As I move closer to the time of TruthTellers funeral (pagan life celebration will happen closer to Samhain) my thoughts turn to the dark. I have come to believe that death is sacred.
Cameron and I walked with death last fall. She had been maried to Gentle Soul for ten years before a blond beauty rocked her world and catapolted her into the lesbian abyss. Gentle Soul had muscular dystrophe, and in his final years, we convinced him to move a few miles from us so we could keep an eye on him. His body gradually became debilitated.
A call came, saying Gentle Soul was in the hospital. Soon it become apparent that Gentle Soul would not be going home. It became even more apparent that an aunt and uncle, overwhelmed with responsibilities to his mother who had broken her hip and just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and his aunt who also has Alzheimers,were ill equiped to deal with his situation.
Gentle Soul had watched his father die by inches in a nursing from the same disability. He had been clear from his first date with Cameron that he did not want life saving measures that trapped him in a useless body without an quality of life. His aunt and uncle had not made his wishes known. The hospital telling them still took days to sink in. Even as we sat with the pallative care nurse, his aunt and uncle spoke of continuing the ventalation and finding a nursing home.
Ever the diplomat, Cameron finally prevailed. She had never divorced Gentle Soul and the final decision lay between them. Thank Hekate for the doctors who were patient enough to listen as he struggled to communicate.
By Wenesday of that week it was decided. The visible shift the suffering man was apparent. He began to rally, doing his best to welcome those who came to say goodbye. Cameron found everyone she could after this many years, and they came.
The energy of the room shifted. With my third eye I could see the door standing cracked, a glowing "angel" for lack of a better word, biding his time and waiting for Gentle Soul. He was brave at the end. Determined to the ventilator out, as Cameron argued with doctors because the aunt and uncle had not given permission and did not come, it was Gentle Soul who reached out to me. As the tears rolled down my face, he touched my cheek and patted my hand. He was ready.
Pulling a ventalator is horrific. Cameron was too busy holding him in her arms as he struggled during the procedure to watch. But I sat at the foot and I saw his body convulse. I knew his heart, a muscle affected by the muscular dystrophe, could not take it. The nurses knew as well. They stepped away, only coming to shut down the obnoxious beeping when it became apparent he was going into failure. He held our hands and looked into Cameron's eyes, relief apparent.
With my third eye, I could see the room brighten, then dim. Gentle Soul and his escourt left with a gentle slam of the door. No regrets. No unfinished business. It was done. And it was one of the most sacred experiences of my life.