The next breath

The first death where I had the privilege to assist was my Dad's passing in 1994. I had not yet found shamanic training, but I was already adept in working with the spirits of "those who had gone before" and I was interested in the passage from this life to another form of life.

The weekend of my Dad's passing started with a call from him on Friday afternoon. "Pat, come" was all he said, in a strangled voice. I immediately booked a plane ticket and was airborne within 2 hours. (Travel was so much easier before 9/11!) I was in NJ, my Dad in a hospital in FL. He suffered from mesothelioma from his exposure to heavy metals as an electroplater. He had moved to Florida a few months before in hopes of an easier winter; I had already been to his new home once to make sure he was settled there.

When I arrived, the nurse at the nurse's station told me to wait in the family waiting room. My Dad's oncologist came into the room, extended his hand for a handshake and said "Good to meet you Mrs. McKenzie, tell me, did your Dad have a good life?" I thought to myself what a strange conversation starter! I considered the question and said, "yes, I think he did." The doctor replied, "Good! Because his life is over, his life is ending now." Please understand this was said in the kindest, gentlest way possible. I was grateful for his compassion and his clarity.

The hospital in Pasco County had many wonderful features. One was that they had my Dad in a private room so that he was not disturbed by others nor did he disturb others. They brought a cot in for me when they realized I was staying. When my brother and his wife, and my father's friend came as well, they brought in extra chairs. We stayed from Friday early evening until Monday dawn.

When I came into my Dad's room he said "Get the coffin I will get in." His voice was raspy, his eyes were wild, he had tubes that were drawing fluid I did not want to look at from his lungs. I gulped and told him that I would take care of that later, he did not need to worry about the coffin.

And so we spent time mostly quiet. My Dad's younger sister and my cousin arrived Saturday morning for a brief visit. They had also flown in from NJ to say goodbye. My Dad could not easily talk and he had bouts of panic and pain. I don't remember sleeping although we had the cot. It was a vigil that took on a timeless quality.

At one point on Sunday my Dad was panicking, barking "get me out of here" in a voice unrecognizable as Dad. My brother leaned over and said "Pat knows how to get you out of here," and he looked up at me across the bed. I picked up my Dad's shoulders and held him and surprised myself by saying "I do know how to get you out of here, but not with this body. This body is finished." Really? I knew how to get him out of here? As I held him begging for divine assistance, I took advantage of our common Catholic upbringing "let's say that prayer 'Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.'" I said that prayer a few times and behold, help did come. My Dad relaxed as I said "Uncle Johnnie is here" "your friend Billie also is here" That threshold was crossed.

The hours of Sunday evening into Monday morning were especially long. Dad's breath was labored and gasping and ragged. My aunt and cousin had left early that day advising us to all leave as well "your energy is holding him here and not allowing him to pass." We were beyond tired, but watchful and unwilling to leave. In desperation I laid down on the cot facing the wall and in my mind kept whispering, "it's ok to leave, it's ok to leave"

One breath was especially difficult to listen to, long and painful. From my Dad's bedside I heard my brother say softly "you don't have to take the next breath, Dad" and the room got very quiet. And stayed quiet. Pin drop quiet. And my Dad stopped breathing. He had heard my brother! He had followed that proposal! It was finished.

Not quite over. As I sat up and looked at the bed where he lay, I saw my Dad's spirit leave from the top of his head, like a cloud of white and grey, whiz around the room once, and leave through the bank of windows into the dawn grayness. My brother, his wife and my Dad's friends each also saw something leave. We were speechless. No one said a word. We simply stared. And sat. And were quiet.

Some time passed. Maybe 20 minutes. A nurse came in and I looked up and said "he passed." I probably sounded very stilted. She said to me "oh honey it is OK to cry now." Cry? I tried to understand how I could possibly want to cry as a response to witnessing this incredibly sacred moment of my Dad's spirit leaving his body. It was a moment of wonder. It left me without words. It was a glimpse of my Dad's spirit that I never imagined I would see.