13. Death as Teacher

First, a little housekeeping. If you’re new here or don’t have the whole story, I recommend starting at chapter one – click here

A little over thirty years ago a got an up-close, first hand look at what death from prostate cancer looked like. My step-father had recently passed away and we had hospice services in his home. I had never heard of hospice before but was impressed by the approach and knowledge of the team. Just a few months had passed and I saw an ad in the newspaper for a free training for hospice volunteers. I signed up and began the in-person training. Our group was being trained in anticipation of a brand new in-patient facility being opened in April 1994.

I completed the training and started to volunteer at the local hospice house. Some days I would take orders for dinner and cook the food. I would run errands, do laundry and sometimes just watch TV. Other times I would sit with folks during the final days or hours of their lives. One day I was introduced to George, a man in his eighties who had prostate cancer. He was a sweet, kind and somewhat of a quiet man. Every week when I visited we would talk, watch baseball on TV or simply just visit. He never seemed that sick to me, just old. He spent most of his time in bed, but was able to walk to the bathroom and take care of business.

Some months later when I arrived George was incontinent, a marked changed from the previous week. Just a few weeks later when I arrived for my shift, the nurse on duty caught me at the front door and told me George had just died, like minutes ago. She encouraged me to sit with him in his room if I felt comfortable doing so. I entered the room and there he lay, as peaceful as can be. I sat in silence and reminisced of our short time together. It was truly a unique experience for me. I never saw George suffer during his time at the house. He never complained about anything. He never asked for anything. He died peacefully and I can only imagine that he was happy at the time of his death.

I had been with many other patients during my time at the house. Most of them suffered at the end of life. A few of them wished death would just come quickly and end things sooner rather than later. Others complained how a loving god could be so cruel. Some begged me to run out and get whiskey and smokes. Another demanded that the police be called to help them escape the inevitable. My time there was an amazing experience that informed my approach to living.

Death is easy, it’s the dying part that’s hard.

I had day surgery last year. As the anesthesiologist began injecting the drug to put me under, I asked her how long it would take. She said 30 seconds. So, I started to mumble something about being from Lawrence and that nothing… could… knock me… out in t h i r t y s e c o n d s.

A few seconds later, I heard a male nurse calling my name, asking me to wake up. I opened my eyes and asked what was going on. He said, “You’re all set.” I was confused and asked what that meant. He told me the surgery was over. I was amazed, floating in this strange sense of comfort and disbelief. I had been so anxious about being put under, yet it felt so effortless. It made me wonder: can the experience of death be anything like this? A simple loss of consciousness, potentially temporary?

I believe when we die, we lose consciousness. And maybe, right after death, there’s nothing to be conscious of right away—no pain, no suffering, because consciousness itself isn’t there to observe anything. No form, no feelings, no perceptions, no mental formations. Just nothingness, at least for a time, until the law of cause and effect takes us wherever we’re meant to go next.

The hardest part is the dying itself—the process. That’s where most of us suffer. The slow, painful decline of the body and mind. The physical and emotional pain. The brutal side effects of treatments. The “why me?” and “why now?” questions. We can’t detach our minds from the stories we create about our death, disease, and dying. That’s what makes leaving this life so much more excruciating.

Recently I have found comfort in a line by Henry David Thoreau as he lay dying from TB in the mid 1800’s “There is as much comfort in perfect disease as in perfect health, as the mind always conforms to the condition of the body.”

Prostate cancer has been a gift.

It’s taken me four years to be able to share this thought publicly. My illness has forced me to really reflect on how I’ve lived my life. I’ve gained a deeper understanding of who I am, what I am, how I ended up here, and where I’m headed. Now, I just have to learn to accept the pain that comes with it as a gift too. Still working on that 🙂

My life would be completely different without this disease. Before it, I would still be that confident, sometimes cocky, life-of-the-party—your fearless leader. But this illness has humbled me, and I’m truly grateful for that. The insights I’ve gained from it are priceless, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

I recently finished reading Between Two Kingdoms by Suleika Jaouad, a book my dear friend lent me. It really resonated with me on so many levels. It’s a heart-wrenching memoir about Suleika’s leukemia diagnosis, her treatment, and everything that came after. But it’s also deeply inspiring and often funny. I couldn’t put it down and finished it in just two days. I laughed, cried, and even pumped my fist in the air a few times, especially toward the end. It’s her first book, and it’s incredible. You should read it. I was so moved by it that I bought a copy for our nurse at DFCI, who’s leaving next week to pursue a new role in the leukemia field.

The past couple of months have been tough. I’ve been struggling to get my body back to where it was—walking, lifting weights, doing yoga, all of it. It’s kind of amusing, though, because I realize I’m not really trying to return to who I was emotionally, spiritually, or mentally. In fact, I feel like the disease has given me plenty of chances to grow in those areas.

I just canceled a kayaking trip to British Columbia this summer. Some days my body feels okay, and other days it’s a real challenge just to get up and move around. It’s up and down. It’s not terrible, but it’s far from great. The hardest part is mentally adjusting to these limitations. There’ve been a few moments recently where I honestly thought death was close, like just days away. I tried to accept that, sit with it, and feel it. But then by Friday, I feel fine again—just not quite 100%.

The photo above appeared in the most recent blog post and I received a lot of inquiry about it. I took the photo on the first weekend in November, 2024. We were hosting a Yoga and mediation retreat in Franklin, NH at the former Ram Dass family property. Earlier I had a phone call with DFCI and agreed to participate in the study I’m currently enrolled in. I went out for a walk on the property and went inside an abandoned blacksmith shop. After snapping a few photos on the ground floor (see below) I climbed a rickety ladder and saw the Mary statue above on the mezzanine, and took her photo.

As always, thank you for reading. Please reach out if you have something to share, have a question or want to visit in-person or on zoom. Laurie and I are headed to Bali on 3/23 for Nyepi on 3/29. Join us?

Until next time. Peace.