Two Ways To Die

Watching my dear old Dad die and watching my Mom die has taught me that there are two ways to die.

My Dad looked me in the eyes right before he died and said, “Mark, when the body wears out, it’s time to get a new one.”
He said this, and he meant it. He died in peace because he knew this.

Mom, on the other hand, looked at me similarly and said, “Something is wrong! I need help! Tell the doctor I need help!”
This is the lesson I must learn before I reach the same threshold. Nobody knows how long they have before they face death. My journey could take me down a quick path or a long one. There is so much for me to unpack now, and I really have to get to it.

First of all, my main goal at present is to help Mom find the comfort she is seeking. Without the first neuron firing in favor of awareness or awakening, Mom has decided to fight for her life while simultaneously believing that her worn-out body is where her life is stored. There is no time to help her with any higher thinking, and there is no hope that she might develop peace at this point.

With these facts to consider, we, her loving children, are presently looking for ways to calm the mind that holds so firmly to this erroneous belief system. We cannot possibly offer her the healing she is so desperate for. This would involve the renewing of her body, and her body is an unhealthy, 90-year-old body. I would love to be able to hold her hand and say, “Mom, please let go. Your body is not scheduled to go with you on this next leg of your journey.”
But, of course, this would not ease her at all. Her body and ego are the elements of her story that her brain is actively trying to rescue. Not much of Mom’s brain is still firing, but all that’s left is trained on her physical experience. There is a very good reason for this: she has only been dialed into the one channel devoted to physical experience. Mom has never attempted to feel anything beyond what she can feel with her physical senses.

The subtle difference between Mom and Dad — regarding the lessons on dying — is that Dad was almost always dialed into nature.
I do not want to overcomplicate this by trying to explain Zen all over again, but Dad was a Zen Master. The most wonderful part of his entire story is how he could look at any part of nature and feel his relationship to it.
It is not as obvious as it may sound, but Mom could look at a bird or a sunset and appreciate it, without ever feeling a connection to it. I am grateful that she had a few brushes with The Holy Spirit; and I am most assuredly not referring to any church she ever attended. I am referring to her appreciation for a pretty bird, a lovely sunset, or a visit from her children or grandchildren. With these limited interactions with that divine broadcast, I was able to witness Mom’s occasional adjusting of her dial. There were times in her long life where she did identify with something other than her physical body. You had to be there when this happened. Mom was not willing to linger with The Higher Love for very long. You could almost sense the time expiring. She would always adjust her receiver back to the station that plays all of the “Me Hits.” Of course, if you were there, trying to remain in the special moments, the noise of those Me-Songs would steal all of the attention.

This may seem blunt, and I may even sound like an ungrateful child, but I am not. I am extremely grateful. Even if I only saw a few times when Mom “got it,” I can at least remember her getting it.

So here we are, trying to find the best route for Mom. I think we’ve all come to the same conclusion: her physical comfort has to be the priority. It is possible that I will also need this same kind of attention in the end, but I hope that I transition like my Dad and not like Mom. I hope that I will be willing to give up my body, the way you might give up an old recliner that you really enjoyed when it was still comfortable. I hope that I can remember that these differences can overtake you and spin you to the other extreme. With this analogy in mind, Mom’s focus would be on the recliner. Her dying words would be, “Fix my recliner.”

As I stated earlier, the differences are subtle.

Going further with this analogy, and using the recliner-myth as a way of explaining the differences, it is time to put padding in Mom’s recliner, give her some medicines that will help her find comfort in a chair that is falling apart because she is simply not going to get out of it.
I witnessed Dad looking at his worn-out recliner, just like everyone else did, and he accepted the obvious; he peacefully walked right out of it and never looked back.