Quote of the day: POST-MORTEM

Reading List: Frank Ostaseski's THE FIVE INVITATIONS

Reading List: I’m taking a year-long course called Unmasking Mortality, contemplating both the philosophical and the practical matters of living and dying. I just finished one of the three books recommended for the class: The Five Invitations, subtitled “Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully,” written by Frank Ostaseski, co-founder of the Zen Hospice Project, an offshoot of the San Francisco Zen Center. It’s a beautiful summation of his wisdom after spending three decades accompanying people on the last leg of their journeys. His recommendations:

1. Don’t wait.

2. Welcome everything, push away nothing.

3. Bring your whole self to the experience.

4. Find a place of rest in the middle of things.

5. Cultivate don’t know mind.

“The five invitations are my attempt to honor the lessons I have learned sitting bedside with so many dying patients,” Ostaseski writes. “They are five mutually supportive principles, permeated with love. They have served me as reliable guides for coping with death. And, as it turns out, they are equally relevant guides to living a life of integrity. They can be applied just as aptly to people dealing with all sorts of transitions and crises – from a move to a new city, to the forming or releasing of an intimate relationship, to getting used to living without your children at home.”

Reading books like this, I’m almost always less interested in general conclusions delivered with the advantage of hindsight than I am in detailed stories of how individuals have faced obstacles, made mistakes, fumbled around, and somehow landed in a place of understanding.

This was my favorite passage from The Five Invitations.

The story of Tommy and his mother, Ethel, is a good illustration of form and emptiness at play in the world. Ethel had brain cancer. She came to live with us at the Zen Hospice Project when caring for her at home became more than her family could manage. Her son, Tommy, had Down syndrome. Although he was in his young teens, his emotional and psychological development were similar to those of a six-year-old child. He visited his mother frequently, and we came to enjoy each other’s company. Over the months, we developed a certain level of trust.

The morning Ethel died, I called her husband, Peter, Tommy’s father, and asked if he would like to bring the family to be with Ethel’s body.

“What should I do about Tommy?” Peter asked. I suggested that he bring Tommy along. Peter hesitated, explaining that first he wanted to talk with Tommy’s therapist about it.

A while later, Peter called back. “The therapist doesn’t think it’s a good idea. She told me that when she was a little girl, she went to a family funeral and was forced to kiss her dead grandfather. She thinks exposing a child to a dead body might be too traumatic.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I don’t know what to do because Tommy is asking to see his mother.”

“Why don’t you bring Tommy and invite his therapist to come, too?” I suggested.

An hour later, the hospice doorbell rang. There stood Peter, Tommy, his therapist, and a few other family members. Tommy had a small Instamatic camera dangling from around his neck.

“Hi, Tommy,” I said. “I see you have your camera. What do you want to take pictures of today?”

He smiled. “You, Mr. Buddha, and my mom.” So we went to the living room, where Tommy took photos of me and the big Buddha statue. Then we went upstairs to Ethel’s room.

Everyone was quite apprehensive. How would Tommy react to seeing his dead mother? He and I walked hand in hand to her bedside. He spontaneously reached over the bed rail and kissed his mother on the forehead, as he had done on most every visit. Then Tommy turned and looked at me, not with fear, but with innocent curiosity, and asked, “Where has all that gone?”

Form and emptiness. What was animated and full of life before was now empty. Tommy could sense the absence of Ethel, even though her body was still present. A silence fell over the room. Most of the adults squirmed nervously, trying to imagine how to respond.

I said what I usually do. “I don’t know, Tommy,” I said. “What do you think?”

Tommy thought about it for a minute before launching into an animated description born from his imagination. The story of what might have happened to his mother included images of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon and scenes from the popular movie Terminator 2, in which human forms morph from one shape into another.

The adults exhaled and relaxed. They could see that Tommy was not frightened. In fact, he was incredibly curious about what was absent. We drank tea and Coca-Cola as we visited in a natural way.

Before the family left, I asked if Tommy and I could spend a few minutes alone with Ethel. I sensed his need to be with his mother one last time. Since we had built up so much trust over time, Peter agreed.

Once the room had cleared, Tommy moved to his mother’s bedside again and asked a few more questions.

“When you are dead, can you feel?” he asked.

“I don’t know if dead people can feel, Tommy, but can you feel your mom?”

“Yes, I can,” he responded. “But she’s not moving.”

“Yeah, when people die, they don’t breathe or eat or talk anymore,” I said. My simple, matter-of-fact answers seemed to satisfy him for the moment. Then I said, “Tommy, if there’s anything you want to say to your mom or do for your mom, now would be a really good time.”

I watched as Tommy gently touched his mother’s arm, feeling its texture and changing temperature. After a moment, he did the sweetest and most remarkable thing. Leaning over his mother’s body, he smelled her from head to toe. It reminded me of watching a whitetail deer fawn once on a country road. The fawn’s mother had been hit by a car. The young deer moved tenderly, sniffing her mother’s body with curiosity. Tommy’s movements had a similar, almost primitive feel. They were completely uncensored.

Of course, Tommy would still need to grieve and take time to understand the loss of his mother. But in this moment, there was nothing more that needed to be done or said. Tommy’s way of knowing was visceral and palpable. I doubt many grown-ups would ever allow themselves that sort of intimacy with death.

I wondered, what if death could be as natural for adults in our culture as it was for Tommy?

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