Another month has passed since my mom’s, dad’s, and aunt’s deaths. I’m reading books about peoples’ experiences of death and dying and connecting more deeply with others who have lost loved ones in the recent past. Given the pandemic, there is a lot of loss these days. Especially when I am speaking with my patients, I get to hear the depth of people’s experiences. “How are you feeling?“ I ask patients who are in-home hospice care. “What’s on your mind and what is going on in your body? How can I relieve what’s been most difficult for you?” And then I speak with patients who call me after the death of a loved one. “Who was this person to you? What made them special?” I begin the conversation. “What was their slipping away like and how are you doing now? How do you get by? Do you ever feel them near?” The magnitude of the loss of so many people in my family in such a short period of time has sensitized me in a way that makes it impossible to make quick visits to the dying or to speed through anyone’s grieving process.
I’ve become comfortable sitting with loss, giving people the chance to open up and be heard. I can be patient, allowing for the unexpected, knowing there may be tender moments of connection, dark days of despair and times of unexpected rage all tangled up in one story. Siblings can be sources of comfort or aggravation. Healthcare workers can be supportive or cold. Representatives from insurance companies can offer inordinate amounts of time to resolve issues or they can be curt and dismissive. Work obligations can provide a welcomed escape, a place to feel grounded or they can be an overwhelming burden. My story, like many of my patients’ stories, has aspects of all of the above.
With time, many of these issues fade into the past, but still, I think of my parents each and every day. Each day, something makes me pause and causes me to think of them. Each day there are signs that make me feel their love and lead me to think that they are still around me.
After my morning meditation, when I am quiet, I feel them by my side. I feel their presence, I feel their love and their support. One day, while sitting on the floor of “Sag Harbor Books”, browsing through the science section, the book, Signs; The Secret Language of the Universe by Laura Lynn Jackson, fell into my lap. The author is a widely respected psychic medium who in the pages of her book, teaches readers how to become more sensitive to messages from loved ones who have passed on. I pored through the pages as the book confirmed what I was experiencing with my parents: We do not lose each other when we die. We remain connected and loved.
Within a few short weeks of reading Signs, a patient recommended Anita Moorjani’s book, Dying to Be Me. I googled the book and after reading the description, raced to order it online. The memoir describes Anita’s near-death experience where she became aware of universal truths related to healing, fear, the magnificence of each and every being and the interconnectedness that we share. Anita’s story is remarkable and the truths she shares added more support for what I am still going through. There is an infinite amount of love in the world around us and when we are true to ourselves, we can experience this love and express our own light more fully.
With this knowledge, my work with dying patients and their grieving loved ones has become more meaningful. Take Milly, a feisty grandma in her nineties who, because of advancing dementia, lost her ability to speak. Her daughter told me that Milly was a passionate woman, who when younger, loved her husband and family intensely. She protected her children fiercely and was a brave supporter of abused women. Being “locked in,” unable to express herself, was a monumental frustration. It led to aggressive behavior and rising blood pressure despite medications prescribed to offer healing. The homeopathic medicine, Lachesis, provided great relief, allowing Milly to settle in and to feel less agitated by her limitations. Within a few months, her behavior was calmer and her blood pressure returned to within normal range. She began to write to express herself, something that lasted for about a year.
Once Milly was in a more comfortable place, I began to have conversations with her family about dying. We talked about the possibility of her becoming free of her limitations after dying and her being able to recognize family and loved ones, to be able to connect and to love them again. This provided comfort and led to a greater sense of ease throughout the family. Seeing Milly’s passing as a transition to a place that allowed her greater freedom allowed the family to let go of rigid ideas about death which permitted everyone to relax a bit more. Milly’s husband was more comfortable sitting beside her as they watched television and he enjoyed playing very simple card games with her. Her niece took her to outdoor summer music concerts in the park near her home. Convinced that Milly’s agitation was no longer a concern, her daughter took her to see Hello Dolly, starring Bette Midler (Her absolute favorite singer!!) These are now memories that comfort the family and allow Milly’s spirit to live on in joyful ways.
Another patient, Rose, had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Although secure and at ease when she was first diagnosed, she became increasingly anxious over time. Frightened by the thought of experiencing extreme pain, she became terrified to face each day. Growing more irritable and demanding, she insisted that she never be left alone and that her children come to see her more than their schedules allowed. Then Rose began to have panic attacks. What’s more, she lost her appetite and was losing weight swiftly. That’s when Rose’s daughter contacted me. “ I know my mother is going to pass away. I just don’t want her to go this way, “ she pleaded. “I want to be able to enjoy the time we have left together, but she’s out of control and all she does is scream at me.”
I prescribed homeopathic Arsenicum album. Arsenicum is a remedy often prescribed for anxiety, especially anxiety at the thought of being alone, of suffering, of dying. It is also an effective remedy to restore appetite in a patient who has completely lost the desire for food. While on homeopathic treatment, Rose’s insecurity lessened and she became less fearful. Her daughter told me that on each visit, she and Rose would go through old photo albums and share stories about favorite vacations. Rose smiled when friends came to visit with chocolate babka or her favorite rainbow cookies and she looked forward to sitting in the yard with her son’s dog Dr. Buddy, a standard poodle with a sweet and loving disposition.
Given her restored sense of ease, I was then able to have conversations with Rose about dying. She told me how she looked forward to seeing her sister again, to be with old friends who had passed away long ago and who she missed dearly. Rose’s children were glad to know their last days with their mom had many moments of love and connection. When she eventually passed away, they told me that whenever they wanted to feel mom nearby, they could pull out a family photo album or sit around a table, sharing chocolate babka and rainbows.
Nothing can take away the grief that comes with the passing of a loved one. It’s a complicated experience that we don’t discuss much in everyday conversations. Each person’s journey is completely unique. Some people lose loved ones early in their lives, way before they have developed the coping skills to manage the feelings that arise. Others, like me, experience their first loss when they are long past middle age. The loss is then weirdly unique, something that hasn’t ever come up ever before. So we feel lost at sea in a world that offers little support. Unless you are one of the fortunate ones whose family has talked about death openly or whose culture or religion offers comforting support, we feel we are alone or on shaky ground.
As I continue to work with dying patients and their caregivers, I invite you to write to share your thoughts. Feel free to write to me at lauri@drlaurigrossman.com Maybe together we can create a caring community that allows us to get through hard things with a bit more ease.