Tiny Buddha

Tag: mortality

  • How I Found Hope in my Father’s Terminal Cancer

    How I Found Hope in my Father’s Terminal Cancer

    “Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty, even in times of greatest distress.” ~Milan Kundera

    When my father received a terminal cancer diagnosis, I went through a wave of different emotions. Fear, anger, sadness. It opened a completely new dictionary that I had not had access to before. A realm of experiences, thoughts, and emotions that lie at the very bedrock of human life was suddenly revealed to me.

    After the initial horror and dread at hearing the news had subsided, I was surprised to find a new sense of meaning and connection in the world around me.

    In part, dealing with this news has been profoundly lonely. But the truth is, cancer is a human experience, and it’s been overwhelming and humbling to walk into a reality shared by so many people across the world.

    I was immediately confronted with how much I had avoided other people’s experiences because cancer frightened me.

    Our minds are fickle when confronted with terminal illness. It can be difficult to untangle the horror and pain we associate with cancer from someone’s very rich and dignified life despite it. 

    We see cancer as a deviation from what human life is supposed to offer. A part of this can be found in the values we hold in our culture and our idealization of productivity as proof of our worthiness, with pleasure as the ultimate symbol of success. In this fast-paced, luxury-crazed world, there’s no room for hurt, pain, and mortality.

    On a personal level, I understand that it can be difficult to avoid thinking of cancer as an evil intruder that steals away the ones we love, that disrupts any chance at a good life with its debilitating symptoms and treatments. Cancer is a frightening reminder of limitations and loss.

    I was greatly affected by my expectations of cancer, in that when I found out about my father’s terminal diagnosis, I instantly began grieving a person who was still very much alive. As if life with cancer wasn’t really a life at all.

    After all, terminal means there is no cure. It means that if left untreated, it kills you. It also means that treatment won’t keep you alive forever. You will die of it, unless you die of something else in the meantime, which is likely, considering the risk of infection and complication associated with the aggressive treatment and a deteriorating immune system. It’s a death sentence.

    My first reaction to the news was that my parents had to make the most of the time they had left together. They have always been ardent travelers, and as far back as I can remember, talked excitedly about the trips they were going to take when they were older.

    I instinctively felt existential dread on their behalf and encouraged them to take out their bucket list and start packing their suitcases, to start traveling while they still had the chance.

    Now I see how misplaced my reaction was. To my parents, the whole appeal of traveling vanished when it was motivated by the ticking clock of imminent death. In telling them to go travel, all they heard was “you’re going to die, and you haven’t gotten to the end of your bucket list!”

    It turns out, life is so much more than the collection of ideas we have about what we’re going to do and where we’re going to go. Life is not about getting through a list. Sometimes only the gravest of situations can show us what is sacred in our lives. 

    By living through a pandemic and then receiving a cancer diagnosis, my father’s life came to a bit of a standstill. But despite my original anxiety on his behalf, it wasn’t really the sad ordeal I thought it would be.

    On the contrary. My father woke up from a life of constant traveling and planning for the future, only to find that he loves the life he is already living in the present moment.

    The abundance of life is not out there on a beach in Spain, it’s in the first home he ever owned, next to the forest he loves, where on a wind-still day you can hear the ocean; it’s drinking coffee in the garden with his wife, and reading books in the company of a devoted, purring cat; it’s using the fine china for breakfast and playing board games on rainy evenings.

    I’m sure that my father has moments of fear about his disease and about death, but for the most part, he’s just dealing with the existential and human need of wanting to be treated with dignity, of being more than a disease he happens to have, being more than a symbol of a death that comes to us all eventually anyway.

    Cancer brings with it a whole new world of thoughts and feelings; a lot of it is heavy, a lot of it is fear and pain, but there is also dignity, humility, connection, love, and acceptance. It demands new ideas about life and death, about people, about where we come from and who we are. 

    I cannot imagine anything more human and more dignified than that.

    As I led with, I have gone through a wave of emotions since I found out that one of my favorite people in the world has terminal cancer. It has in no way been easy, but life doesn’t always have to be easy to be good. I have journeyed somewhere deep and unfamiliar and found something there that I never expected to find—hope.

    Hope doesn’t always mean the promise of a better future or of finding a cure to our physical and psychological ailments. Hope is knowing that we are flawed, that we suffer, that we are finite. It dictates that every moment is sacred, and every life has dignity.

    Before we die, we live. The cause of our deaths will be any number of things. Cancer could be one of the reasons we die. We might have cancer and die of something else. That’s not what defines us. And we must make sure not to define each other by it either.

    When someone looks at you and utters the word “terminal,” you might be surprised to find hope. Hope, it turns out, wears many hats. Personally, I found it in the insurmountable evidence of human dignity.

  • My Dying Friend’s Woke Wake and Why We Need to Talk About Death

    My Dying Friend’s Woke Wake and Why We Need to Talk About Death

    “Death smiles at us all; all we can do is smile back.” ~Marcus Aurelius

    Recently, on a beautiful blue-sky Saturday, I attended my first “woke wake.”

    My dear friend has welcomed in the love and care of hospice, and she and her family wanted to host a celebration.

    The meaning of “woke” signals an awareness of social action, with a focus on racism and bias in our culture. She also wanted to be “awoke” to the experience of her wake. More importantly, her party was an honest expression that she will die soon. Her acknowledgement was courageous.

    We share so openly about birth, and yes, there is deep sorrow with death, but doesn’t it deserve as much open acknowledgement? Silence only makes the journey that much more difficult. 

    In her rose-rimmed glasses, moving about the party with such grace, she held her truth with pride. Her heart is full yet has become so weak.

    There were plates of delicacies with brie decorating beets, fall fruit bowls adorned with persimmons and pomegranate, plates of pumpkin brownies and breads, chips finding dips, laughter finding tears.

    She preferred we didn’t clink cups and share stories. Instead, it was both a “Bon Voyage” and “Welcome Home” celebration. The voyage is universal for all of us. Home becomes the outstretched arms of loving community and, as Ram Dass wrote, “We are all just walking each other home.”

    The morning my father passed away just shy of ninety-five, I spoke with him by phone as he lay in his hospital bed. The last thing he said in his forever strong but raspy voice, before hanging up the phone, was “Well, gotta go honey.”

    We all “gotta go,” but the privilege some of us have to plan for how we go is a gift. Many do not have that luxury due to economic, social, and possible cultural differences.

    But for many, there are concrete plans we can make as we compose our wills, designating our medical power of attorney, our financial executor, DNR, and life support decisions. We can designate who will inherit our wares and heirlooms. We can decide specifics in regard to a traditional burial, cremation, or even body composting, which is a process that transforms the body into soil to be then returned to the earth.

    Getting our affairs in order in concrete ways seems easier than having a conversation about our own death or that of our friends, family, and aging parents.

    Melanie Klein, a well-known British psychologist, believes the fear of death is the crux of anxiety. Whether one believes in this premise or not isn’t that important. But the truth is that often our feelings about death are kept deep inside. Yet discussion can ease our anxiety as we face the existential concerns about our mortality.

    I’m in an intimate group with six other women where we discuss aging, living, and dying. Sometimes we discuss the book we are reading, but more often than not, we share our hopes, dreams, and fears about the future. As our skin softens with age, our “thin skin” makes us more sensitive to issues around death.

    Often, there are concerns about being dependent and a wish to not burden those who care for us. And who will care for us? Will we be okay financially? How will our bodies and minds hold up in the years to come? We also discuss worry about those we’ll leave behind. How will children cope?

    These are difficult topics. But being in community while voicing our feelings and asking these questions can make us feel less alone. If possible, opening up the discussion with loved ones is important. And the hope is that when our time comes, we will all be better prepared and have had some of our questions answered.

    Those who die before us often become our teachers. As we attend memorials and wakes, we face that we will continue to say farewell to loved ones and inevitably ourselves. How those before us handle the farewell often educates us as to how we would like to end our journey in both similar and dissimilar ways. But this takes conversation, something too often avoided.

    My friend has taught me so much and especially about her devotion to and her honesty with her grown children. I will want my children to know they are going to be just fine in the world no matter the twists and turns in their life. And that I promise I will never be far away.

    It is said that accepting the inevitability of death helps us accept we are all just visiting for a short while. That recognition reminds us to appreciate life and make it a good visit.

    I hugged my friend goodbye and thanked her for hosting a lovely celebration. It was a good visit with a table of bounty. Maybe that is what we can all hope for as the party ends and the lights go out.

  • How the Deathbed Meditation Can Bring You Clarity, Purpose, and Joy

    How the Deathbed Meditation Can Bring You Clarity, Purpose, and Joy

    “Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.” ~Socrates

    There’s a lot of beauty and value in positive, light-and-love approaches to mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

    But I challenge you to go a little deeper and to face something we’re all going to experience eventually:

    Death.

    I know this may sound macabre, bizarre, or downright unappealing. But hear me out!

    There is a certain power and beauty in consciously visualizing and meditating on one’s death.

    What could be more awakening and more revealing than putting your current self into the perspective of your dying self—into your last few moments?

    Such a precious practice helps to bring a stunning clarity and crystalline focus to everything going on in your life.

    Indeed, what is referred to as the “deathbed meditation” helps you to:

    • Figure out what is most important to you
    • Let go of old pains and hurts
    • Focus on what brings you joy
    • Find your true life path
    • Uncover your hidden gifts

    As humans, we tend to live our lives as though they will never end. From one day to the next we live in a kind of autopilot mode where we take everything (and everyone) for granted.

    The deathbed meditation is a powerful practice you can incorporate into your life whenever you feel lost, stranded, stuck, out of focus, or simply aimless.

    My Experience With the Deathbed Meditation

    I’ve always been someone who desperately needs a strong purpose in life.

    But something happened last year that tossed me into a dark existential crisis where I questioned (1) what my place in the world really was, (2) why old wounds were rising to the surface, and (3) why I felt so lost—despite having a strong self-care and spiritual practice.

    With the advent of COVID-19 and the retriggering of old traumas, I felt empty inside.

    You know that feeling of falling and not having anything to catch you? That’s how I felt.

    Witnessing the suffering in the world and in my own circle of family members, I realized something major: “I could die tomorrow.”

    I realized this isn’t a groundbreaking thought; we all have it at some point (I know I have). But in that moment it felt like a lightbulb went off in my head—I suddenly realized that the key to finding the answers to life was to contemplate something so few people dare to approach: death.

    The answers I received from that subsequent deathbed meditation have guided my life, reawoken my purpose, and fuelled me with vision ever since.

    How to Practice the Deathbed Meditation

    Doing the deathbed meditation is an act of radical self-love. There, I said it!

    Why radical? The deathbed meditation is radical because it’s rarely mentioned or practiced by anyone (that I’m aware of) due to its intimidating nature.

    But let me assure you that the answers you can potentially find are so soul-nourishing, so meaningful, so profound, that you will be overjoyed that you courageously took this step.

    Before you embark on this inner journey, please ensure you have a neutral mind—we don’t want minds that are feeling down or frazzled or unhappy for any reason (that will bias your discoveries).

    When you’re ready, let’s begin:

    1. Focus on feeling safe and relaxed.

    Before you begin your deathbed meditation, find a space in your house that feels cozy. You might like to place a blanket over you and a pillow behind your head for extra comfort. Draw the blinds or curtains and ensure the atmosphere is dark.

    It’s important that you feel safe and relaxed so that your heart and mind can open up and gain the most from the meditation.

    Place a blindfold, sleep mask, or cloth over your eyes so that you can’t see anything. Then take some gentle, natural, grounding breaths and settle yourself.

    2. Find some funereal music (optional).

    Some people prefer their meditations to be totally silent, but if you’d like to set the mood, find some funereal music (or music that would be played at a funeral) to prepare your mind for the scene.

    Again, do whatever makes you feel most safe and comfortable. If you prefer total silence, that’s okay too.

    3. Visualize yourself on your deathbed, surrounded by loved ones.

    In your mind’s eye, imagine that you only have a few minutes (or hours) left to live. You feel comforted and at peace with your loved ones surrounding you.

    What kind of room are you in? What kind of bed or seat supports you? Focus on some kinesthetic details to help enrich the visualization.

    4. Ask yourself, “What was I most happy to have done in life?”

    Take some moments to reflect on this crucial question: What were you most happy to have done in your life? Let images and scenes play out in your mind for as long as needed.

    This powerful question will help you to hone in on what truly matters in your current life. If you’re struggling with making an important decision or finding a life direction, this simple question could be the key to unlocking deep truths residing within you.

    5. Ask yourself, “What did I regret not doing?”

    Regret is a natural part of life, yet many of us shy away from it, trying to sweep it under the rug. To avoid accumulating too much regret, ask this simple question within your deathbed meditation: What did you regret not doing?

    Let any thoughts, images, memories, or scenes run through your mind’s eye. Take special note of them.

    6. Ask yourself, “What is the most important thing in life to me, above all else?”

    Values are what guide our lives, and yet we are often totally unaware of them. By asking the question, “What is the most important thing in life to me, above all else?” we come to understand, truly understand, what we value deep down.

    Take a few moments in your deathbed meditation to contemplate this question, letting it sink into the recesses of your mind, heart, and soul. The answer you discover can have the potential of shifting, expanding, and empowering your entire life.

    7. Thank your loved ones and end the meditation.

    Once you’re done asking all or some of the above questions, smile warmly to your loved ones and thank them for their presence in your life. Then, when you’re ready, return to the room you’re in, get up very slowly, and do a big stretch.

    You might also like to drink some water to ‘emotionally digest’ your experience.

    —

    The deathbed meditation has been one of the most powerful tools in my life for getting straight to the heart of what I most love, cherish, value, and need.

    After all, what else can put things in perspective other than our own mortality?

    If you’re feeling confused, lost, or in need of direction, I highly recommend that you try this unique meditation at least once. You might be surprised by how intensely transformational such a practice can be!

  • 5 Questions I Ask Myself Nightly Since My Father’s Sudden Death

    5 Questions I Ask Myself Nightly Since My Father’s Sudden Death

    “Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.” ~Langston Hughes

    Nine years ago, I was sitting mindlessly in my office cubicle in Omaha, Nebraska, when the receptionist called to inform me that my dad was in the lobby.

    I walked out to greet him: He was happy, smiling, and donning one of his favorite double-breasted suits. He was there because he needed my signature on some tax preparation forms before he handed them over to his accountant. My dad always took care of things like that.

    It was a Friday in February, late morning. We briefly discussed getting lunch but ultimately decided not to in the interest of time. We would see each other over the weekend, anyway. After all, we were planning a trip.

    A week prior, my dad told me he wanted to take me to Vegas for my thirtieth birthday. I’d never been to Vegas. There were things to discuss, hotel rooms to book, concert tickets to buy.

    I signed the tax forms, thanked my dad, and walked back to my cubicle. I don’t remember anything else about this day. It was, in fact, just like any other day. It was ordinary. Humdrum, you might say.

    But the next day…

    The next day is forever seared into the pathways of my hippocampus, every detail a tattoo on my mind’s eye.

    Because the next day…

    That’s the day my dad died.

    I remember the morning phone call I got from my sister.

    9:38 a.m.

    I remember running to my car, half a block up Howard Street, and then another block down 12th. I remember the whipping wind and the stinging cold. I remember the saplings lining the streets of downtown, their branches brittle and bare, scratching the ether like an old lady’s fingers.

    I remember the seventeen-minute drive to the hospital.

    I remember the hospital, the stairs, the front desk, the waiting room, the faces, the hugs, the tears, the complete and utter shock.

    I remember that my mom wasn’t there.

    Three times we called. Where is she? Why isn’t she answering? Who’s going to tell her?

    It seems like our lives are defined by days, even moments, like these—the most joyous or the most unbearably tragic.

    I miss my dad.

    I miss his ridiculously big heart, which we were told was the thing that killed him.

    I miss the lingering scent of his cologne, a sort of woodsy, leathery blend that comes in a classic green bottle. I miss his laugh, which could range from a barely discernible chuckle to a jolly, high-pitched guffaw. I miss seeing him in my clothes—the shirts and shoes and jeans that I wanted to throw away because they were clearly going out of style.

    I miss the things I never thought I’d miss, the quirks and ticks and peccadillos that drove me crazy—like the way he’d crunch his ice cubes or noisily suck on a piece of hard candy in an otherwise quiet movie theater.

    I wonder if I chose to write this today instead of tomorrow because writing it tomorrow could prove too difficult. Or if I chose to write this after nine years instead of ten years because ten years is one of those nice, round numbers we use for milestone birthdays and anniversaries and other such occasions we’re supposed to celebrate. Or maybe because ten years is a whole decade and a whole goddamn decade without my dad just seems too strange to fathom.

    When I think of the last time I spoke with my dad, I can’t help but also think of that Benjamin Franklin quote—the one about how nothing is certain except death and taxes.

    But only one of those things comes with any sort of predictability.

    Studies have shown that our brains are wired to prevent us from thinking about our own mortality. Our brains shield us from the existential thought of death and view it as something that happens to others but not ourselves.

    So, most of us, perhaps because of our biological wiring, rarely even think about the unfortunate truth that we’re going to die, and we have no idea how or when.

    On the other hand, some of our greatest ancient philosophers actually practiced reflecting on the impermanence of life—otherwise known as Memento Mori, which literally translates to Remember you must die.

    “You could leave life right now,” wrote Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations. “Let that determine what you do and say and think.”

    Personally, I don’t think about my own demise a whole hell of a lot.

    But there’s a reason I decided to pack up my things and move to a new city six years ago.

    There’s a reason I decided to make a career pivot five years ago.

    There’s a reason I decided to quit my day job at almost forty years old and start working for myself two years ago.

    Because nine years ago, death did a number on me. I had one of those unbearably tragic days that seems to define our lives.

    And now, before I go to bed each night, I ask myself:

    Was I a decent person today?

    Did I challenge myself today?

    Did I have any fun today?

    What am I grateful for today?

    If I were on my deathbed, would I have regrets?

    Asking myself these things helps me live a more fulfilling life—the kind of life that I want to live. And I’m proud of what I’m doing here, right now. I think—at least I hope—my dad would be too.

    I still haven’t been to Vegas, though.

  • The Chaos of Life After Loss and the Love That Never Dies

    The Chaos of Life After Loss and the Love That Never Dies

    “We need to grieve the ones we’ve lost—not to sustain our connection to suffering, but to sustain our connection to love.” ~Jennifer Williamson

    Ken was only forty-seven years old when he met his untimely death.

    It was surreal, my brother-in-law was gone from our physical world.

    As a family, we felt the motions moving through the initial telephone call summoning us to the hospital to the time we surrounded him as he took his last breath. It was if we were all caught between two worlds, one of cruel reality and one of complete disbelief. You read about it happening to other people, not to us.

    My chest felt like a dense, cold stone had been dropped abruptly on it aimed at my heart after hearing those words hit my ears: “He’s not going to make it…”

    When it’s your family lying in the wake of such a painful experience, you soon realize the profound effect that death has. It causes an enormous ripple in all our lives that reaches out for miles, days, weeks, and years.

    It’s such a deep wound for an entire community that surrounded him—his young family left behind, extended family at work, concert traveling buddies, camping friends, and countless other people who enjoyed his presence.

    Ken embraced fun, passion, and laughter, whether he was tearing up the dance floor, creating his culinary signature dishes for our family gatherings, harvesting his perfect tomatoes, or taking pictures of his lovely wife, kids, and all their adventures with his “fancy camera”. Ken was such an amazing soul that brought light wherever he shone.

    A fall down a set of stairs changed our world completely. Ken suffered multiple bruises on the front and back of his brain as well as a significant fracture to the base of his skull. Black circles surrounded his eyes that look liked two large shiners. Contusions littered his arms and head.

    The next week was steady but slow progress. His alertness grew and conscious awareness slowly trickled back. A conversation with the physician’s assistant was frank. Despite the best-case scenario, it would be a long recovery.

    Questions loomed in the back of our minds. If he recovers, will our Ken ever be whole again? What challenges will this new version of himself present for our family?

    It was clear that Ken would more than likely suffer from cognitive behavior issues associated with a traumatic brain injury. While in the hospital, some of his behavior was unusual but typical of a patient with his condition and prognosis. Initially, he had to be restrained to ensure he wouldn’t pull out his vital monitors or attempt to leave the hospital.

    Eventually, he became calmer and more stable. A couple of days before he died was the last time my husband and I saw him smile and laugh again. A little of Ken was still in there, and it gave us hope.

    We soon learned that brain injuries are unpredictable. Twelve days in and without warning, Ken suffered a massive stroke. The night before, he sat and watched the Jets hockey game with his son and wife. The next morning changed everything.

    The nurse found him unresponsive. The doctors advised us that they would have to place Ken into a medically induced coma for three days.

    The next morning our immediate family was summoned to the ICU. For reasons unknown, the pressure on his brain suddenly escalated. Medical intervention could not save him. Ken would have to be taken off life support. The doctors ensured us that he would pass peacefully.

    All our family rushed to be by his side for his last moments. That day was the toughest day of my life. I witnessed the life leave his body as his skin turned from a beigy pink hue to a flush of gray in an instant when death gently urged life to leave him. We said goodbye to Ken as he took his last breath on this earth.

    The hospital was a stark reminder of the gravity of our situation. Patients and families in intensive care. The noises of the machines and sight of numerous tubes. The nurses and doctors. Conversations and updates. Decisions. Sandpaper Kleenex from the waiting room. The beeps and syringes. It was so much to soak in with your eyes and ears.

    The hospital is not a pleasant and serene place to die. It was out of medical necessity. For his children’s sake, it was a bitter lesson of mortality. There was no real goodbye. Memories of their father motionless, tubes parading from his body surrounded by an army of machines. My heart sank for them. It was their dad’s final moment of life, and unfortunately death doesn’t let us choose our departure.

    The next day after he had passed, we gathered at my mother-in-law’s house. A service needed to be planned. Food was ordered, notice in the paper submitted, cremation arrangements and so many other details were handled in a few short hours. A celebration of life at the local community center, where my husband’s family grew up.

    Simple and incredibly warm would be his final goodbye to everyone. It told a story of his passionate essence that was his life. There was an incredible outpouring of support by those that attended and were touched by Ken’s being.

    A collection of Ken’s favorite things and pictures of precious moments throughout his life was on display. His fishing rod, lures made from his daughter’s nail polish, guitar, sport jerseys, and the leg lamp Christmas Story movie lights I gave him for his birthday, among other things, were included.

    Ken’s wife gave the eulogy (the only speech), and it was moving. He was the love of her life since she was eighteen years old, father of her children, and the guy that was supposed to be alongside her till they were both old and grey.

    Despite the sorrow, she spoke of the time they had and her gratitude for having found her soul mate. I was held back by the shimmer she refused to let go, despite the world she knew was crumbling all around her. I expected that the service would provide some closure, but despite the reality growing around his death, it made it harder to accept that he was really gone.

    The wave of responsibilities in the aftermath of death is overwhelming. It is astonishing the volume of family and friends that contacted my sister-in-law, his mother and father, my husband. It left little time to feel lonely let alone mourn. Constant phone calls, food deliveries, visits.

    My sister-in-law knew that it was an unavoidable truth to the whole situation. People mean well; it’s the process that follows that is daunting. Paperwork, death certificate, cremation, insurance, calling the kids’ schools, and all the little things tacked on create an enormous to-do list.

    You steadily move without pausing and push through during the most profoundly impacting moment of your life. I’m still amazed at how well she pulled it all together. I knew in my heart she wanted to just collapse once all of this chaos settled. Once the mayhem calmed, the mounting grief would follow in its footsteps.

    I watched my family fall apart and try to make sense of it all. The cruelty of holding onto the idea of someone that once was. Hope heartlessly taken abruptly away from us.

    It wasn’t just his death alone; it was the rollercoaster of preceding events in the hospital that would damage us. Desperately holding onto the side of a boat without paddles, helplessly letting the river take us down its path etched into the earth. It is futile to stop it, you have to let it to carry you along its rough waters till they are calm once again. Like the river, living is really just control relinquished. It was never our duty to try and harness it.

    The heavy gravity of loss and pain we all felt was slightly dissipated as we reminisced about Ken. Our faces would be painted with smiles amid a round of laughter as we fondly remembered his antics and told stories amongst ourselves.

    We would be delicately reminded of how much we love him and his incredible passion for living. Death may take our physical being, but his memory and energy will live on within each of us.

    Grief and love are so intimately intertwined. Without grieving we would never know love so deeply. It’s the beauty of love and sorrow twirling around us in this constant dance we call life. I realized that our hearts are meant to be broken only to be reborn and rise time and time again.

  • One Question I Ask Myself Monthly Since Coming to Terms with Death

    One Question I Ask Myself Monthly Since Coming to Terms with Death

    “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live.” ~Norman Cousins

    On September 23, 2015, Loukas Angelo was walking to his after-school strength and conditioning class just a few hundred yards from Archbishop Mitty High School.

    He was approaching the outdoor basketball courts when he ran out into the street and was struck by a car traveling around thirty miles per hour. The impact sent Loukas flying down the street, and he was immediately transported to the closest hospital where he remained in critical condition.

    I remember sitting on the couch later that afternoon when my phone started blowing up. Feeling curious, I shoved aside my history homework and decided to see what was going on.

    Multiple people had sent some variation of the same text, “Yo. This is so sad. Did you hear about what happened with Loukas…?”

    Confused and a little bit scared, I turned to Twitter and started looking through my feed. I was absolutely floored by the tweets that were being sent out by my friends and our high school’s Twitter page.

    Similar to tragedies like the Boston Marathon, or 9/11, it was one of those moments in life where you’re always going to remember exactly where you were when you found out the news.

    It was almost inconceivable to think about the fact that I had walked across the same exact crosswalk where Loukas was hit just fifteen minutes prior.

    All throughout the night, support poured in from social media sites. The hashtag #PrayForLoukas was trending #1 on Twitter in my local area for several hours. I’m not a particularly religious person, but for the first time in years I said a prayer for Loukas before going to bed.

    The next day at school was one of the most eerie, heart-breaking days of my life. I arrived at Archbishop Mitty High school that day to a campus that was completely silent. Although there were plenty of people walking through the campus, no one said a word to each other

    As I walked toward my homeroom class, I remember seeing one kid carrying a ridiculously oversized backpack. It looked like he was at the airport preparing to leave for a month, and I let out a slight chuckle imagining what it was like to carry that thing around all day.

    However, my smile was wiped off my face completely when I stepped through the door of the classroom.

    Every one of my classmates was sitting there emotionless. Stone-faced. Not saying a word to each other. I sat down and did the same, as we were all preparing for an assembly in the gymnasium that was set to take place in about fifteen minutes.

    The 1400 students funneled into the gymnasium and took their seats. You could hear a pin drop.

    Our principal got up and gave a very powerful speech, which concluded with him leading the entire school in a prayer for Loukas. After a few others got up and spoke, the assembly concluded with a one-minute-long moment of silence.

    The day after the assembly, the news broke that Loukas had passed away after being in critical condition for around forty-eight hours.

    On September 25, 2015, Loukas Angelo lost his life at the age of fourteen years old

    Coming To Terms with Your Mortality

    As we go about our day-to-day lives, we are inundated with thousands of thoughts, most of them the same thoughts that ran through our head the day before.

    But very few of these thoughts, if any, are about our own mortality.

    It’s a little scary to think about the fact that you and everyone you know will perish from this world.

    No one knows when, but one day you will draw your last breath on this earth. Some people have the luxury of preparing for it, while others like Loukas have no idea that it’s coming.

    But at some point, death comes for each and every one of us.

    We all know this deep down, but it seems like so many of us live like we have unlimited time on this earth.

    We put off spending time with family even though they can be taken from us at any given moment.

    We refuse opportunities to get out of our comfort zone even though we have no idea how many of those opportunities we’re going to be given.

    In other words, most of us go through life without coming to grips with our own mortality.

    When Loukas passed, I obviously felt sorrow for his friends and family, who have to carry that burden around for the rest of their life.

    But mainly, I thought about Loukas.

    Given the nature of his death, he didn’t have any time to reflect back on his life. And given how young he was, if he did have that opportunity there wouldn’t be much to think about compared to someone on their deathbed at seventy or eighty years old.

    Yet, I couldn’t help but imagine what he would be thinking about in his final moments had he been given that opportunity. What regrets would he have? What moments would he replay in his head over and over again?

    Eventually, I started asking myself those same questions. It was a pretty cruel exercise that I was putting myself through, but it felt like a way to extract some meaning out of a terrible tragedy.

    As I imagined what it would be like to contemplate my existence at the end of my life, I didn’t feel happiness or satisfaction. I felt regret and shame.

    One common theme that permeated my consciousness was fear. I was only seventeen at the time, but I realized that essentially all of the regrets I’d have on my deathbed were a direct result of being afraid.

    Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear of judgement.

    It was a brutal wake-up call. For the majority of my life, I had missed out on opportunities and experiences due to fear.

    I was here alive and breathing, but I wasn’t truly living. Merely existing, acting as if the end was never coming.

    How to Let Fear & Death Guide Your Actions

    I’m twenty-two now, and since then my approach to life has been simple.

    Twelve times per year, I do a monthly check-in with myself and ask myself one simple question:

    At this very moment, what am I avoiding in life because I’m afraid?

    The answers to this question inform me of exactly what changes that I should be making in my day-to-day life.

    Most people run from fear, but my suggestion is to lean into it. It’s actually an incredibly accurate predictor of the changes that you should be prioritizing in your life.

    It’s different for everyone.

    Some of you may be afraid of changing careers and pursuing something that you love because of the uncertainty that comes with changing professions.

    Some of you may be afraid of improving your social skills because that involves battling with the fear of rejection.

    Some of you may be afraid of moving to a different city because you’ll have to leave friends and family that you care about.

    If you have the courage to actually ask and answer the question, your fears will tell you exactly where your focus should be. It’s almost as if they’re calling out to you, saying:

    “Don’t forget about me. If you don’t take action, I’m going to torture your thoughts when you get to the end of your life.”

    Facing your fears is hard. Staying somewhere you don’t belong is even harder. But nothing compares to the pain of getting to the end of your life and knowing that you let fear stop you from doing the things you truly wanted to do.

    Just like Jim Rohn said, “We all must suffer one of two pains. The pain of discipline or the pain of regret. The difference is that discipline weighs ounces while regret weighs tons.”

    So I highly encourage you to ask yourself the question above each month and write down whatever comes to mind.

    Pick one of the things that you write down and make it the biggest priority in your life. You can’t fix everything about your life at once, as focusing on everything is the same thing as focusing on nothing.

    But once you’ve narrowed your focus, you can start taking small steps every day to overcome that fear.

    If you’re afraid of social interactions and have been for years, start saying hello to people as they walk by each day.

    If you’re afraid of starting a workout routine, start by walking for two minutes each day.

    These initial bursts of momentum that don’t seem like they make any difference are ultimately the foundation upon which your biggest changes take place.

    Do the things that you think you cannot do. Let the pain of not facing your fears override the pain of letting them fester for years and decades.

    Your future self will smile down at you.

    #LiveLikeLoukas

  • Life is Fragile: Love Like Today Could Be Your Last

    Life is Fragile: Love Like Today Could Be Your Last

    “I would argue that nothing gives life more purpose than the realization that every moment of consciousness is a precious and fragile gift.” ~Steven Pinker

    He was splayed out in the middle of the road. The paramedics had yet to arrive. That was the scene on our way to meet some friends.

    Over dinner, they relayed the tragic story of their neighbor’s twenty-something son who was killed recently in a motorcycle accident.

    Two others lost their lives in an instant on a nearby suburban road.

    An acquaintance told me about the fatal hiking accident of a young man who was making his mark on the world and left it with so much more to give.

    My friend’s father is fighting for his life against COVID.

    All of this in the past week.

    I know what you are thinking. This is SOOOO depressing. I know. But it’s life. Life is fragile. It can end in an instant. I know from experience.

    My parents were taking care of our young children while my husband and I were on a company-sponsored trip on the other side of the Atlantic. We were so excited to catch an earlier flight for the last leg of our return so we could surprise our kids as they got off the school bus. 

    As we pulled up, our home was eerily quiet. No one was home. We entered and found a note on the counter saying, “Bridget we are sorry for your loss. There is food in the fridge.” 

    Panic ensued as we made frantic phone calls that went unanswered. What in the hell happened? Where are our kids!? Finally, the phone rang. “Bridget, Dad died.” 

    If you are like me you probably don‘t spend time thinking about your mortality. It’s uncomfortable. Yet, it’s one thing that is certain in this life. That, along with our choice of how we show up and navigate each day.

    As I reflect on the years since my dad died, I think of all the missed milestones that have marked my children’s lives, both big and small. From the fun, everyday moments to the can’t miss celebrations. This year in particular is bittersweet. It marks the high school graduation and college start of my youngest; another important milestone that we will celebrate without him, and it makes me sad.

    But he’s been with us all along the way in spirit. Sometimes I hear his voice. Sometimes I sense him around my house. I can still feel his warm hugs. And see the twinkle in his eye when he really saw me for me. 

    We continue to tell the stories. To remember who he was as a dad and a grandpa. We share his goofy idiosyncrasies, like his love for peanut butter, lettuce, and mayonnaise sandwiches. I know. But he loved it!

    It’s the little things that we remember about people. How they make us feel. Whether they are friends, family, or strangers. 

    Recently, before a class I taught, a student bolted in the door and stormed past me. No check-in. No hello. She kept going when I asked her to stop. She eventually made her way back to me and all was good. Yet, I could feel the frenetic energy oozing from her.

    I’ve been her. Many times. And I don’t want to be like that. I consciously choose to live with no regrets. To acknowledge the people I encounter with care and kindness. To be aware of the energy I am putting out there.

    I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. I hurt others. But I continue to try to do my best to be intentional and thoughtful in my interactions and make amends when I falter.

    When our mind is wrapped up in work, bills, responsibilities, to-do lists, kids, grandkids, and more, it’s easy to go through the motions of life. Sometimes the days become routine, and one rolls into another. We’ve got things to do and little time to get it all done.

    It can be challenging to quiet the chatter in our head, to look at the person in front of us, and to speak, listen, and interact with them like they matter. Often with strangers, and even more so, with our loved ones.

    They are the ones we take for granted. They understand our moods. They know our shortcomings. They forgive us time and time again. But is that what we want?

    If you died today, what do you want those closest to you to know? Do they know how you feel about them? How much they mean to you? Do they understand how important they are to you?

    Tell them. Leave nothing unsaid. You never know if today is your last.

  • Why Remembering You’re Going to Die Is the Best Motivator

    Why Remembering You’re Going to Die Is the Best Motivator

    “Don’t be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don’t have to live forever; you just have to live.” ~Natalie Babitt

    Once a month, I visit the local cemetery and walk around. I’m not there to visit anyone in particular. I’m there to remind myself of my own mortality.

    And it always wakes me up.

    I soak in the energy: I read the simple legacies on the tombstones, from young children to those who made it to 100 years old. I’m not morose. I’m not negative. I’ve simply found the greatest motivational tool in the world, and I assure you it’s not quotes on Instagram or Pinterest. It’s not the latest YouTube clip.

    It’s one thing and one thing only: remembering we are all going to die soon.

    How Many Summers Do You Have Left?

    Seneca was a roman philosopher who lived 2000 years ago and a leader of the stoic movement. One of his essays, entitled On the Shortness of Life provides a reminder to all of us: our time here is nearly over.

    And yet what Seneca argues, and does so brilliantly, is that life isn’t really short. The problem is how we waste so much of our lives on things that don’t matter: wondering what others think, getting caught up in gossip, wasting our lives on social media and the non-essential.

    When this happens, it’s no wonder we lack clarity and meaning in our lives. It’s no wonder we feel overwhelmed, overworked, and overstimulated on a daily basis. When we’re in this place, we don’t have the time or energy to think about death.

    And yet, our time is running out. I like to think of it this way:

    How many more summers do we have left? How many early June mornings with the sun barely making its presence known as we sip coffee do we have left? How many moments with our kids, family, and those who we love do we have left? How many times do we get to do what we love for yet another day?

    We don’t know the answer to this, but I do know one thing: it’s much closer than we think, and every day is a gift. Let’s examine why remembering our own mortality is the best way to start living and how you can use it as leverage to live boldly today.

    Ask the Tough Questions

    Reminding ourselves of our mortality invites us to ask the tough questions from our lives. These are the questions we often avoid, yet are always running in the background:

    Who am I?

    Why am I here?

    Is this life for me?

    Am I on my own path, or someone else’s?

    Because they’re uncomfortable, they become easy to avoid through busyness, noise, and the endless demands of a 24/7 digital culture. Usually we don’t take any time to face these questions unless someone close to us experiences a crisis (or we do, too).

    But within these questions lie powerful answers. They allow us to get honest with ourselves instead of giving in to the usual mental chatter we so often believe. By asking the tough questions, we start to achieve clarity around what matters… and we start discarding what doesn’t.

    Release What Doesn’t Serve

    When I moved from New York City to Phoenix, I experienced a wow moment. No, it wasn’t the awe-inspiring sunsets, although I love those. It was the moment I realized my walk-in closet was bigger than my old space in Manhattan.

    And yet, I realized as time passed, with all this space, I started to accumulate a lot of stuff. One day, as I was preparing for a meditation (yes, my closet doubled as a brilliant meditation room), I realized: I had no space left. I looked around and noticed I barely used anything that was taking up so much space. I was overwhelmed.

    Much like our lives, I had filled my space with the non-essential. Remembering our mortality allows for clarity around releasing what doesn’t serve us. These may be habits, mindsets, environments and yes, even people.

    Even just doing this step often releases a heavy burden we feel in our lives: there’s too much going on, and it never ends. Once we have space, we feel lighter, clearer and more empowered to start figuring out what we really want. 

    Clarity Around Our Dreams 

    “But Tommy…I don’t know, I really don’t know.”

    I sat there in a conversation with one of my clients and wasn’t buying it. She was here for a reason, and I wasn’t going to let her off the hook. Of course, I’ve said this before too, and deep down, I was afraid.

    My belief is that, deep down, we all know what we want; it’s a matter of the layers we’ve stacked over the years clouding our honesty. This is where using our mortality as leverage truly shines: we get to be honest, unapologetic and share our truth.

    Often, we’re afraid to declare what we want for fear of embarrassment, failure, or standing out too much. When faced with our mortality, none of that matters. There’s a dream deep within you waiting to be explored and declared.

    The question, then, becomes: Will you have the courage to discover and declare it?

    The Power of Urgency

    Have you ever had a project due in three months, yet put it off until the last minute and somehow got it all done? We all have. This is the power of urgency, deadlines, and accountability: We get clear, focused, and set boundaries to ensure we finish.

    But how often do we do the same with our own lives? Most people don’t operate with any sense of urgency in life; there’s always tomorrow, next week, or next year.

    Until there’s not. The beauty of reminding ourselves our time is limited means we’re operating with high levels of urgency, knowing every day truly matters.

    When this happens, we say no to the things we should. We tell people how we really feel. And we overcome the resistance on our dreams, the self-doubt, and uncertainty. We feel those yet move forward anyway.

    Because the pain of regret hurts more than putting ourselves out there. When this happens, we start to trust ourselves and recognize our dreams are worth it. Best of all: we’re worth bringing them to life.

    Integrating This into Your Life 

    Steve Jobs, in his riveting Stanford commencement speech, said it better than I ever could:

    “Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

    So, how do we use our mortality to make bold decisions and start to live our dreams today? You don’t have to be as extreme as I am with visiting your local cemetery, although I’d recommend it.

    Here are some of my favorite ways:

    Journal about your legacy.

    Take yourself twenty, thirty, or forty years down the line. How do you want to be remembered? Write it all down.

    Write a letter to your current self.

    Again, fast forward to a time in the future when you’re on your last days. Write a letter to your current self, letting them know whatever you wish.

    Do a guided meditation.

    There are various meditations around visualizing one’s own death (and return back to Earth). These are beautiful ways to face reality and get in touch with what truly matters.

    Spend time with older people.

    Strike up conversations with people and even your own family who have been on this planet for a while. Often, you’ll find gems of wisdom within them.

    Remind yourself of death once a day.

    Every day take a moment and anchor yourself in the beautiful gift we all have. With this energy, ask yourself: What is one bold step I can take today?

    It’s your time now.

    Embrace your mortality, make the decision you’ve been putting off, and never look back.

  • Dealing with Loss: 3 Uplifting Truths About Death and Grief

    Dealing with Loss: 3 Uplifting Truths About Death and Grief

    Enlightenment

    “Don’t be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don’t have to live forever; you just have to live.” ~Natalie Babbitt

    I stared at my reflection in the mirror as my face contorted into a painful grimace, tears streaming down my cheeks. My throat constricted to keep the sobbing at bay. My grandmother was dying, and this is how I coped with death: by falling apart.

    I was lucky; this is the way death is “supposed” to go. Grammy was 96 and had lived out her old age in comfort.

    While I knew I would miss her kisses and the way she generously dished out advice, it would be selfish to insist on keeping her here, as if that were an option. Grammy said that she was ready and that this plane held little thrill for her anymore. The inevitable end was here, and yet I was still a giant mess.

    I’d recently been through a wonderful and dizzying period of self-discovery and growth. I’d dug my self-confidence up from the basement and lifted her to the heavens. I had gotten a handle on all my self-sabotaging behaviors, like drinking wine to escape. I even wrote a popular course to help others break bad habits, gain a sense of purpose, and start living big.

    I finally felt like my real life had begun, like I knew who I was, and my need for validation from others had finally dropped away.

    Yet my present breakdown was glaring evidence that we’re never done growing. We’re always evolving to higher and higher ground. We will never “arrive” and there is no final destination in this life, except for death.

    In the coming days as I wrestled with my grief, I was presented with the following three uplifting truths about death.

    1. Death is the ultimate deadline.

    I’m a True Blood fan, but from watching the show and seeing how vampires handle the understanding that they’ve been granted everlasting mortality, it occurs to me that none of them really accomplish all that much.

    Take the case of Eric Northman, who was a Viking when he was turned into a vampire. He’s been roaming the planet for 1,000 years, give or take a few hundred. You’d think that with all that time to dream, plan, and accomplish he could be a motivational speaker, prolific author or artist, or a talk show host with success that rivals Oprah’s. So what is he? He’s a bar owner.

    Death provides humans with the ultimate deadline. Behaviors that hasten this deadline, health-destroying habits like sloth and overeating, are a means of living suicide, of acting dead, and distracting us from fully living.

    When we’re presented with evidence of our own mortality, so many of us wake up and decide that we’re going to cast aside these old habits, figure out what would make us feel happy and fulfilled, and then go do that.

    2. We can’t enjoy life in the absence of darkness.

    Imagine the most glorious spring day of your life. You’re walking around outside, enjoying the perfect temperature that supports your physical comfort. The sunshine makes you feel perky and happy, the trees are blooming, and you feel hopeful and alive.

    Now what if the only weather you’d ever known was like this spring day? Most of us would immediately say, “Yes, that would be great! That’s the only weather I’d ever need to know.”

    There are people who live in climates like this year round and they appreciate it, but the reason they can appreciate it is because they know there are places like London where it rains a lot, or places that are cold and windy and dark for much of the year.

    If all we were ever shown was perfection and we never witnessed a contrast to that perfection, we wouldn’t have a frame of reference for knowing how perfect it is.

    We can’t enjoy life in the absence of darkness. We need a contrast—of sickness to truly enjoy and appreciate our health, and to endure rainy days to fully appreciate the sunshine. We need to know that death exists in order to truly appreciate life and to fully live it.

    3. Grief is fleeting.

    As I stood in front of that mirror, my throat feeling closed off as I tried to keep back the sobs, it occurred to me to physically open up into my grief, to relax into it and to receive it into my body rather than continuing to resist it.

    I knew that physically resisting my grief was painful in my chest and throat. I became curious to know what it would feel like if I allowed the grief to come to me.

    I leaned into it. When I stopped resisting it and I breathed my grief into my lungs and tried to let it fill me, a most curious thing happened: my grief escaped me.

    When you let it in, grief comes and goes. When you resist grief, and when you close your body physically to the experience, then grief hovers around you in an attempt to gain entry. When you invite grief in, it will come and set a spell, and then it wanders off while other emotions visit with you.

    When you lose a loved one, grief will come back to visit with you, again and again. But if each time grief comes knocking you allow it come in, over time, grief will come back less and less frequently and for shorter and shorter periods of time.

    Eventually, when you think of your loved one, rather than thinking of loss, you’ll honor their memory with a smile.

    Photo by Hartwig HKD

  • Brushes with Mortality: 5 Lessons On Dealing with Hard Times

    Brushes with Mortality: 5 Lessons On Dealing with Hard Times

    “When we come close to those things that break us down, we touch those things that also break us open. And in that breaking open, we uncover our true nature.” ~Wayne Muller

    As someone with a serious chronic medical condition, I have danced with mortality. Many times. It wasn’t until our most recent pas de deux, however, that I truly understood just how much this dance could impact me.

    Nowhere was this more apparent than in my work as a hospice volunteer.

    The mission of the San Francisco-based Zen Hospice Project—a Buddhist-inspired organization where I have volunteered for five years—is to bring kindness and compassion to those facing loss and death.

    I trained to be a volunteer out of a deep longing to explore and evolve my comfort level with my own illness and mortality, as well as the mortality of those close to me.

    Zen Hospice Project trains volunteers to practice the Five Precepts Of Hospice Care developed by its founder.

    They are:

    1. Bring your whole self to the bedside.
    2. Welcome everything; push away nothing.
    3. Find a place of rest in the middle of things.
    4. Cultivate the “don’t know mind.”
    5. Don’t wait.

    While I have attempted to integrate these precepts at bedside (and in my life in general), I am also aware that I have remained somewhat disconnected from them.

    For example, though I have always been able to easily listen with compassion as patients and family members voiced their feelings about dying; to hold a hand; provide a gentle foot massage; bring hot tea and fresh flowers; and sing to patients, I could not (or more aptly did not want to) fully feel the devastating grief that accompanies loss.

    Until, that is, I returned to hospice work last year after undergoing emergency brain surgery.

    Some background: As a child, I was diagnosed with a neurological condition called hydrocephalus that prevents the cerebrospinal fluid from circulating correctly in my brain. As such, a device called a shunt lives in my brain’s ventricles, keeping the fluid circulating properly. (more…)