrh purchase. “It will smoke a lot, so don’t panic.”

The most pressing question of all is what on earth am I going to feed the dead? “Traditionally, the dead seem to want luxury foods,” says Purkiss. “They tend to eat dessert first, you know, life is short, eat dessert first. The dead always feel undervalued and in a way it makes them shirty so you are trying to get them to a position where they feel you value them.”

So, before the event, I threw myself (and my partner) into planning a six-course feast, my guests constantly in mind, especially the dead ones. What would they want? What would we give them if we had the chance again?

I bring Grandma Suzette. The family rarely talks about her

Purkiss approves. “Isn’t that what we all want?” she says. “When someone dies, virtually the first thing you feel is, ‘Oh, if only. If only I’d done this, or if only I’d found the time’. And the whole point of the ceremony is to give yourselves the healing chance to show great aunt Sarah you did really care.”

On the night itself, I choose to bring Grandma Suzette, who I have never met. She died when my dad was a baby. The family rarely talk about her. As my own son turned one, the loss of her for my dad and his siblings, and for me, started to ring loudly in my body. I am desperate to grieve for her.

And that’s what we’re here to do tonight. There’s a lot of normal party noise in the kitchen, but when we enter the dining room, absolutely brimming with myrrh smoke, everything softens. First, we light a candle and welcome our dead guests to the table. It feels a little strange, but maybe it should be normal. After all, eating for – and even with the dead – was once a living tradition, one that’s been purposefully rubbed away.

“There was this way of seeing the dead as beings that you interact with,” says Purkiss, adding that Catholic death rituals, such as kissing ornately decorated bones of saints, or praying in huge ossuaries stacked with bodies, went out during the Reformation. “Protestants threw all of that out, partly because they thought it had become a bit of a scam and it probably had in some cases. But the phrase throwing out the baby with the bathwater comes powerfully to mind.”

And she might be right, because it’s only minutes into the evening when it becomes painfully, joyfully clear that everyone around the table needs this communion with the dead. The phrase “I haven’t allowed myself to grieve” comes up time and again. One friend hasn’t allowed herself to grieve for her mum for 11 years. Another drifted from someone she adored and never felt she had permission to mourn them. A pal describes her love and grief for her dog Buddy as tied up with her longing for a baby. We also share joy and memories. My sister brings my other hilarious, powerful granny. A friend shares the story of a grandad who brought him pure and uncomplicated joy.<

The talking is a release, but so is acknowledging the empty places. “People did that a lot after the First World War,” Purkiss says. “They would lay places at Christmas dinner for people who had died. It makes sense.” There are three mini courses that we eat without speaking. We reflect or we write, and then we burn things we wished we could say to them.

As the courses continue to roll out, my guests talk about how much their plus-ones would have loved the feast, the wine. The chance to eat dessert again and again. We make them feel loved through food. Buddy the dog would have had a field day.

We eat too much, raise glasses of sweet mead to everyone, say the names of people out loud many, many times. We look each other straight in the eyes. No one shies away from death. By the end we all stink of myrrh, but it is as though something had shifted, for all of us. For me, I know how to talk about my grandma now, and I cannot wait to keep celebrating the people I miss in my life.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

Posted on

A Hospice Nurse on Embracing the Grace of Dying

Hadley Vlahos

By David Marchese

A decade ago, Hadley Vlahos was lost. She was a young single mother, searching for meaning and struggling to make ends meet while she navigated nursing school. After earning her degree, working in immediate care, she made the switch to hospice nursing and changed the path of her life. Vlahos, who is 31, found herself drawn to the uncanny, intense and often unexplainable emotional, physical and intellectual gray zones that come along with caring for those at the end of their lives, areas of uncertainty that she calls “the in-between.” That’s also the title of her first book, which was published this summer. “The In-Between: Unforgettable Encounters During Life’s Final Moments” is structured around her experiences — tragic, graceful, earthy and, at times, apparently supernatural — with 11 of her hospice patients, as well as her mother-in-law, who was also dying. The book has so far spent 13 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. “It’s all been very surprising,” says Vlahos, who despite her newfound success as an author and her two-million-plus followers on social media, still works as a hospice nurse outside New Orleans. “But I think that people are seeing their loved ones in these stories.”

What should more people know about death? I think they should know what they want. I’ve been in more situations than you could imagine where people just don’t know. Do they want to be in a nursing home at the end or at home? Organ donation? Do you want to be buried or cremated? The issue is a little deeper here: Someone gets diagnosed with a terminal illness, and we have a culture where you have to “fight.” That’s the terminology we use: “Fight against it.” So the family won’t say, “Do you want to be buried or cremated?” because those are not fighting words. I have had situations where someone has had terminal cancer for three years, and they die, and I say: “Do they want to be buried or cremated? Because I’ve told the funeral home I’d call.” And the family goes, “I don’t know what they wanted.” I’m like, We’ve known about this for three years! But no one wants to say: “You are going to die. What do you want us to do?” It’s against that culture of “You’re going to beat this.”

Is it hard to let go of other people’s sadness and grief at the end of a day at work? Yeah. There’s this moment, especially when I’ve taken care of someone for a while, where I’ll walk outside and I’ll go fill up my gas tank and it’s like: Wow, all these other people have no idea that we just lost someone great. The world lost somebody great, and they’re getting a sandwich. It is this strange feeling. I take some time, and mentally I say: “Thank you for allowing me to take care of you. I really enjoyed taking care of you.” Because I think that they can hear me.

The idea in your book of “the in-between” is applied so starkly: It’s the time in a person’s life when they’re alive, but death is right there. But we’re all living in the in-between every single moment of our lives. We are.

So how might people be able to hold on to appreciation for that reality, even if we’re not medically near the end? It’s hard. I think it’s important to remind ourselves of it. It’s like, you read a book and you highlight it, but you have to pick it back up. You have to keep reading it. You have to. Until it really becomes a habit to think about it and acknowledge it.

I was reading these articles recently about how scientists are pursuing breakthroughs that could extend the human life span to one hundred twenty.1

1
Examples of which could include devising drug cocktails that get rid of senescent cells and filtering old blood to remove molecules that inhibit healing.

There’s some part of people that thinks they can cheat death — and, of course, you can’t. But what do you think about the prospect of extending the human life span? I don’t want to live to be 120. I have spent enough time around people who are close to 100, over 100, to know that once you start burying your children, you’re ready. Personally, I’ve never met someone 100 or older who still wants to be alive. I have this analogy that I did a TikTok2

2
Vlahos has 1.7 million followers on TikTok, where she posts about her experience as a hospice nurse and often responds to questions about death and dying.

on. This is from having a conversation with someone over 100, and her feeling is that you start with your Earth room when you’re born: You have your parents, your grandparents, your siblings. As you get older, your Earth room starts to have more people: You start making friends and college roommates and relationships. Then you start having kids. And at some point, people start exiting and going to the next room: the afterlife. From what she told me, it’s like you get to a point when you’re older that you start looking at what that other room would be, the afterlife room,3

3
According to a 2021 Pew Research survey, 73 percent of American adults say they believe in heaven.

and being like, I miss those people. It’s not because you don’t love the people on Earth, but the people you built your life with are no longer here. I have been around so many people who are that age, and a majority of them — they’re ready to go see those people again.

“The In-Between” also has to do with the experience of being in between uncertainty and knowing. But how much uncertainty is there for you? Because in the book you write about things that you can’t explain, like people who are close to death telling you that they’re seeing their dead loved ones again. But then you write, “I do believe that our loved ones come to get us when we pass.”4

4
From Vlahos’s book: “I don’t think that we can explain everything that happens here on Earth, much less whatever comes after we physically leave our bodies. I do believe that our loved ones come to get us when we pass, and I don’t believe that’s the result of a chemical reaction in our brain in those final hours.”

So where is the uncertainty? The uncertainty I have is what after this life looks like. People ask me for those answers, and I don’t have them. No one does. I feel like there is something beyond, but I don’t know what it is. When people are having these in-between experiences of seeing deceased loved ones, sometimes it is OK to ask what they’re seeing. I find that they’ll say, “Oh, I’m going on a trip,” or they can’t seem to find the words to explain it. So the conclusion I’ve come to is whatever is next cannot be explained with the language and the knowledge that we have here on Earth.

An image from Hadley Vlahos’s TikTok account, where she often posts role-playing scenes and video tutorials. She has more than two million followers across social media.

Do these experiences feel religious to you? No, and that was one of the most convincing things for me. It does not matter what their background is — if they believe in nothing, if they are the most religious person, if they grew up in a different country, rich or poor. They all tell me the same things. And it’s not like a dream, which is what I think a lot of people think it is. Like, Oh, I went to sleep, and I had a dream. What it is instead is this overwhelming sense of peace. People feel this peace, and they will talk to me, just like you and I are talking, and then they will also talk to their deceased loved ones. I see that over and over again: They are not confused; there’s no change in their medications. Other hospice nurses, people who have been doing this longer than me, or physicians, we all believe in this.

Do you have a sense of whether emergency-room nurses5

5
Who, because of the nature of their jobs, are more likely than hospice nurses to see violent, painful deaths.

report similar things? I interned in the E.R., and the nurse I was shadowing said that no one who works in the E.R. believes in an afterlife. I asked myself: Well, how do I know who’s correct? How am I supposed to know? Are the people in the church that I was raised with6

6
Vlahos was raised in an Episcopalian family. She now refers to herself, as so many do, as spiritual rather than religious

more correct than all these people? How are you supposed to know what’s right and what’s not?

But you’ve made a choice about what you believe. So what makes you believe it? I totally get it: People are like, I don’t know what you’re talking about. So, OK, medically someone’s at the end of their life. Many times — not all the time — there will be up to a minute between breaths. That can go on for hours. A lot of times there will be family there, and you’re pretty much just staring at someone being like, When is the last breath going to come? It’s stressful. What is so interesting to me is that almost everyone will know exactly when it is someone’s last breath. That moment. Not one minute later. We are somehow aware that a certain energy is not there. I’ve looked for different explanations, and a lot of the explanations do not match my experiences.

That reminds me of how people say someone just gives off a bad vibe. Oh, I totally believe in bad vibes.

But I think there must be subconscious cues that we’re picking up that we don’t know how to measure scientifically. That’s different from saying it’s supernatural. We might not know why, but there’s nothing magic going on. You don’t have any kind of doubts?

None. Really? That’s so interesting. You know, I read your article with the atheist.7

7
“How to Live a Happy Life, From a Leading Atheist,” an interview with the philosopher Daniel C. Dennett, published in August.

I feel like you pushed back on him.

There are so many things in our lives, both on the small and the big scale, that we don’t understand. But I don’t think that means they’re beyond understanding. OK, you know what you would like? Because I know that you’re like, “I believe this,” but you seem to me very interested; you’re not just set in your ways. Have you ever heard that little story about two twins in a womb?8

8
Known as the parable of the twins, this story was popularized by the self-help author Dr. Wayne W. Dyer in his 1995 book “Your Sacred Self: Making the Decision to Be Free.”

I’m going to totally butcher it, but essentially it’s two twins who can talk in the womb. One twin is like, “I don’t think that there is any life after birth.” And the other is like, “I don’t know; I believe that there is something after we’re born.” “Well, no one’s ever come back after birth to tell us that there is.” “I think that there’s going to be a world where we can live without the umbilical cord and there’s light.” “What are you talking about? You’re crazy.” I think about it a lot. Do we just not have enough perspective here to see what could come next? I think you’ll like that story.

For the dying people who don’t experience what you describe — and especially their loved ones — is your book maybe setting them up to think, like: Did I do something wrong? Was my faith not strong enough? When I’m in the home, I will always prepare people for the worst-case scenario, which is that sometimes it looks like people might be close to going into a coma, and they haven’t seen anyone, and the family is extremely religious. I will talk to them and say, “In my own experience, only 30 percent of people can even communicate to us that they are seeing people.” So I try to be with my families and really prepare them for the worst-case scenario. But that is something I had to learn over time.

Have you thought about what a good death would be for you? I want to be at home. I want to have my immediate family come and go as they want, and I want a living funeral. I don’t want people to say, “This is my favorite memory of her,” when I’m gone. Come when I’m dying, and let’s talk about those memories together. There have been times when patients have shared with me that they just don’t think anyone cares about them. Then I’ll go to their funeral and listen to the most beautiful eulogies. I believe they can still hear it and are aware of it, but I’m also like, Gosh, I wish that before they died, they heard you say these things. That’s what I want.

You know, I have a really hard time with the supernatural aspects, but I think the work that you do is noble and valuable. There’s so much stuff we spend time thinking about and talking about that is less meaningful than what it means for those close to us to die. I have had so many people reach out to me who are just like you: “I don’t believe in the supernatural, but my grandfather went through this, and I appreciate getting more of an understanding. I feel like I’m not alone.” Even if they’re also like, “This is crazy,” people being able to feel not alone is valuable.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity from two conversations.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

Posted on

Death Is a Part of Life

— A mindfulness of death practice inspired by the Buddha’s teachings in the Maranasati Sutta

By Nikki Mirghafori

The Buddha taught mindfulness of death teachings in many different discourses. Today we will discuss the Maranasati Sutta (Anguttara Nikaya 6.19). Maranasati means death awareness—marana (death) and sati (awareness or mindfulness). At the beginning of the Maranasati Sutta, the Buddha is said to address the monks, or practitioners (we’re all practitioners), thus:

When mindfulness of death is developed and cultivated, it’s beneficial. It culminates in the deathless, and ends with the deathless—but how does one develop mindfulness of death?

I’d like to go over these benefits before talking about the specific instructions he gave the monks.

The Benefits of Practicing Mindfulness of Death

Many of us in the West might be afraid of death—we don’t want to think about it, we don’t want to talk about it—and yet, bringing death into our awareness has many benefits—benefits for ourselves and our loved ones, benefits in how we live, and benefits for how we die. This practice prepares us to have a sense of peace, not being scared and fearful, when the moment of death arises.

The moment of death is said to be a liberating moment. So doing this practice is supreme training for that important moment of transitioning. However, this practice isn’t just for the potential of liberation. It impacts the way we live and how we show up for ourselves and others—loved ones, people we don’t know, and people we have challenges with.

Living according to our values is one of the many benefits of this practice. When we know that our time in this body and in this life is finite—when we fully embrace finitude—we don’t waste time. When the scarcity of our time comes into the forefront of our consciousness, we tend not to do the unskillful actions that cause harm. When we “greet and hold death as an advisor on our shoulder all the time,” as Carlos Castaneda said, the way we live our life changes.

We live with more freedom, peace, ease, love, and care because we know there is nothing to hang on to. We are a traveler on this earth. This body is not mine. It’s for rent. This life is for rent.

When we realize this, we live differently, we live more freely. We let go of our clinging, our sense of attachment to me, me, me, mine, mine, mine. It shifts our perspective. We can live with more freedom, generosity, kindness, and forgiveness. There is nothing to take with us. There’s nothing to hang on to. So this practice is liberating, just as the Buddha says, and it has the deathless as its fruit.

What does the deathless mean?

The deathless refers to nibbana (nirvana). The deathless is another translation for nibbana, freedom, liberation, awakening. So mindfulness of death practice is a liberating practice. It leads to freedom in the way we live and in the moment that we die—the ultimate letting go.

Summarizing the Sutta

So with that as the preamble, let’s continue with the Maranasati Sutta.

So then, as I read, the Buddha asked the monks:

Do you develop mindfulness of death? How do you develop mindfulness of death, knowing how important it is?

One monk raises their hand and says:

Oh, yes, I develop mindfulness of death. If I’d only live for another day and night, I’d focus on the Buddha’s instructions and I could really achieve a lot. That’s how I develop mindfulness of death.

And then another monk raises their hand and says:

Me too, me too! I practice mindfulness of death. If I’d only live for a day, then I’d focus on Buddha’s instructions.

Another one raises their hand and says:

Me too, me too! I practice as if I’d only live as long as it takes to eat a meal of alms food.

And then the fourth one raises their hand and says:

Oh, Buddha, Buddha, I practice, thinking if I lived only as long as it takes to chew and swallow four or five morsels of food.

A fifth one raises their hand and says:

Actually, the way I practice is, if only I lived as long as it takes to chew and swallow one morsel of food.

And then the last one, the sixth one in the story, raises their hand and says:

Buddha, the way I practice is, I might live only long enough to breathe out, after breathing in, or breathe in, after breathing out. That’s how I practice mindfulness of death.

And then the Buddha says:

Okay practitioners, those of you who said, “I think I’m going to live another day or night and I have time,” or said, “I may live another day,” or said, “I may live to eat another meal,” or said, “I may live to eat three or four morsels of food,” all of you are living heedlessly. All of you are living heedlessly.

Those of you who are practicing while thinking, “I might only live long enough to chew this bite of food,” or “I might only live long enough to eat this bite of food,” or “I might only live long enough for the duration of this in-breath or the duration of this out-breath, that I might die after this in-breath or after this out-breath”—you are practicing heedfully.

So as practitioners, how do we heedfully practice the instructions of the Buddha? The invitation is not to think, Oh I’ll have time, I have another year, or another month, or another week.

Heedlessly was considered thinking I have another day, another few bites of food. The Buddha is inviting us to consider that we could die in this moment, at the end of this in-breath or this out-breath, at the end of this bite of food, right here, right now. The Buddha is inviting us to bring death intimately into each breath.

The Practice of Mindfulness of Death

So with this, I would like to lead a guided meditation for us to practice with these instructions. I would like to invite you to close your eyes, if that’s comfortable for you. To feel yourself sitting or lying down, whatever posture is comfortable for you. Feel yourself having a sense of integrity, a sense of uprightness, letting the body be relaxed while rooted to this earth, to your sit bones, to your feet. Feeling your hands and yet the sense of uprightness, dignity.

Let us begin by bringing our awareness, our attention, into this body. This long fathom body, breathing in this moment. Feeling the breath where it’s comfortable for you, or in your abdomen, sensing the life force moving through.

This body is alive in this moment and breathing. Let’s connect with the sense of aliveness in this body. Breathing, pulsating, this amazing piece of nature. Through this in-breath, through this out-breath.

After we connect with the living, pulsating, alive nature of this body, let us connect to the fact that this body too shall die. This body is nature. It’s not a mistake. It’s not an aberration. It’s not a problem. Death is a part of life. Everything that is born also dies, and this body too.

Letting the awareness connect with the in-breath, with the out-breath. Settling, calming, and appreciating that death is so close. It’s always close. I might only live as long as it takes to breathe in, that’s all. Or I might live as long as it takes to breathe out after breathing in.

Death is so close and intimate. Can we bring it close and intimate, like a friend who advises us, on how to live, how to practice, how to be in this moment attending to the Buddha’s teachings on love, compassion, letting go, and generosity.

What if I only have the length of this in-breath to live? The length of this out-breath to live? Can we open our hearts to relax and embrace this liberating truth of impermanence?

For some of us, this practice can bring up a sense of agitation. It’s okay. You’re not doing it wrong. If agitation arises, let yourself relax with the out-breath. Connect with the sensations in the body in a spacious way, making space for the agitation or the fear that may have arisen. It’s not a mistake. As we allow ourselves to make space and be with what is difficult, arising in this moment. As expand our capacity for peace. To be with what is challenging, we extend our capacity and we cultivate fearlessness, another synonym for nibbana.

So as you do this practice on your own, bring in this contemplation: Death is so close, I might only live as long as it takes to breathe this in-breath or out-breath.

At the end of this morsel of food, how do you want to live? How do you want to show up? How do you want to cultivate your heart and mind in this short flash that is our life?

Remember that this practice of mindfulness of mortality is a liberating practice. It ends in the deathless. In nibbana, in freedom, awakening.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

Posted on

Death is inevitable

— Why don’t we talk about it more?

Alua Arthur

Death is hard to talk about. But death doula Alua Arthur says if we want to live presently and die peacefully, we have to radically reshape our relationship with death.

 

About Alua Arthur

As a death doula, Alua Arthur help individuals and families to navigate the emotional, legal and spiritual issues that arise around death. Arthur worked as an attorney prior to entering the field of “death work.” Her organization, Going with Grace, educates fellow death doulas in nonmedical end-of-life care. Her forthcoming book, Briefly Perfectly Human, reframes how we think about dying.

Arthur was recently featured in the National Geographic television series Limitless, in which she helped actor Chris Hemsworth map out his own future death. She has been featured in the Los Angeles Times, Vogue, InStyle and more. She is a former director of the National End-of-Life Doula Alliance.

Posted on

My Husband Is Dying

— Advice from the Cancer Wars

Lou and Leida’s wedding day, 1982

The emotional and physical toll on both of us during our last year together

By Leida Snow

Everybody has a sell-by date, but some folks know theirs in advance. About a year ago, my husband and I had a meeting with a doctor who was new to us. Nice looking man with an open face. He saw our expectant looks and stopped mid-sentence. Looking at Lou he said, “Has no one mentioned that you have stage 4 cancer?”

No one had. We knew there was an issue. Lou has one kidney from birth, and at his yearly checkup, the kidney specialist said to talk to a cancer doctor. But he didn’t seem overly anxious.

I was grateful that finally someone was speaking truth. The hardest to hear was that Lou had, probably, about a year to live. It was as though someone had taken a very sharp knife and plunged it into my stomach.

The oncologist explained that Lou had cancer cells in his liver, but they were not those expected to be there. They were squamish cells, usually associated with other locations. That meant they had spread (metastasized) from somewhere else. But they didn’t know where they had come from.

A Rare Form of Cancer

Lou has cancer with unknown primary (CUP). It affects 2% to 5% of diagnosed cancers. The doctor’s next words tore at my gut: Because the primary source is unknown, there are no data-based, targeted treatments. In other words, for those with CUP, treatment is a guessing game.

I was grateful that finally someone was speaking truth. The hardest to hear was that Lou had, probably, about a year to live.

We had gotten the news at NYU Langone, a top-flight institution where we see our specialists. The overwhelming advice was to go to Memorial Sloan Kettering (MSK) in New York, the Gold Standard, we were told.

Given the restricted time frame, we expected MSK to build on NYU’s findings. But they had to re-do tests, to validate the results. Over the following months, I swallowed my anger and frustration, as the days filled with tests, biopsies, CT scans, MRIs, x-rays and hours spent waiting. The immunotherapy and chemotherapy had zero effect on killing any disease. I hugged Lou close as he comforted me when I couldn’t control the tears.

Lou suffered all the side effects — extreme fatigue, drug induced lung infection, steroids to deal with that, removal of huge amounts of fluid from his lungs, and, best/worst of all, the loss of over 30 pounds. Lou has never been fat. Now he is emaciated. I try not to show him how scared I am.

Not long ago, I heard a crash in the bedroom to find my 6’2″ formerly strong darling dazed on the floor.

There was the offer of one clinical trial. A hope glimmer. But it had mind-blowing side effects and wasn’t aimed at cancer with unknown primary. Lou decided to pass. I steeled myself to be strong for him.

So now we’ve enrolled in what’s called Home Hospice. It’s basically a space where there is no treatment, but you still hope for a magic bullet. Where I watch my husband become less every day.

Not long ago, I heard a crash in the bedroom to find my 6’2″ formerly strong darling dazed on the floor. Lou said he’d bent over to get his shoes and then started to fall without being able to control what was happening. The wall behind him was blood smeared. He had hit his head.

Feelings of Helplessness

Panic. Heart racing. Cloths to press on his head. An ice pack. The hospice said to do what I was doing. Asked if Lou wanted to go to the hospital. No. Didn’t know if I could get him up. But I did. The cut wasn’t deep, but I thought the bleeding would never stop. On his physician’s advice, Lou is no longer taking Eliquis, a blood thinner.

Last year I wrote an article for Next Avenue that flagged that falls can be the beginning of the end. Now it is shattering, personal knowledge.

I’ve cancelled almost everything. Since hospice, there’s minimal interaction with MSK and the long waits. We had to scrub our last session at MSK’s Center for Integrative Medicine. The acupuncture helped Lou to relax, but he was too exhausted to attempt to go.

A Lonely Road

It didn’t feel right to phone and cancel. I went to the appointment and spoke to the doctor. He counseled me to take care of myself. He asked me to keep in touch. His caring for Lou, and for us as a couple, is something I will always remember.

Lou doesn’t want to spend whatever is left of his life in a hospital, and I want to respect his wishes. My insides churn with helplessness.

A couple smiling together in Paris. Next Avenue
The couple on a trip to Paris, one of their favorite places.

My own NYU internist has scheduled a monthly video visit to check up on me, especially since I’ve lost more than 15 pounds unintentionally. And the local rabbi calls this agnostic at least once a week. Some friends have disappeared, but there are those who keep in touch. And, yes, I do have someone I can talk to. But it is a lonely road.

Over a year later, my 87-year-old husband has outlived his prognosis and is a shadow of what he was. But he is here. And I want him here.

Some people get inspired after a diagnosis. They reach for a goal or get everything in order. Lou is frustrated and bored, but he is too worn out to do much of anything. I want things however he wants them.

Mostly, he wants to sleep or read the newspaper or hug me. That’s what I cling to. That he’ll be there to cradle me in his arms me as long as possible. Sometimes we go to the sofa and lie with my head in his lap. Lou believes his job is to take care of me, and some of his distress is that he can’t anymore.

Sleep? Not so much. Exhausted. Deeply. What to do? Besides cry. Besides wish I could do more for this man who’s been my life for over 41 years. Because I can’t imagine my world without him. He’s my rock and my biggest fan, the one whose faith in me is stronger than my own. His all-embracing love is where I am home. Whatever I want to do, wherever I want to go, I want to share those experiences with Lou.

That’s the hardest part of Now. Because I’m with him in this no-man’s land, where we can only cling to each other and wait for the inevitable.

Of course, we would have tried anything, gone anywhere when we first heard Lou’s diagnosis and the medical predictions of our future. But if I’d known then what I know now, I would have encouraged Lou to make a different decision.

Regretting Endless Tests and Treatments

There are cancers that can be targeted. Cancer with unknown primary is not one of those. I hope anyone reading my words never faces what’s in front of us. But if you find yourself in this nightmare, here’s what I would say: Don’t spend whatever time you have going to doctors, submitting to endless tests and treatments, waiting in anonymous rooms filled with distracted, unhappy people. Sitting on uncomfortable chairs, being so vulnerable. Dealing with all-business staff that has all the time in the world, while your time is limited. And waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

If I had known then, what would I have done? I would have gone back to Paris with my husband, or we could have gone to the Broadway shows we missed.

If I had known then, what would I have done? I would have gone back to Paris with my husband, or we could have gone to the Broadway shows we missed. We would have reminded ourselves how lucky we were to be able to walk home from the theater. We could have taken in New York’s magisterial skyline from celebratory dining spots.

Now Lou is beyond tired. His legs give way and he falls, can’t get up. Sometimes I’m not strong enough, and we have to call for help. His MSK doctor says he’s fallen too many times and is not safe at home. Emotional overload. The doctor wants me to move him to an in-patient hospice. Lou knows not being home is a possibility. He is disconsolate.

No. I am not going to rush into anything. Moving furniture to make room for a hospital bed, even though Lou says he won’t use it. Never-ending efforts to schedule health aides. Medicare comes through with 15 – 20 hours a week. We now need 24/7. Trying not to think too far ahead.

Welcome to the third ring of hell. You may have read that because of COVID many health care workers died/changed careers/moved away. At the same time, more and more people need qualified help. Hours are spent trying to figure out what’s possible.

Recently my darling said, “What a terrible burden I’ve put on you.” I thought my heart would crack. “I don’t feel it as a burden,” I said, startled by my truth. What is breaking my heart is the fear that I won’t be able to help him, that I won’t know what the right thing is. Fortunately, the hospice physician and woman covering for him are knowledgable and compassionate.

So far, there is no pain. One blessing among the horrors. But he is suffering, and we are looking at a future of unknown — though not long — length.

Struggles of a Caregiver

As I’m writing this, Lou is visibly deteriorating. He can no longer turn himself easily in bed or rise to a sitting position without help. He can barely stand for a moment with assistance while he is moved from the bed to the wheelchair.

What is breaking my heart is the fear that I won’t be able to help him, that I won’t know what the right thing is.

I can’t imagine how people navigate this without a caring partner, but anyone taking on the caretaker role should know in advance: there is mighty little guidance. It’s learn-on-the-job. Case workers and nurses may or may not be thoughtful and compassionate, but you have to think of the questions to ask because too often no one volunteers information.

Are you willing to stay in because you don’t trust that the aide will keep your loved one safe? Or because the aide didn’t show up? Are you prepared to spend hours of your time trying to find coverage even though the agency assured you they would always be able to come through? Can you handle the blowback when you cancel what isn’t working? Can you deal with the additional cost? Are you prepared for the never-ending laundry? Can you function with catch-as-catch-can sleep, only a few hours each night?

My husband is dying. But he’s not gone yet. A few nights ago, he agreed to the hospital bed. He understood that if I don’t get some sleep, I won’t be able to be there for him. He hates the bed. Misses me at night. I miss him too.

Lou eats little, sleeps at odd hours, is restless at night. The aide has to wake me. Lou’s speech is now slurred. It’s hard to understand him. He is angry. He forgets. He wants the hospital bed and the strange people in the apartment gone. He wants me with him all the time. I am terrified.

Addendum: The Death of My Husband

In the daytime, he dozes, wakes, starts to read the newspaper, dozes, wakes, tries again to read. My plan was to write how I would put my arms around him, wanting him to know how much I love him. I was going to share how he would reach out to put his arms around me, wanting me to know how much he loves me.

On September 17th, Lou slept most of the day and night. He mumbled about wanting to go home. I held his hand, said he was home and I was with him. I used to call him my giant, and I told him that I would still choose him out of all the giants in the world. I said I would always be with him and he would be with me. He smiled, squeezed my hand and moved his lips to kiss me.

The next day, he woke and surprised me, wanting to brush his teeth, shave, shower. The aide helped him into the wheelchair and into the bathroom. Afterwards, I warmed some chicken soup. He reached for it and gulped down almost half a cup. Then he lay back to rest. Suddenly he was gasping for breath. And then he was gone.

I am numb. The aide gently repeats that Lou is not breathing. A convulsion of tears. I thought there were none left. Touching him. Taking his hand. Stroking his forehead. Kissing him. What do I do now? I am lost.

Call the hospice. They will send a nurse to sign the time of death. Call the funeral home. They will come. Then what? Vast emptiness. The rabbi calls and says I have to embrace life. Says that’s what Lou would want. Rationally I know he is right. Somehow, I will find a way. I just can’t imagine how.

This year, for our anniversary, June 27th, we had to cancel reservations at a restaurant with spectacular Manhattan views. Lou said it made no sense to go when he couldn’t eat much. He was devastated to disappoint me.

I said: “We’ll always have Paris.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

Posted on

Assisted dying

— ‘I do not want to end my days as a lost soul in a nursing home’

Jule and Wayne Briese copy

One couple’s story of four years from dementia diagnosis to assisted death

By Sheila Wayman

On the morning that Wayne Briese had chosen for his medically assisted death, he was out shovelling snow in front of his house at 6am, to make sure the doctor would be able to get her car in.

It was January 6th, 2022, almost four years after he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 73. As soon as he received that news, Wayne made it clear to his wife, Jule Briese, that when he no longer had the quality of life that was acceptable to him, he wanted to avail of Medical Assistance in Dying (Maid), which was first legislated for in their home country of Canada in 2016.

“I do not want to end my days as a lost soul in a nursing home,” he told her.

At the outset, there was some doubt in their minds about whether Maid was available to somebody with dementia. Once it was clarified it could be possible, Wayne described it as “the light at the end of the tunnel”.

“I was very supportive because I know Wayne would have honoured what I wanted,” explains Jule (78), in a Dublin city hotel on a sunny September morning. She is holidaying here when we meet, her first trip to Ireland. Aware that this country is looking at the possibility of making provision for medically assisted dying, she is keen to share her experience.

The Oireachtas Committee on Assisted Dying is due to resume its public hearings today after the summer break. At the first of the committee’s five hearings so far, on June 13th last, its chairman, Independent TD Michael Healy-Rae, outlined: “The committee may recommend that changes are made to existing policy and legislation around assisted dying, but it could also recommend that no changes be made.”

The committee was set up after a Private Members’ Bill, Dying with Dignity Bill 2020, which seeks to allow for somebody with a terminal illness to request a medically assisted death, had passed the second stage in the Oireachtas.

In 2013, Marie Fleming, who was living with advanced multiple sclerosis, lost a landmark Supreme Court challenge for the right to an assisted death without putting anyone who helped her at risk of prosecution. She had claimed the ban on assisted suicide was discriminatory in that an able-bodied person may take their own life lawfully, but she could not be lawfully helped to do the same.

Wayne was always open and ready to talk. He never hid it. He wanted to be treated as Wayne, not as Wayne who had Alzheimer’s
— Jule Briese

Jule and Wayne had been married for almost 52 years at the time of his death and had been “each other’s best friends” since meeting as teachers in Ontario. For the last four years of their marriage, they comforted each other in the carrying of their individual burdens: he sensing the disease was erasing the blackboard of his life, and she the witness to its unstoppable advance. The fact that Wayne never lost his insight into what was happening “was both a blessing and a curse”, she says. He could empathise that it was hard for her too.

Jule Briese: Aware that this country is looking at the possibility of making provision for medically assisted dying, she is keen to share her experience.

Jule’s way of working through anticipatory grief of the loss of her husband was to write. A memoir booklet, entitled In the Hot Chocolate and Decadent Cake Society (2018), captured some of her early thoughts and those first telltale signs of confusion. In October 2017, as Wayne looked for his pyjamas in the wrong cupboard instead of going to the shelf where they were always stored, “fear scrapes its finger along hollows, unsettling my insides”, she wrote. She knew they were reaching the stage where “no longer content to be ignored, this elephant trumpets for more attention”.

When the anticipated diagnosis of Alzheimer’s was confirmed three months later, at the Brain Health Centre in Vancouver, it was “still surreal”, she tells me. They initially wondered, as it was a research centre, could they be involved with some research. But there wasn’t anything for Alzheimer’s and they felt “cast-off and adrift”.

How they navigated the next four years, from diagnosis to his date with death, is a story of personal choice, stresses Jule. But she believes there’s healing power in telling stories because it gives permission to other people to share theirs, with every listener, or reader, taking out of it what is for them and passing it on. She also wants to honour Wayne’s courage and “to give voice to what he was passionate about, and that was the right of the individual to an end-of-life choice”.

The couple, she says, did not choose to avail of Alzheimer’s medications for what is an incurable and progressive condition. “Diet, exercise and making your life meaningful… that is what was important to us.”

What was also at the back of their minds was that some of the drugs mask the progression.

“You get to a point where they don’t work any more – you were here, and there you are now,” she says, demonstrating a gulf that they had no wish to cover in a sudden leap. It is not that they were anti-medication, and Wayne did take a pill for anxiety from the second year onwards, but rather, it was a matter of weighing up the benefits and side effects.

Wayne lodged documents with a lawyer straight after his diagnosis, outlining his desire for Maid and his definition of quality of life. Jule knew it would be her job to look out for the red flags that would signal stages of decline. Meanwhile, they got on with life, in which the outdoors had always played a large part. “We hiked, we camped. We weren’t overly social people; we had a small circle of friends.”

With Wayne’s permission, Jule recorded the two of them talking about issues. She devised questionnaires relevant to how he was coping with daily life, and they could use his responses to give a fuller answer to the “How are you?” opening gambit at medical check-ups. Extracts from these recordings, along with selected email exchanges with his doctor and notes from Jule’s journaling, were published earlier this year in a book, Shared Conversations – Glimpses into Alzheimer’s.

The book Shared Conversations – Glimpses into Alzheimer’s was published earlier this year.

“Wayne was always open and ready to talk,” she says. “He never hid it. He wanted to be treated as Wayne, not as Wayne who had Alzheimer’s.”

In the main, friends were really supportive, but “there are those who don’t know how to cope, and they leave”.

Once the couple had established that assisted dying was a possibility for somebody with dementia, they contacted Dr Tanja Daws, who Jule had heard spoken warmly of as the doctor at the centre of somebody else’s experience of Maid. At the first meeting with the couple, Dr Daws told them it was going to be a long journey, “we are going to be together for a while”.

“And we were,” says Jule. They met her every three months after that, over nearly four years. A second, independent doctor must be involved in the assessment for Maid, so Daws referred Wayne to a geriatric psychiatrist, Dr Pawel Juralowicz, for parallel appointments. Both of them would have the chance to get to know Wayne in the lead-up to him making a formal Maid application.

A big concern for Wayne was that a time might come when he would no longer be deemed capable of giving consent, and then his choice of a medically assisted death could no longer be enabled. But a Canadian legislative amendment, Bill C-7, in March 2021, removed that worry. It allowed, in certain circumstances, for assisted dying to go ahead for an eligible patient who had agreed in advance a waiver of final consent with their doctor.

“Sometimes it’s called Audrey’s Bill,” says Jule in reference to a high-profile campaigner, Audrey Parker, who had stage-four breast cancer and had been assessed and approved for assisted dying. She had hoped to see out one more Christmas, but, afraid that pain medication would remove her ability to give final consent, she went early, choosing November 1st, 2019, for her death.

‘When I set my date for Maid I don’t want anyone to try to change my mind’. That stayed with me. It’s about Wayne
— Jule Briese

By early 2021, an escalation of Wayne’s dementia was unsettling both him and Jule. By July, he was struggling to know how the people around him fitted into his life. In a conversation recorded on July 22nd, 2021, Jule said to him: “We’ve talked about red flags and you said something like: ‘When I get to the point of not knowing who my wife is and when I get to really being in a confused state, then it’s time to think about Maid.’ Would you say that you are actually beginning to experience those things that you did not want to have to happen to you?”

“I think that is a correct observation by you,” he replies. “Is it all right to say that?”

They agreed that episodes of confusion were becoming more prolonged and that they were nearing “10 minutes to midnight”. This is a term Dr Daws used for the time at which Wayne would need to apply for a Maid assessment, to verify that he met the criteria and was fit to sign a waiver for it to go ahead without his last-minute consent, if incapable at that point.

Everybody has their own definition of quality of life, says Jule. “You had to deteriorate to a certain point, where your quality of life as you defined it was in jeopardy, and it was at that point you could set your date for Maid.”

Choosing to be formally assessed is one thing, but how do you know when to set the date? It was a question Wayne asked both of his assessors in December 2021. Jule recalls how Dr Juralowicz suggested to him that the consciousness knows when the time is right, while Dr Daws replied: “Wayne, if life is a stage, how do you want to take your final bow?”

“Within a week, Wayne said, ‘I want to have Maid after Christmas’ – that was on December 18th. I said ‘before new year’s?’ and he said ‘No, no, after new year’s.”

He set the date for January 6th, 2022, at 10am.

“Two months before he set the date, he’s in the shower and he called me, ‘Come quick’. There was his smiling face, ‘When I set my date for Maid I don’t want anyone to try to change my mind’. That stayed with me. It’s about Wayne, it’s not about me, and I think that’s really important.”

With the date set, the challenge was how would they spend the finite days left? They had envisaged they would enjoy a quiet getaway together on the west coast before Wayne said his goodbyes to relatives and friends. But, as it turned out, he had already reached a stage where he didn’t want to leave their home at Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island.

Jule Briese: ‘He passed with love and we opened the windows so his soul could go. Yeah, it was beautiful, it was peaceful, it was the way he wanted to go.’

So they stayed put, and Wayne made phone calls to people important in his life. The couple invited close friends over to dinner and a special friend played a clarinet concert for him.

On a lighter note, Jule recalls how a niece, Kashmir, who had spent time with them while attending university nearby, had bought a gingerbread train kit as a fun gift for Wayne that Christmas before she knew he had set a date for Maid. “She said to me, I don’t think somebody that is dying is going to want to do this. I said ‘I think you’re right and we will give it to grandchildren of a friend’.”

However, when there was a power cut one afternoon, they decided to take it out and assemble it between the three of them.

He did not want me to be the worn-out caregiver. He said to me: ‘My life is finished, my quality of life is gone, you need to live your life’
— Jule Briese

Kashmir was disgusted to discover the kit did not include icing. “She said, ‘Who on earth would do this for kids and not have icing?’ I said I have honey. It was a mess, but it was like we were all kids. It was such a priceless memory.”

Although describing themselves as “more spiritual than religious”, the couple invited a local Anglican priest to be with them on the day Wayne had chosen to die. He came at 9am and, in the course of conversation around their pellet stove, Wayne spoke of how he had been blessed in life and had no regrets.

“Then he turned around to me and said beautiful things and to Kashmir.” When Dr Daws and a nurse arrived, the couple moved into the room that overlooked the garden though double glass sliding doors and the priest gave each of them an individual blessing for their diverging paths.

In a last-minute flash of Wayne’s characteristic humour, he looked at the nurse and said: “Where have you been for the last 40 years? Finally, somebody that can put in an IV.” Then he told them: “I’m ready.”

“I held his hands and Kashmir held his feet,” says Jule. “It’s like he was on his journey and preparing to leave, we had said our goodbyes. I was there to witness his leaving.” Opera singers performing some of his favourite John Denver songs, from the album Great Voices, were playing in the background.

“He passed with love and we opened the windows so his soul could go. Yeah, it was beautiful, it was peaceful, it was the way he wanted to go.” When it was over, Jule asked to spend some time alone with him and played a song she had written for him called My Best Friend.

As medically assisted dying goes, she feels she and Wayne had the “gold star” experience. Training she had done in her 50s for conflict resolution, mediation and negotiation had equipped her to communicate with Wayne throughout the lead-up.

“If I had not taken those [courses], we would never had had those conversations. It taught me to be curious.” Out of their discussions, she has created a one-act play, Ten Minutes to Midnight. She believes it will be an educational tool, showing how to communicate with somebody with dementia, as well as giving insight to doctors.

With a number of countries, including Ireland, currently looking at legislating for assisted dying, Jule hopes that what she has to share might help in some way towards them doing it better. “You look and learn from what other countries have done.”

Jule is grateful for what Wayne’s choice meant for her. “He did not want me to be the worn-out caregiver. He said to me: ‘My life is finished, my quality of life is gone, you need to live your life’. There’s the compassion. He gave me the gift of his life,” she says, as her composure throughout the interview falters for the first time. “Therefore I have to use that.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

Posted on

Methodist bishop offers meditation on death

By Terry Mattingly

There was nothing unusual, in the early 1970s, about a student hearing one of his professors preach during chapel.

But one sermon — “How Would You Like to Die?” — impressed the seminarian who would later become United Methodist Bishop Timothy Whitaker of Florida. Theologian Claude H. Thompson had terminal cancer and, a few months later, his funeral was held in the same sanctuary at the Candler School of Theology in Atlanta.

“What hit me was that he calmly preached on that subject — even while facing his own death,” Whitaker said. “It hit me that that, if death is one of the great mysteries of life, then that needs to be something that the church openly discusses. …

“Yes, we live in a culture that is reluctant to talk about death. But I decided that it’s important for us to hear from our elders who is facing this issue, head on.”

Thus, soon after doctors informed him that his own cancer is terminal, Whitaker wrote a lengthy online meditation, “Learning to Die.” The 74-year-old bishop is retired and receiving hospice care, while living in Keller, a small town near the Virginia coast.

“Being a pastor, I considered it a privilege and also an education to linger beside many deathbeds. I have tried to never forget that, unless I die abruptly in an accident or with a heart attack or stroke, sooner or later the subject of death will feel very personal to me,” he wrote. Now, “in the time that remains for me I have one more thing to learn in life, which is to die. … I had always hoped that I would be aware of the imminence of my death so that I could face it consciously, and I am grateful that I have the knowledge that I am going to die soon.”

Certainly, Whitaker noted, the Orthodox theologian Father Thomas Hopko was correct when he quipped, while facing a terminal disease: “This dying is interesting.”

Dying is also complicated — raising myriad theological questions about eternity, salvation and the mysteries of the life to come, he noted. The Bible, from cover to cover, is packed with relevant stories, passages and images. The same is true of the writings of early church leaders who preached eternal hope, even when suffering persecution and martyrdom. Over and over, the saints proclaimed their belief in the resurrection of Jesus.

Whitaker noted that Methodists can ponder this quote from their pioneer John Wesley: “But what is the essential part of heaven? Undoubtedly it is to see God, to know God, to love God. We shall then know both His nature, and His works of creation and providence, and of redemption. Even in paradise, in the intermediate state between death and resurrection, we shall learn more concerning these in an hour, than we could in an age, during our stay in the body.”

But what about the big questions that modern believers might struggle to ask? What about their fears of living with a terminal disease and the complicated questions surrounding death itself?

Early Methodists believed that preparing for death was simply part of life, and outsiders noted that “Methodists die well,” Whitaker said. The problem in churches today is that dying is often viewed as “a counseling issue,” or merely a “therapeutic challenge” for busy clergy.

For centuries, Christians developed rites linked to what they called the “good death,” or even the “happy death,” he noted. While millions now shudder at the thought of dying alone in a hospital, clergy should teach — especially in the age of hospice — how believers can plan to die surrounded by family and their fellow believers.

Yet many clergy are reluctant to discuss these subjects from the pulpit or in educational events addressing modern realities, as well as centuries of rituals and prayers.

“I can understand this reluctance — because they’re going to have many parishioners who will be alarmed or upset by any open discussions of these topics that our culture wants to ignore,” Whitaker said.

“But the church is supposed to help us prepare for death. And this isn’t just about someone receiving a terrible diagnosis. Death is something that can strike at any moment. … The church can’t be silent, in the face of death.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!