Blog: February 2, 2011

Looking at Death and Dying

Yesterday a friend of mine was getting dressed for work. Apparently, he had a heart attack and died in the process. Work called the police. Police broke down his door. My friend’s empty shell waited on the kitchen floor for his closest loved ones to grieve over his passing and sew up the hole in the hearts where once he existed in the playgrounds of their lives.

Every time death happens in my life it’s a good chance to look at how I’m living my own life. Am I living each day to the fullest? Am I reaching past my fears to the edge of my wants and taking hold of life? Can I let go of my burdens just a little more to let in a little more peace and joy?

Goodness, life is passing by quickly. He was only sixty. I’m fifty.

Mom had a triple by-pass 2 months ago. Dad died of cancer. Two very good friends survived cancer last year, one didn’t.

What is the good news in all of this? What can I take from the sudden death of a friend to process my grief and make some sense out of life?

Personally, my spiritual belief is important in how I process death. I do believe our spirits go on to a better place—a place where there isn’t the heaviness of human problems and ego struggles such as finance and relationship struggle. I would be greatly relieved to not have that in my life. I think of my friend uniting with God or Spirit and finding that perfect sense of peace where the problems of the human world go away and he unites with the infinite mind of Good and God and Love. What could be more peaceful and loving? Given that I can believe that, I am now in a better place to let go of the idea that he isn’t in pain, which helps me let go.

Now I must deal with my own personal loss of his friendship.  Again, I think a spiritual practice that would allow you to believe that there is no need to believe you still can’t communicate with this person who has passed away. One of my dearest friends died last year of colon cancer. We had a pact that if one of us died, we would look for ways to try to communicate from the other side. Linda had given me a silver bell for Christmas about twelve years before that. I looked everywhere for that darn bell and could not find it. A couple days later, it just simply appeared on the nightstand by my bed. I decided whenever I wanted to talk with her, I’d ring the bell. So, I set up a paradigm where I wouldn’t have to completely disengage with one of my dearest friends. I’d ring the bell and the conversation would begin in my head. I may have been imagining her answering my questions. No matter what, it existed for me.

We talked a lot at first. Now, I think of her sometimes, but not as much as when she first passed. I think this is what the therapists call Closure.