英文本A Life of Enough

Contemplation ： What habits and beliefs have I inherited?Which am I grateful for and what would I like to change, modify or release?

Our early beliefs about ‘enough’ are shaped first by our parent/s or guardian/s then developed by the culture we find ourselves in. By taking a beat to examine our past influences we have the opportunity to redefine what is – or isn’t – enough.

My life is my message. – Mahatma Gandhi

Tomorrow, we release my father-in-law’s ashes to the ocean. He died three weeks ago today. Just hours before he passed, I held his hand; it was so hot, sepsis causing his temperature to soar.

When I’d first entered the room, I wondered what piece of equipment was causing the appalling racket? I searched for the offending machine. His ‘end of life directive’ was clear: he did not want any intervention to sustain him. Then it dawned on me, the horrendous noise was coming from the man in the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, each ragged breath louder than I’d thought humanly possible.

The death rattle signals departure is imminent. ‘It’s disturbing for you, but not distressing for him,’ the palliative nurse explained. Good to know. During the previous couple of years, Brian’s Alzheimer’s journey had become increasingly challenging. Whatever time one imagined he might have left was only likely to be worse for him and now, in three short days, an infection had sent him plummeting headlong towards . . . what? The light? The end? Peace?

He hadn’t been conscious much in the previous 24 hours but when I took his hand his left eye opened, just a crack. Just for a split second. Perhaps it was only my imagination, my desire to connect . . . but it felt like recognition. The rattle filled the room and in the quiet space between his breaths I found I was holding my own. The clatter became strangely soothing. He’s still here. When the noise stops . . . so would he. ‘You are loved.’ I murmured as I placed a kiss on his burning brow. ‘Go gently.’

Two hours later the phone rang loudly, rousing us from sleep, My Love answered. ‘Dad’s gone.’ We dragged our clothes back on and retraced our path to the hospital. We re-entered the silent room. ‘It’s so quiet.’ My sister-in-law said what we were all thinking.

This death has brought the spectres of those I’ve lost before to the forefront of my mind. My mother, while unafraid of death, often expressed dissatisfaction with her lot in life. She tended to focus on what she didn’t, or couldn’t, give herself permission to have. The career she wanted, the chance to choose her own home, joy.

Mum dedicated her body to medical science, a decision she’d made well before my siblings and I were even born, and this meant it was several years after her death before her ashes were returned to us. Right at the time they were ready, my beloved stepfather became terminally ill. His end came abruptly, like that of my father-in-law, and like my father-in-law, his ashes were destined for the sea, while Mum’s still wait patiently in the linen cupboard.