On “It’s OK to die”

Much of the work of an end of life doula is done in the expression of two simple statements:

“You are dying.”

And, “It’s ok to die.”

It’s simple, sobering. And so often necessary.

We live in a culture where death is treated as a problem to be solved. In this context, the notion that we might be giving a gift rather than taking something away when we tell someone they are dying is a radical one.

But we aren’t very familiar with release here. We don’t know much about surrender. And when death comes, it does so asking for these capacities in the loudest way we’ll ever know.

Such is the gift of truth cloaked in permission.

It sounds profound, and poetic in teaching, but in practice… It’s just… real.

Cerebral, even. It is wholly sacred, but it lacks the nicety of delusion and decoration that degrees of denial provide.

In my experience, this loving acknowledgement seems to authorize the process to continue. The dying individual can more freely do what they must. They can have the conversations they need to have if they are still lucid, or they can release their body all together if it is time.

I’ve looked, open hearted, into the eyes of a woman as she bucked against acceptance of her fathers decline, her eyes wild with fear as I gently explained why her father would no longer be getting out of bed to do his physical therapy. “He is dying.”

I once held a man as he sat on the edge of his bed. My hand on his back feeling nothing but ribs and tumors. He was sick, diarrheal, feverish, naked. He was slipping, and he was scared. He looked at me, his eyes begging, “I’m dying.”

I responded, “I know, honey. That’s OK.”

We got him cleaned, we got him tucked back into bed. And he said it again, “I’m dying.”

It was true. I felt him slipping further away, and I said to him, “I know. It’s OK. Why don't you go ahead and die?”

I held his hand. I kissed his forehead. He slumped over and life left his body.

We’ve all heard the old cliche, “the truth will set you free.”

Sounds profound, and is. But mostly, it’s just… real.