Hearing these words from the quivering voice on the other end of the line automatically made me take a deep breath. As she continued, I found my mind quickly clicking away with answers, and maintaining a straight-up policeman's report approach to the situation. I have known this colleague for about 7 years, on and off; we teach at the same university, but in different locations. She is an artist, a scientist, a psychologist -- fully involved with life, and engaging her students 150% in their own learning. Her classes are rated the best of any I know, and I am always stunned by the amount of creativity that flows from her efforts—although, for this woman, it seems as easy as breathing.
But she was having a very hard time breathing now. She called me because I am the level-headed one between the two of us -- not carried away by emotion, but able to quickly see the lay of the land and make a decision about the most appropriate course of action. In spite of that capacity, which was being called upon in this moment, my heart opened and I felt my eyes tearing up. I wanted to communicate something of value ... but what helps at a time like this? "I'm sorry" just doesn't seem to fit.
So, I acknowledged her pain. "You have worked so hard these past couple of years to bring healing to your husband; he has lived so much longer than anyone thought, and that’s on account of your care."
That's all I could come up with. But she accepted it, and spoke a little more about the situation. "I don't know how to be with a dying person. I have never had to do this. We have to give up now. He’s going to hospice." She sounded so strained and absolutely exhausted.
I had no answers, and I knew she didn't need to hear me say something trite. The closest I have been to dying was when I picked up a small sparrow that had flown into our dining room window. I held it and felt its rapid-fire beating heart, and its delicate lungs moving faster than I could count the breaths. And ... then ... nothing. I felt the Life Force leave, just like a switch being turned off. The bird stopped breathing, its heart stopped its beating, and the weight of its tiny body pressed itself into my palm. One instant it was almost weightless; the next, it was like a heavy river rock.
That was, perhaps, the most sacred moment I have ever had the privilege of experiencing so far in my life.
As I write this, I remember a similar experience the day I met this colleague. We were at a faculty retreat in late September, the venue of which was a large lodge on a lake in northern Washington State. It was a clear day. My first impression of her was that she was extravagant and very stylish in her large-brimmed hat and scarf. Her coat was long and nothing you would find in a typical American store. She wore long black boots. "Flamboyant" came to mind, but in an intriguing sort of way. She was not lofty, but very earthy. We were both seated facing one of the huge windows that looked over the lake. Someone was talking about something to the group of 30-some educators there, but only my colleague and I flinched at the moment a small bird flew right into the window. THUD. We saw it fall straight to the deck below. There may be a few others who heard it or saw something, but this woman and I were the only ones who registered concern.
When we went on a break a few minutes later, I found myself making a bee-line out the back door to check on the bird. So was my colleague, and she got there first. Without hesitation, she gently scooped up the little bird and talked to it, caressing its tiny brown feathers. I am pretty sure it died right there in her loving hands. I remember that we looked for a suitable place to bury it in the woods near the lodge. It was so strange to come back at the end of break with black, pungent earth under our fingernails, and pine sap on our hands. I remember noticing that—in spite of the flamboyant dress of my new friend, her fingernails were those of a worker: short and industrious. When we got back into the room, all of the other faculty members were standing around and chatting over cups of steaming coffee and donuts. None of them had a clue about what had just transpired outside with that little bird. It was our shared precious moment. Our Sacred Secret.
I don't know if she remembers this incident, but as I write this, I think it is exactly what I need to recount to her: "You DO know what to do. You were just there, and you spoke with love from your heart. You held that little bird and caressed it. You were just THERE. That's all you could do, and that's what you did."
Of course, I know that losing your husband of many years is a bit more traumatic than these incidents with birds, but isn’t the principle more or less the same? All you can do is speak love to the dying person, and be there.
This recollection of the bird at the lodge was not part of my thinking during our short conversation. All I knew was that I needed to be the firm "foundation of sense" to her when everything about her world made no sense at all. Why did a robust man in the prime of his life suddenly succumb to this disease? How could it have robbed him of 60 pounds of precious body weight in such a short period of time? Why him? Why her? They were madly in love after many many years of marriage. Why why why why why?
I steadied my voice. "Yes," I can get those contacts for you; I’m sure there is something that can be done to help you out..."
She interrupted me: "Please email me. I don't have any paper or pen right here."
"Of course," I replied. “My computer is right here, and I will do it now.”
"Okay, bye. Thank you." She hung up the phone.
Such a precious conversation. I cannot be with her to hold her hand or give her the hug that communicates everything I want to say without words. All I know is that, as long as I live, I want to prepare for death better. I want to be present for more moments -- my own, and those I spend with others. I want to be able to "hold" even a distant colleague as gently as she held that bird—as gently and lovingly as I held my little sparrow.
That’s all a person can do. I think that, ultimately, that's what we are called to do for each other, every day.
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