You probably know that I was by my girlfriend's side when she died of a brain tumour all those years ago. I sat with her for weeks in the hospital, in intensive care and, finally, in the hospice. Rita was in a coma in the weeks before she died, kept alive with a feeding tube. Her parents from Malta were staying with me in my tiny flat, and we got the phone call in the middle of the night — "You should come now".
Now that I am dying of the exact same brain tumour, I have a very good idea of how I would like to go. My oncologist says I will eventually begin to slow down, getting sleepier and sleepier every day until I don't wake up anymore. I would like to be at home for this last bit, and I would like to die in my own bed surrounded by my family. I don't want a feeding tube, and so I hope it will be days rather than months. Any more than that, and I think I will become a chore rather than someone to care for.
Your story of your goodbye to your father is very much like I would wish for myself. I am thankful that you were able to share. I hope you have many more happy memories of your father. I'd like to be a happy memory too.
I didn't know that, but I responded to your restack, and filled you in. I would also like to share another story with you that I published a couple of weeks ago, called Joyce Zonana and Her Last Dream Home. It's about a new friend of mine who's in hospice and dying of glioblastoma. I hope it will be a healing read for you. Your choices for yourself are beautiful. xo
It’s a lovely story, Nan. You are lucky to have made Joyce’s acquaintance, and she, yours. We moved back home to England from America just a few short years ago, and I have made several friends here, and I think we are a little closer because we didn’t know each other before — like you with Joyce.
One thing people without brain tumours might not appreciate is that, after diagnosis, we meet dozens of people with the same tumour. We all know how we are going to die and several arrive at the end each month. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.
A few days ago, the very first person I spoke to after my diagnosis died. He was a minor TV personality, and I tracked him down because he had the same tumour as me, and he gave me some excellent advice about how to deal with it. I haven't spoken to him since but his death hit me quite hard.
If you haven't heard enough already, here’s a little story that I wrote about my girlfriend’s farewell.
Thank you. Could you tell me your first name? I don't want to address you as Ragged. Or Ragged Clown, unless that's your preference. I will absolutely read your piece. I'm a hugger, so I'm sending you one now. xo
My Dad died in a hospice facility on the 5th day there, Valentine's Day. 2013. He was watched over by 3 women: his wife and 2 daughters, one of which is me. I am grateful to Spirit that he left this earth on the day of Love, and went home to be with the Greatest Love of all. My Dad showed me unconditional love absolutely. . Thank you for sharing your story, it is painful and glorious, a wonderful testament to the power of Love.
I cried with you, when I read what you wrote. Both my parents are gone, and I very much relate to your love and grief. Thank you! Your Dad must have been a truly wonderful man.
Thank you, William. That's so kind. I miss my father and he was a wonderful man. And a troubled, flawed man as well. I realized after he die just how complicated my relationship with him was. I wore blinders a lot of the time. And I loved so much. And he loved me. xo
I just went through this in 2023. I so identified with your experience. the morphine, the wanting it to be over. I had one more item, though, a meddling tiny frail mother in denial and trying to control everything. I miss him everyday.
Thank you for sharing that. I had one more detail too, about a difficult mother who couldn't understand why no one was paying attention to her during this time of my loss, as they were estranged. But that's a story for another time. All the best. I miss my dad, too, though not everyday. xo
That was hard to read. It was beautiful and I didn't know any of that — your Jewish service life. What you did for him, for yourself, was — I don't even have the word — but a heaviness in the center of my chest. That was hard to read. It was hard to go through with you. Thank you.
Thank you, Chris. I'm sorry for your loss. I love the simplicity of the Jewish farewell. It's humbling. It doesn't matter how rich or poor you are, we all go out the same way. A simple shroud, a pine box, and everyone participates in shoveling dirt into the grave. It's very moving. I never understood people going broke or launching go fund me campaigns to buy outrageously priced, ostentatious coffins only to then bury them forever. But people need to do what they need to do for their own comfort in grief, and I support that. Sending you love, sweet guy! xo
Yes, it’s such a nice ceremony. And so much faster than a Catholic service, which is interminable. I don’t understand the super expensive casket thing either. Just stuff me in a foot locker from IKEA. Better yet, there are people who get their corpse wrapped in some kind of biodegradable material with no coffin, so their decomposing body can feed the earth. This is a very cheery, uplifting response, isn’t it?
Oh, Nan. Though I've learned that you are only now revisiting whether or how you want to connect with a higher power, this, to me, was a form of divine guidance, or an amazing example of you following your intuition. I tend to think of those two things as connected.
I am also a believer in ritual, and much of what we ever had in this, the New World, has been abandoned. Save for some holiday traditions, matrimonial and religious services, and some aspects of how we honor our deceased, we are no longer keepers of ritual. I'm so glad you held onto this one in the way that was available to you at the time. I'm so glad your father confirmed his approval. What a bond!
Thank you for writing this poignant and powerful piece.
Thank you, Elizabeth. I agree, when I am in what I think of as "flow" I believe that divine guidance and intuition are completely aligned, even more now. What I know is that Grace resides within me and is easily accessible when I'm in a place of trusting myself and am willing to put my ego aside. Inner wisdom is Grace. Grace is inner wisdom. I was going to say that I'm not really drawn to ritual in my daily life, but then I thought about it again, and realized that my life is grounded in ritual and routine, which I think are very related. My rituals aren't necessarily, obviously spiritually based on first glance, making coffee every morning after setting it up the night before, the order in which I structure my morning routine, the fact that I typically only wear striped shirts in my day to day life. But that confers comfort in me, so maybe it is spiritual! Hope this makes sense. I love your comment. xo
It makes sense! I think we don't need to think so hard about what is or isn't spiritual. In some belief systems, there is no distinction. Inner wisdom is grace and grace is inner wisdom. ☺️
Gutted. So beautiful. I relate again and again. I gave my dad his morphine and his departure was so profound and our last moments of connection meaningful in a complicated relationship. Your need for and performance of ritual is gorgeous and I think , in fact I know, we need these death stories in order to chart a path for each other and normalize these departures in a time and place when traditions have been eroded and lost. Your essay contributes in an important way. Thank you.
Eliza, you know. It's so painful and sweet at the same time to say goodbye to those we've spent our lives knowing––from the very outset of our lives––most especially, I think with those people with whom we have complicated relationships. My dad and I had one of those, too. And I loved him so. I'm glad there was something here for you. xo
I love the way you start with some of his frustrating flaws and that sense of the burden of decisions being passed to you and then where you end up with him. So relateable.
You probably know that I was by my girlfriend's side when she died of a brain tumour all those years ago. I sat with her for weeks in the hospital, in intensive care and, finally, in the hospice. Rita was in a coma in the weeks before she died, kept alive with a feeding tube. Her parents from Malta were staying with me in my tiny flat, and we got the phone call in the middle of the night — "You should come now".
Now that I am dying of the exact same brain tumour, I have a very good idea of how I would like to go. My oncologist says I will eventually begin to slow down, getting sleepier and sleepier every day until I don't wake up anymore. I would like to be at home for this last bit, and I would like to die in my own bed surrounded by my family. I don't want a feeding tube, and so I hope it will be days rather than months. Any more than that, and I think I will become a chore rather than someone to care for.
Your story of your goodbye to your father is very much like I would wish for myself. I am thankful that you were able to share. I hope you have many more happy memories of your father. I'd like to be a happy memory too.
I didn't know that, but I responded to your restack, and filled you in. I would also like to share another story with you that I published a couple of weeks ago, called Joyce Zonana and Her Last Dream Home. It's about a new friend of mine who's in hospice and dying of glioblastoma. I hope it will be a healing read for you. Your choices for yourself are beautiful. xo
It’s a lovely story, Nan. You are lucky to have made Joyce’s acquaintance, and she, yours. We moved back home to England from America just a few short years ago, and I have made several friends here, and I think we are a little closer because we didn’t know each other before — like you with Joyce.
One thing people without brain tumours might not appreciate is that, after diagnosis, we meet dozens of people with the same tumour. We all know how we are going to die and several arrive at the end each month. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.
A few days ago, the very first person I spoke to after my diagnosis died. He was a minor TV personality, and I tracked him down because he had the same tumour as me, and he gave me some excellent advice about how to deal with it. I haven't spoken to him since but his death hit me quite hard.
If you haven't heard enough already, here’s a little story that I wrote about my girlfriend’s farewell.
https://raggedclown.substack.com/p/solitude
Thank you, Nan, for sharing your story too.
Thank you. Could you tell me your first name? I don't want to address you as Ragged. Or Ragged Clown, unless that's your preference. I will absolutely read your piece. I'm a hugger, so I'm sending you one now. xo
I’ll send a hug back to you! I’m Kevin.
Hey, Kevin. Thank you. I just read it, and left you a comment. Please keep in touch. I'm so glad to meet you. xo
Lovely to meet you too, Nan! Yes, let's stay in touch. I have subscribed to you. I look forward to reading more.
My Dad died in a hospice facility on the 5th day there, Valentine's Day. 2013. He was watched over by 3 women: his wife and 2 daughters, one of which is me. I am grateful to Spirit that he left this earth on the day of Love, and went home to be with the Greatest Love of all. My Dad showed me unconditional love absolutely. . Thank you for sharing your story, it is painful and glorious, a wonderful testament to the power of Love.
Thank you, Kat. Sharing your story with me is so generous. What beautiful to leave this realm. A day of love and connection. Be well, xo
I cried with you, when I read what you wrote. Both my parents are gone, and I very much relate to your love and grief. Thank you! Your Dad must have been a truly wonderful man.
We are all troubled and flawed in our own ways.
No truer words than that. Humility is a beautiful thing. He was a good dad.
You were very blessed to have him and his love!
Indeed I was! He was a beauty.
Thank you, William. That's so kind. I miss my father and he was a wonderful man. And a troubled, flawed man as well. I realized after he die just how complicated my relationship with him was. I wore blinders a lot of the time. And I loved so much. And he loved me. xo
Beautiful story. My condolences!
Thank you, Beth. He's been gone awhile, still miss him a lot. xo
While reading, my heart felt the cracks, pangs of grief and deep well of love, as I had lost my father to cancer in 2010.
Thank you, Namaste’
Thank you for reading and sharing this with me. Namasté. xo
I just went through this in 2023. I so identified with your experience. the morphine, the wanting it to be over. I had one more item, though, a meddling tiny frail mother in denial and trying to control everything. I miss him everyday.
Thank you for sharing that. I had one more detail too, about a difficult mother who couldn't understand why no one was paying attention to her during this time of my loss, as they were estranged. But that's a story for another time. All the best. I miss my dad, too, though not everyday. xo
Beautiful (((♥️)))
Thank you, Rachel. xo
This made me think of the last moments with my Dad. Such precious memories. Thank you, Nan.
Thank you for reading it Joy, and for everything you contribute to my life. Love you so much. xo
What a lovely way to bring us through the heartbreak into peace.
Thank you! xo
This is beautiful, Nan. Thank you.
Thank you, Ann. xo
That was hard to read. It was beautiful and I didn't know any of that — your Jewish service life. What you did for him, for yourself, was — I don't even have the word — but a heaviness in the center of my chest. That was hard to read. It was hard to go through with you. Thank you.
Would you talk to me about it, one on one? Love you. xo
Hauntingly beautiful.
Thank you, Jay. Did you ever meet my dad? I can't remember. Maybe at a Center event?
Having literally just returned from a funeral—a Jewish funeral, no less—this was an especially poignant read for me, Nan. A truly beautiful piece.
Thank you, Chris. I'm sorry for your loss. I love the simplicity of the Jewish farewell. It's humbling. It doesn't matter how rich or poor you are, we all go out the same way. A simple shroud, a pine box, and everyone participates in shoveling dirt into the grave. It's very moving. I never understood people going broke or launching go fund me campaigns to buy outrageously priced, ostentatious coffins only to then bury them forever. But people need to do what they need to do for their own comfort in grief, and I support that. Sending you love, sweet guy! xo
Yes, it’s such a nice ceremony. And so much faster than a Catholic service, which is interminable. I don’t understand the super expensive casket thing either. Just stuff me in a foot locker from IKEA. Better yet, there are people who get their corpse wrapped in some kind of biodegradable material with no coffin, so their decomposing body can feed the earth. This is a very cheery, uplifting response, isn’t it?
YES!!! The mushroom suit! That's what I want. A green burial. I think it's a great response, Chris. We're on the same page about this. Very cheery. xo
❤️
Oh, Nan. Though I've learned that you are only now revisiting whether or how you want to connect with a higher power, this, to me, was a form of divine guidance, or an amazing example of you following your intuition. I tend to think of those two things as connected.
I am also a believer in ritual, and much of what we ever had in this, the New World, has been abandoned. Save for some holiday traditions, matrimonial and religious services, and some aspects of how we honor our deceased, we are no longer keepers of ritual. I'm so glad you held onto this one in the way that was available to you at the time. I'm so glad your father confirmed his approval. What a bond!
Thank you for writing this poignant and powerful piece.
Thank you, Elizabeth. I agree, when I am in what I think of as "flow" I believe that divine guidance and intuition are completely aligned, even more now. What I know is that Grace resides within me and is easily accessible when I'm in a place of trusting myself and am willing to put my ego aside. Inner wisdom is Grace. Grace is inner wisdom. I was going to say that I'm not really drawn to ritual in my daily life, but then I thought about it again, and realized that my life is grounded in ritual and routine, which I think are very related. My rituals aren't necessarily, obviously spiritually based on first glance, making coffee every morning after setting it up the night before, the order in which I structure my morning routine, the fact that I typically only wear striped shirts in my day to day life. But that confers comfort in me, so maybe it is spiritual! Hope this makes sense. I love your comment. xo
It makes sense! I think we don't need to think so hard about what is or isn't spiritual. In some belief systems, there is no distinction. Inner wisdom is grace and grace is inner wisdom. ☺️
Gutted. So beautiful. I relate again and again. I gave my dad his morphine and his departure was so profound and our last moments of connection meaningful in a complicated relationship. Your need for and performance of ritual is gorgeous and I think , in fact I know, we need these death stories in order to chart a path for each other and normalize these departures in a time and place when traditions have been eroded and lost. Your essay contributes in an important way. Thank you.
Eliza, you know. It's so painful and sweet at the same time to say goodbye to those we've spent our lives knowing––from the very outset of our lives––most especially, I think with those people with whom we have complicated relationships. My dad and I had one of those, too. And I loved him so. I'm glad there was something here for you. xo
I love the way you start with some of his frustrating flaws and that sense of the burden of decisions being passed to you and then where you end up with him. So relateable.
He had SO MANY frustrating flaws...but just as many gifts, if not more! I loved him very much. We were kind of a team in my family. xo
Thank you for this beautiful memory, Nan.
You are welcome, Lyns. xo