WHEN I ARRIVED in late May, he sat in his living room looking dazed, with two caregivers hovering around and trying to talk to him. He had a bruised lip from a recent fall. He said, "They won't let me die." I asked if he were ready to die and he said he'd been thinking about it. I talked about dying, going into the beautiful light, meeting loved ones, becoming free of struggle and pain. That was the only time we spoke of dying out loud. Most of the time I held his hand while he dozed or just sat.

In late June, there was very little interchange during my visit. It was as though he knew I was there, was comforted by it, and loved me, but he was involved in his own process. He was doing it his way.

In my tonglen practice, his spirit seemed to be "test-flying" out the top of his head, a bit further each time. The nursing assistants told me he would often wake up, particularly in the night, and talk to them, tell stories. I got the impression he was chewing over his history, working things out, solving things. It seemed natural that he should feel more comfortable doing this with trusted caregivers than with daughters. Daughters are just too close, and have too much shared history with a parent. And besides, there may be secrets to chew over.

On July 8 he had a big seizure. His heart and breathing stopped momentarily. At this point, a retirement facility staff Goes Into Action. Fortunately, both our parents had discussed this with us several years before, and we had agreed there would be no resuscitation, no tubes or extraordinary measures. But someone has to be there to enforce this. My sister who lived nearest took control. My other sister and I came the next day, all of us knowing this was the "signal" for Dad's last days. I was grateful he had found a way to get us all there for his dying.

The seizure had rendered him unable to swallow. When I arrived it was clear he knew he was dying and he recognized all those around him and why they were there. He responded warmly to the two or three old friends who quietly and respectfully dropped by during the last few days. He did not like to be moved or touched but he seemed to like us to be nearby or hold his hand. After a day or so we felt our constant presence was sometimes distracting him from resting when he needed to rest, so from time to time we went into the next room and left him alone. He staunchly refused moist swabs or droplets of water on his tongue.

IN THOSE LAST DAYS in my father’s room, I was impressed by the exceptional atmosphere created when everyone knows someone is dying---and accepts it. Sogyal Rinpoche writes: "Many times I have been awed by the sense of sacred presence that then establishes itself very naturally."

In the section of the book, “By the Bedside of the Dying,” he goes on to say: “Through the strength and peace and deep compassionate attention of your presence, you will help them awaken their own strength. The quality of your presence at this most vulnerable and extreme moment is all important.”

As I reread “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” two months after my father's death, I felt the truth of this passage:
“Believe as you sit by the dying person that you are sitting by someone who has the true potential to be a buddha. Imagine their buddha nature as a shining and stainless mirror, and all their pain and anxiety a thin, gray mist on it that can quickly clear. This will help you to see them as lovable and forgivable, and draw out of you your unconditional love.”

All of the frustrations and irritations I had felt during my relationship with my father disappeared during these last five days, and my sisters felt the same way.

We talked to him from time to time during this period and reminded him of what a full life he had led, how much good he had done, and that he was surrounded by love. We assured him that we were all right, the grandchildren were all right, everything was taken care of. There was nothing more to worry about.

Rinpoche writes:

"Your feeling of being unforgiven and unforgivable is what makes you suffer so. But it only exists in your heart or mind. Haven't you read how in some of the near-death experiences a great golden presence of light arrives that is all-forgiving? And it is very often said that it is finally we who judge ourselves."

I felt Dad was in the final stages of letting go, of forgiveness and self forgiveness. In tonglen practice, I saw a sheer light green screen, like fine silk, stretched over the open top of his head.

After two or three days I told him that Mother and other loved ones were waiting for him. He appeared to stare out the window at the sky. His heartbeat and breathing continued steadily; his lungs remained clear.

About 30 hours before he died, his two favorite and most devoted CNAs decided to gently bathe and shave him. He acknowledged them with his eyes and eyebrows, even his fingers. I think the experience of familiar, loving physical care gave him great comfort. A few hours later he lapsed into a very deep sleep or coma.

His breaths were long and labored that last day: a distinct shift. I felt his spirit had almost entirely slipped away. It was a sacred time. When I went to sleep on the floor in the next room, I asked the nursing assistant to wake me if there was any change at all.

At 12:40 a.m. she came and said, "I think your father is taking his last breaths." I went to his bedside as he took one final breath. All was peaceful and calm. I stayed alone and prayerful with his body until dawn.

DURING INNER DISSOLUTION, “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” says, "the clarity of Rigpa slowly begins to appear and increase." I felt this had gradually been happening those last two days as Dad's unblinking eyes gazed out the window at the white sky. Occasionally he would blink, or his eyes would track someone moving on that side of the bed, but most often he would gaze at the sky. I like to think that many of his fears had dissolved and he was getting used to a clear awareness.

Sogyal Rinpoche writes of the importance of speaking and thinking well of the dead person for 49 days after his death. Now, more than 49 days after my father's death, I see how the funeral, the letters and memorial gifts that continue to come have brought forth many stories, memories, and expressions of gratitude and celebration of his life, his love of life, his exuberance and intelligence, his good works. These Christian traditions have emphasized the best in this man.

I laugh and weep at many of the letters and calls, as well as at the beautiful statements during his memorial service. I know Dad's spirit is aware of all this, and benefits from it. Now, I have a fuller understanding of the importance of these rituals, both Buddhist and Christian.

While I can't be certain how much of my father's fear fell away during the last days or hours of his life, I know that much of my fear of inadequacy during a loved one's dying has lessened and that tonglen can be a beautiful and powerful practice.

The tiger has walked into the clear light. My heart is full.

Ruth Blackwell Rogers lives and paints in the
mountains just north of Elkins, West Virginia, where she is a member of a local meditation group. E-mail her at: rogers@wvhighlands.org

PREVIOUS PAGE ONE FEATURES:

• What To Get a Buddhist 4 Christmas, Issue 5: A Collection of Useful, Wonderful Gifts for the Spiritual Seeker, Plus Some Ridiculous and Inane Ones, As Well
• From Drugs to Dharma, Issue 3: The Long, Strange Journey of Bhante Rahula from Hippie Trail to Buddhist Path. A Q-and-A interview with Douglas Imbrogno
• Bleacher Buddhism, Issue 2: Taking in a Teaching by H.H. the Dalai Lama Along With 5,000 Other Folks. By Douglas Imbrogno
• At the Autopsy, Issue 1: Trying to keep your head as they dismember a former human being. A First-Person Visit to an Autopsy Examination. By Walter Schwidetsky

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