One sunny autumn day, 12 years ago, our next-to-last dog, Punk, was cashing in his chips. We took him up Mt. Lemmon to a meadow in the woods, his favorite place. He had barely enough strength to walk. We helped him get down from the car. He had to yield to gravity, and wobbled down a gentle slope into the deep green grass beside a stream. There he lay down. It seemed certain he’d never get up. We sat there for a while; then we left. Every hour or so we’d check back. Too weak, by then, to raise his head, he’d roll his eyes to see that it was us, and try to wag his tail, to signal, as before, that we were very special friends. The tail just twitched. This was touching, heartbreaking, and uncalled for. Our visits were recalling him to what had been his life—distracting him from his more inward work. The best thing we could do as this guy’s friends was walk away, so he could do what he was there to do. In love and tears we said goodbye, then moved away to let him die in peace. Time To Let Go.
All of us animals know how to die. It’s natural, like being born. In fact it is a lot like giving birth. There are cycles of pushing and cycles of rest. Both take a lot of concentration and a little work. Let’s hope that when our time is up, if we have human company at all, we’re surrounded by those who respect this natural passage, and not by spooked-out, superstitious twits whose distress with reality—notably death—inclines them to oppose and complicate. I hope to croak alone, at night, out lying on the ground.
An artist friend of mine, at 62, was dying in the hospital. He’d had a massive hemorrhage of the brain. We’d had a playful kinship, Chuck and I, and were always quite pleased to collide. We felt like fellow aliens, a long, long way from home. The doctors were certain he’d die, and they held out no hope. The corridor was full of Chuck’s good friends, and half of them were pretty freaked. The vibe out in the hall was raw: replete with horror and dismay—which saddened me and slightly pissed me off. These folks were old enough to know we die. They hadn’t done their homework and thus needed to resist. Forgive my petty judgment trip, please, Lord.
By now these other friends had paid their last respects to Chuck. All morning they’d been ushered through his room, to say goodbye. I was one of the last to arrive. There he was in a coma, his breathing distressed, loud and rough. The blinds were drawn; the light was dim. His daughter stood beside the bed. She gave me a brief, tearful hug, then nodded toward the door—that she would take a little break—so I was left alone with Chuck. I felt great sadness, certainly, but something deep and peaceful, too; some sort of faith that it was all OK. I don’t know what took hold of me, just then. I had a strong, surprising urge to place my open palm atop his head. I felt something open within me—I don’t quite know what—something old, something wise. The feeling was easy and solid and calm, and it made me some sort of a bridge or conductor for Chuck, who took one long, very deep breath, sighed, and died. He had surely been waiting to go, and just needed a sign that the runway was clear.
Plato once said that we aren’t really dead so long as those alive remember us. He offered that as solace, I suppose. But now I have to wonder if that’s good. Do fond or hostile recollections in the minds of those who live confuse, perplex or tug on us once we have gone beyond? Will we be goats? Oops, I mean ghosts.