Passing Over

“…because within the process of dying, both exist. Lightness and darkness, alongside one another, becoming friends.”

One is never fully prepared for helping a loved one pass over. I’ve always envisioned it to be a more peaceful experience. In my version, my dad would have laid comfortably in his bed, eyes closed as if sleeping. His breath would be soft and slow. And when the time was right, he would take his last breath and gently pass over. But from what I’ve seen, there seems to be very little that is comfortable or gentle about it. Sure, you can speak kind words, play soft music, hold their cold hands, and rub their chilly feet. But let’s not fool anyone; the true comfort comes from the morphine. Dropper by dropper, you place liquid morphine into their cheek. Gently rub it in for quicker absorbency and hope it works. But does it? It’s hard to tell. My dad's dark, open eyes show no signs of relaxing. He hasn’t blinked in hours. Maybe days. His mouth is wide open, unable to swallow or produce any moisture. His chin stays lifted from his overly extended neck. No, nothing about this looks comfortable. Not at all. So again, dropper by dropper, you place the morphine in his cheek. Dropper by dropper, you hope that it works. And then, you hold his hand and pray for it all to end. Simply so he may be released from the uncomfortable position of his contorted body.

There are so many 'un’s' when it comes to death. Uncomfortable. Uncontrolled. Unprepared. Unable. Unhappy… the list could go on. So yes, in the end, you absolutely pray for it to be over and for the 'un’s' to stop. We tell ourselves we pray for our loved ones, but part of me thinks we also do it for ourselves. The strength it takes to stand by, knowing the only thing you can do is place the morphine, rub the cheek, and hold the hand. Every fifteen minutes. Yes, we pray for it to end because at some point, you simply cannot stomach another day of watching your loved one, your friend, your child… your dad… live, or die, like this. At some point, you simply need it to end.

And in one sudden gasp, and what can only be described as a final pulse that surges through their veins, it does. It ends. And they are gone.

I never knew we’d be allowed to spend time with him after he died. I thought it would go more like… He dies. We call hospice. The funeral home comes to take his body. And it's over. But no. It doesn’t have to be like that. You can actually take your time. And now, for the first time in days, months, maybe even years, it can be peaceful. Truly peaceful.

We cleansed my dad’s body before the funeral home came to take him. I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful and precious this moment would be. My dad's lifeless body lay on his bed. We removed the only item he was still wearing: a white t-shirt, cut up the back and stained from his sweat caused by the journey he had been on. Together as a family, we began to wash him. We washed his entire body, shampooed his hair, gave him a fresh shave, and clipped all of his nails. We dressed him as he would have dressed himself to go out, not in a t-shirt cut at the back, not in a hospital gown or an adult diaper, but in proper clothes—with underwear, socks, shoes, and his belt. And in doing so, we restored my dad's dignity. He was, once again, the man we all remembered him to be. It was as though this was our final gift to him. This moment of cleansing and dressing my dad is a memory I cherish, in a way words will never fully describe.

Once the funeral home leaves, our home is oddly still. The energy has shifted. Death has departed. And we allow ourselves to sit. Quietly. With no tasks to do. No catheter bag to empty. No liquid morphine to rub in his cheek. We begin to feel both the weight and splendor of this moment. Because within the process of dying, both exist. There is a lightness and darkness living alongside one another. Becoming friends. His soul has left this body. And entered each of ours.

Through passing over, my dad lives on.