Memento Mori

On the evening of September 6, 2017 our living room was its usual familiar, comfortable, cluttered mess. Outside the front window late afternoon sunshine slanted through maple leaves. An hour before, Kathy had eaten a small dinner - three exquisite grilled scallops and a crème brûlée from her favourite restaurant, whose owner had been astonished and thrilled to be asked to prepare a meal for such a special occasion.

After her final dinner Kathy decorated her favourite blue leather recliner with a pale yellow afghan she had crocheted forty years ago and an assortment of her beloved silk scarves. Around her neck she hung the amethyst pendant I bought for her birthday in 1976, that had become a lasting symbol of our love.

There was no fear to be found anywhere. Her air was one of deep relief that the time was finally here, overlaid with calm curiosity and half-suppressed eagerness.

We said some heart-full goodbyes, but they didn't have the same sense of urgency they had two weeks before. That was the night I sat with Kathy, holding space for her as she made two consecutive unsuccessful attempts at suicide. The following morning she made the decision to turn the task over to the professionals of the medical establishment. She knew what she wanted.

At 6:00 Kathy settled herself into the recliner. In my mind's eye it became her seat in the back of a small ferryboat on the bank of the River Styx. I took some photographs of her.

At 6:30 Charon the ferryman arrived, in the person of a gentle Indian anaesthesiologist. He asked Kathy if she was sure this was what she wanted, and she smiled as she said "Yes."

The nurse who was assisting put an intravenous line into the back of Kathy's left hand as the doctor began laying out large syringes of midazolam, propofol and rocuronium.

I sat down facing Kathy. We held each other's hands. The room went utterly still. The doctor's voice emerged into the silence: "Are you certain that you want this to go ahead?" Once more Kathy said, "Yes, please."

We gazed deep into each other's eyes, touching each other’s souls and feeling the eternal bond that made us one. She smiled again, and her gaze seemed to turn toward more distant visions.

"I love you."
"I love you too."

Kathy's eyes sank gently closed. There was no other sign of what was happening. As the doctor pushed propofol into her vein, her breathing slowed. Before the third syringe was empty, it had ceased. After the doctor checked carefully for a pulse he turned to me. "She's gone." I heard the nurse announce the time - 6:49. A remote stillness roared in my ears.

There was some paperwork. As we waited for a call back from the coroner, I showed them some of Kathy's art. They said their goodbyes and left.

I kissed her one last time. With some difficulty I got my camera out again. I took the final picture of my beloved. I sat with her until two men from the cremation service arrived. I declined their offer to walk with the gurney out to their waiting vehicle. The door clacked shut behind them. I said a silent prayer.

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I had some initial misgivings about posting these final photographs. Kathy had given me repeated permission to do whatever seemed right following her death. In the end this seems the right thing to do. By showing them I honour her courage, her heart, her wholeness, her self-awareness, and her commitment to the flow of life.

At the same time I hope to unveil the moment of death a bit. In my own small way I am trying to remove a few of the barriers that have been placed between us and death by a culture that is inexplicably fearful of it.

In the words of another transdimensional sage, "Dying is perfectly safe. It's like taking off a tight shoe." He is right.

So,
Do go gentle into that good night.
Embrace, embrace the dying of the light.

Carpe aeternum.

I love you, Kathy. May boundless joy be yours.