“In shamanic practices it is said that Death serves us as our most loyal teacher and friend, always walking just paces behind us and reminding us, over and over again, that this moment may be our very last experience in this life… Death, as an ally in this way allows us, paradoxically, to truly live…” Ciel Grove, The Knowing

I am a witness to death. The little daily deaths - bugs on the windshield, worms on the sidewalk after a rain, the end of a thunderstorm, the turning of the leaves in the autumn. Most people walk through life without even registering these little deaths AS death; that doesn’t mean they’re not.

I am also a witness to those “big D-Deaths,” we all are. Those larger, more directly human related deaths - on the television, in the newspapers, hell, this kind of Death has even been inserted between colourful ads and family vacation photos on our social media feeds. Deaths of children, of strangers in far away countries, of cultures, of wildlife and even the Death of the Earth herself. These Deaths hit harder, land more heavily, and maybe even spark in us some kind of outrage in response to their raw unfairness.

There is, additionally, a liminal space in between “little d” and “Big D” death. The place where the deaths of dreams, of past selves, of the best laid plans and carefully built relationships lay. When you experience the death of a dream, of the version of yourself you’d thought you would become, of the life you’d wished so fervently to live, you become caught up in this liminal space. Others may not see these experiences as death. Your family or friends may not understand why you need to grieve, but your body and heart feel the need to mourn that loss. The world might not grieve with you, but that doesn’t make the loss any less painful to endear.

I have been the only other person in the room as a soul prepared to leave a human body. I was there, holding the hand of my father as he passed on from this word into the next almost two years ago. That Death was not small. It was not however-many-degrees removed, as those TV or social media stories tend to be. It was right there, right then, demanding the full and present attention of every single atom of my being. It was an alchemical, heart-shattering transformation of both my father and myself. are no words that can even come close to describing this experience. And even though we’d known it was coming for some time, and had begun to the process of saying goodbye as the signs stacked up, all pointing to the only possible outcome, the waves of grief following that Death were immense. I still feel them, every day.

This past Wednesday, I awoke to five missed calls - four from my husband’s family and one from a medical examiner’s office. It could only mean one thing, and my brain still refuses to believe that thing is possible. Devastatingly, my brain is wrong.

Part of me can’t believe that the whole world doesn’t just stop when a loved one dies. How can my neighbours be mowing their lawns? How can dogs be barking and children be playing in the street? Don’t they know? Haven’t they felt that gaping chasm that opened up and is threatening to swallow the entirety of my life whole? In all of my experiences, both of “little d” and “big D” Death, I’ve never felt like this before. When my father passed, it felt different - a welcome release from the terrible limbo of waiting and watching.

This is not that. This is an entirely new and uninvited guest. They’ve moved in, spread out, and taken over. I’ve found them sitting on my chest at 4am every morning this week, doom scrolling through the list of things I have to do to process this loss. They’ve made my eyes red and my nose run, turning me into a sort of zombie. I haltingly stumbling through my days, afraid to rest for fear of being overtaken by their perpetual reminders that he’s gone. If I stand still for too long, they envelop me in waves of salty tears, my body folds in half in a pitiful effort to stay the unbearable tides of grief.

Western contemporary culture doesn’t handle Death all that well. In our constant struggle to deny and circumvent it at all costs, we have lost the more somatic, ancient knowing; misplacing familiarity with fear, and acceptance with avoidance. We have done ourselves a great disservice in this. I want to keen and wail and fold into myself with tears. I want to scream and rage and shake my fist at the sky. I want to be held in the uncomfortable, unappealing state of having been forced to walk through the flames, skin raw, heart reeling. I want it to be ok to not be ok. I need it to be.

I know this feeling will continue into the weeks and months ahead, as I navigate the end-of-life details of a sudden death. I also know that Death, the constant companion to all living beings, is walking alongside me in these moments of grief and pain. While I may strongly disagree on method and timing, I know that Death’s inevitability is one of the only true constants in this life. I want to believe that this unwavering truth will bring a modicum of comfort and maybe even peace, in time. Writing this has helped.

I have learned, in the past two years alone, how short and precious this life we live can be. I can also confirm, without question, that gaining such perspective has allowed me to live and to love more fully than I ever had before. So, Dear Ones, tell the ones you love that you love them, often and with enthusiasm. Make sure they know. Try to live as many of your moments as possible being present with those around you. The texts, the emails, the scrolling, it can all wait. Be with them now, because tomorrow, they might be gone.

I suddenly and unexpectedly lost my husband on Tuesday, just a week after we’d celebrated out 2nd wedding anniversary together. He was 38, healthy and happy, but he had unknowingly developed blood clots in his legs, leading to a pulmonary embolism.

It feels SO vulnerable to ask, but every and any form of support is welcome as I navigate the cross-border end-of-life details for a spouse who lived in another country. If you are able to donate in any way, that would be incredible, and even if you’re not, sharing these links will help us reach as many people as possible.

Thank you all so deeply for being here and being present with me in this grief.

xx,

Cat

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