She then instructed me to write my five favorite hobbies on the yellow papers. Easy. Writing, reading, cooking, backpacking and yoga. Now, the green papers. I wrote down my five most prized possessions. Easy. My wedding ring, my baptism scriptures, the letter Dalton had me read before he proposed, my journals and my hard drive that contains all of my pictures, poems and essays.
The red paper strips were left. The woman asked us to think of the five people who meant the most to us and write them down. What? The five people that mean the most? Do I count God and Jesus in this list? What about my siblings? They won't fit! I had to make a decision though, so I wrote Dalton, Mom, Dad, Jesus and God.
The woman conducting the activity was darling. She was the mother of five and a hospice coordinator. I was spending my Friday night doing my last four hours of training required to become a hospice volunteer.
"I'm going to read you a story about you," she said. "For the next 15 minutes, this is your life."
In my new life I felt something in my stomach. It was hard and painful to touch. It got bigger. I denied what I knew it could be, but after telling my husband decided to go to the doctor. This was the beginning. I had to give away one slip of paper. Easy. I'll give away the snowy mountains. I like normal mountains just as well.
You have cancer, she said, you'll start treatment next week. I continued to give away slips of paper throughout my treatment. I easily handed off my wedding ring and most of my hobbies. I gave away the Indian paintbrush and the waterfalls, but kept the quiet mornings. I couldn't give away my photos or the five-page letter Dalton wrote me.
Your illness is terminal, she said. The treatments aren't working. I started to experience moments of panic as I realized I would soon need to leave my journals behind and my photos. I had to crumple up the strip that said "writing," realizing in my last days I wouldn't have the strength to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I pressed my lips together, trying not to get emotional, as I crumpled up my journals, photos and the letter Dalton wrote me. I couldn't let go of that quiet fall morning. I felt like letting go of that meant letting go of my connection with Earth. Crumpling that piece of paper up felt like saying goodbye. It felt like accepting death on a smaller scale. I started to understand.
In the end, I crumbled up "Mom" and "Dad" as I took my last breaths, and looked down at the three papers I had left. The hospice woman stood behind me for a moment, reached over my shoulder, took Dalton's name and crumpled it in her hand. I was left with two names "God" and "Jesus." Then, I died.
On my way home I thought about my sadness. Then I remembered my sadness was all for nothing. On the other side of this life I will still have my parents and Dalton. I will take with me my knowledge of this world, and heaven will be more beautiful and surreal than any earthly place in existence.
Most days I can't believe how lucky I am to know this. I believe I will die much like a woman I read about. With her daughters encircling her as she lay in bed, a sweet old woman look up at the corner of the room before she took her last breath. She breathed in and her eyebrows lifted, her mouth dropped open and she smiled wider than her daughters knew she could. Her eyes were filled with ethereal light as she gazed up and then exhaled. Her eyes gently closed. Her daughters believe a beautiful messenger entered the room then to take her home. This old woman knew it was only her beginning.
I'm so excited to share this sacred space with hospice patients as they cope with death in their last days. Whether or not these patients share my beliefs about death, I hope by some miracle I can help a few of them know peace.
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