This is the weekend during which followers of the Christian faith commemorate the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. In this Easter edition of the newsletter, I share about a death that was precious to me. It’s the story of the final weeks of my mother’s fearless transition from mortality to eternity. Her final days on earth beautifully modeled for me that death should be faced, not feared.

I follow that story with a poetic reflection on Resurrection, after which I share recommendations for two of the most impactful books I’ve read on the subject of death and dying.

Happy Easter!

My Mother Taught Me That Death Should Be Faced, Not Feared

I wasn’t prepared for what she wanted.

It was Memorial Day Weekend 2011 and my mom asked me to drop by so she could give me something. She didn’t disclose what the “something” was. And thinking nothing of it, I didn’t bother to ask.

Perhaps I should have. Because upon arrival at her home, I was shocked to learn that the “something” she wanted me to give me was her burial garments.

My mom was a retired nurse who understood much about medicine, much about the illnesses that plagued her, much about her body. She understood that her life was drawing to a close and was wholly unbothered by that impending reality.

“Take this garment bag and keep it in your closet,” she said in her maternally matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve put everything you need in there, including my birth certificate.”

She went on to explain that the bag contained all the clothes in which she wished to be buried. And I do mean all, down to the underwear, bra, and stockings. Her birth certificate had been included because it’s needed to order a death certificate.

I was being entrusted with these items so that when she passed, everything the mortician needed would be ready for an easy hand off.

She concluded by informing me that she was entrusting all these things to me because, “Your father is in denial!”

Her demeanor as she conveyed this information was unbothered and nonchalant — no different than if she’d been sharing the day’s weather forecast.

I did not share her sense of calm.

I felt as if I’d entered an altered state of consciousness. I heard with my ears, and saw with my eyes, but I felt disembodied — like I’d stepped outside of myself and was watching the scene unfold as a 3rd party observer.

My heart pounded in my chest. And my brain alternated between thoughts of shock and dismay, rhythmically switching back and forth with the thump of each heartbeat.

Was this really happening? Were we really having THIS conversation, in THIS perfunctory and casual manner?

The answers were Yes and Yes!

As I stood in stunned silence, she detonated another verbal land mine: “I’m not worried about dying. Franklin tells me about it when he comes to visit me.”

A palpable silence filled the air, as I stood transfixed already in shock, already struggling with her declaration of impending death, already vexed about being selected for this grim task.

I found myself entangled in a jumbled web of colliding thoughts, unable to find words with which to respond….

And then two words found me in the form of a question: “Franklin Who?”

“Franklin. Your uncle. He tells me what to expect.”

And with that, she went right back to the chores she’d been doing. Cool, calm, and collected, as if what she had just shared was everyday normal. But it wasn’t! Franklin was my father’s fraternal twin brother. And in 2011, he had been dead for three years.

My Mother flanked by my Father and Uncle on their wedding day in 1964

Uncle Frank was a talented visual artist; A cool and colorful character, with a big personality and a jovial disposition. He called himself “Franko” and was the living embodiment of soul music, as if jazz and the blues had mated and birthed a son. In the ear of my mind I hear his husky voice calling me by the name he used to address me. He never called me Olivia, he always called me “Niecey”.

Sketch of my father drawn by his twin brother “Franko”.

If I have any regrets about questions left unasked before my mom’s passing, it’s about her pre-death encounters with my Uncle.

My Mom at my wedding. Uncle Frank is seated behind her.

They were not particularly close when he was alive. He was my father’s twin, but their lifestyles were notably dissimilar. My mother found my uncle’s carefree, artistic, “live for the moment” approach to life a bit too eccentric for she and my father’s more traditional way of being. So I find it curious that he, of all people, was the one with whom she was having afterlife discussions.

There are many unasked questions I was too stunned to pose in the moment. Did he come in a dream? Was it a waking vision? Was his physical embodied presence in the room? Did he present as the age he’d been when he died or a younger age?

Those questions remain unanswered. But here’s what I do know.

My mother was not on her death bed nor speaking from the delirium of a drug induced stupor.

She was fully cognizant, fully in her right mind, proceeding with business as usual. My mother was not a “woo-woo” type of woman. She was a nurse. A lifelong medical professional. A woman of science, logic and order. So though I don’t know how she interacted with my uncle, I fully believe that she did.

She died two months later.

In her last week of life I received a call from the Palliative Care team summoning me to the hospital.

“My dad has final say so on all medical decisions. Shouldn’t you be calling him and not me?”

The nurse told me I had been called — specifically, because my mother had asked for me — specifically.

When I arrived in ICU, my mom was awake and upright in her bed. She was quite frail by this time, a well worn stone in the river of life, eroded by the persistent ravages of disease.

Her first words to me were not a greeting. She looked me in the eye with a piercing hawk-like gaze and spoke just above a whisper: “I want to go home!”

I didn’t get it at first. Her condition was critical and being discharged was not under consideration. I paused to gather my thoughts.

“Mom, I know you’re tired of being here. But you’re not well enough to go home.”

“I WANT TO GO HOME!” She repeated, more forcefully this time, undeterred by my rebuttal. Her voice was still just above a whisper but the fervency with which she spoke made it sound more like a low decibel scream. She hesitated for a moment — and followed with, “Your father won’t let me.”

That’s when I got it!

To know my fiesty, 5 foot 2 inch, mother was to know that my father had never “let” her do anything. My mother was a force of nature with her own mind, a steely resolve, a fierce determination, and a strong opinion about everything. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted. And asking for permission was rarely if ever on her agenda.

Her eyes studied my face looking for signs of recognition that I understood what she was conveying.

“Okay”, I conceded, after which the Palliative Care nurse pulled me aside to discuss her latest prognosis and the implications of a Do Not Resuscitate order.

I left knowing that the home to which my mother desired to go, was not the one 15 minutes away.

I left knowing that she was making her final wishes known, in keeping with what she knew in advance was coming.

I left knowing that she was resolute in her decision and unafraid of death.

Two days later she was transferred out of ICU and into a hospice facility where she spent the final days of her life.

And when the call came notifying me that she’d passed—I handed the garment bag over to the funeral home staff per her instructions.

In hindsight, I’m struck by how masterfully she modeled acceptance. Not everyone is aware of their death months in advance. She seized the opportunity afforded by knowing, to prepare for her forthcoming departure. In so doing, she lived what it looks like to face death rather than fear it.

I now reflect on our Memorial Day, 2011 discussion with appreciation for the wisdom of what she did. As bizarre as it sounded in the moment — my mother knew exactly of WHAT she spoke, WHEN she spoke it.

And that’s the thing about my mom—she usually did!

Resurrection is a core tenet of Christian faith
But it transcends religious meaning for me
I see resurrection in many areas of life
I see it in nature especially 

I see resurrection in tree limbs that were barren in Winter, 
Brimming with new life in Spring
I see resurrection in the caterpillar turned butterfly 
Leaving the chrysalis to test its wings

I see resurrection in resilient humans 
Faced with unexpected tragedy
Who work hard to heal and recover, 
Transforming pain into victory

I see Resurrection in the death of relationship
To a religious system I could no longer abide
A departure from dysfunction that birthed a new hope 
I’d have missed had I not set it aside

I broke free from a toxic version of faith, 
I now soar spiritually FREE
An uncaged bird, no longer in bondage
Released from captivity 

I’ve learned to love the melodious sound
Of my feet as they walk away 
From that which is no longer aligned and congruent
With beliefs that I hold today

I see and experience God in this season of life
In more ways than I can number
Having been jostled and shaken awake
From decades of religious slumber 

Anywhere, everywhere, somewhere
Divine Presence is all around
It permeates creation, It’s ubiquitous, 
And quite easy to be found 

At daybreak I see God in the clouds, 
As I tilt my head up high
Glorious windswept formations 
Artwork in the sky

I see God in Hawks that soar overhead 
Regal raptors, majestic in flight
Strong in form, with razor sharp vision
There is little that escapes their sight

I see God in the beauty of butterflies
The Flowers of the sky
Gracefully dancing between pollinating plants
Airborne art sent from on high

I see God in an array of budding plants 
That adorn the landscape in Spring
As the earth exhales in flowers
Perfuming the air with the scent they bring

I experience God in countless displays 
Of unique synchronicities
Coincidence that isn’t coincidental at all
Divinely Ordered and timed just for me

When the sun sets at dusk I observe the night sky 
And see God in the constellations 
Moon, planets, and stars all perfectly aligned
Luminous displays of Divine Creation

I see God in the diversity of humanity
Every race, orientation, and hue 
Far more inclusive, expansive and loving
Than what my old faith system taught was true

I experience God outside of institutional church
With a new found sense of clarity 
Recognizing this may not be the right choice for all, 
But it’s the right choice for me!

Spiritual journeys are individual and unique 
NOT meant to be one size fits all
I was guided me onto a new spiritual path
And I’m grateful that I answered that call!

What I’ve Read & What It Taught Me

Glimpses of Heaven and When Breath Becomes Air are both books that offer a poignant and enlightening view on death and dying, shared from two different perspectives.

Glimpses of Heaven is written by a 30 year hospice nurse and contains brief chapters each of which recounts the story of a patient whose death she witnessed. The patients are a cross section of humanity — varied ages, ethnicities, life experiences, and religions. It’s an intriguing exploration of what was unique to each death and shows that just as no two lives are the same, no two deaths are the same either.

When Breath Becomes Air is the award winning memoir of a 36 year old neurosurgeon coming to terms with an untimely death from cancer. He draws the reader into his world and allows them to journey alongside him through the thoughts, decisions, and challenges he faced in navigating the final chapter of his life. It is achingly beautiful and exquisitely written.

Detailed descriptions of both books below.

Trudy Harris began her career with Hospice in 1981. This collection of more than 40 true stories of her patients offers a glimpse at what the living can learn from the dying. Her patients described to her visions of angels, loved ones who have gone on before, the sounds of ethereal music, and colors that did not exist on earth. Glimpses of Heaven offers a tender, eye opening window into the world of life after death.

This inspiring memoir finds hope and beauty in the face of insurmountable odds as a young neurosurgeon attempts to answer the question, “What makes a life worth living?”

At thirty-six, as he was completing a decade of training as a neurosurgeon, Paul Kalanithi was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. One day he was treating the dying, and the next he was a patient struggling to live.

Paul died in March 2015, while working on this book, yet his words live on as a guide and a gift to us all. “ When Breath Becomes Air is an unforgettable, life-affirming reflection on the challenge of facing death and on the relationship between doctor and patient, from a brilliant writer who became both.

Hope Infusion ~ Hopeful stories that encourage & inspire!

My Mother Knew Death Was Imminent — She…