It was hard watching dad in
his chair, tucked under a blanket, eyes closed, mumbling, “Help me,” and not
know what kind of help he wanted. He hadn’t talked much in the last week. Was
he thirsty? Hungry? Uncomfortable? Perhaps he was afraid of dying?
I’m often moved
by the stories that Elaine, Kerry and Larry, who work in hospice, tell of the
grace they encounter as people ready themselves to die, the regrets they
express, the things they wish they had done, and the quiet presence that
inhabits many of their last days. My friends are dying midwives, death doulas,
who are like birth doulas because they help people make the transition from
this life to the next.
