A good death

After greeting me at the airport thursday night, my daughter shared sad news. Kenya, the 130 lb. Rhodesian Ridgeback (dog) whom she had raised from a puppy was in failing health. She had decided to put her down, the next day.

When we arrived at her home. I could see that it was true. Kenya had no strength in her back legs. She could not walk without assistance. It was impossible for her to go outdoors to relieve herself unaided. Walking, with assistance, was painful. Cancerous tumors, in remission for two years, had grown. Climbing up on a bed or couch to snuggle (Kenya may have been the world’s largest lap dog) was out of the question. To provide comfort her my daughter, I and her boy friend took turns snuggling with her on the doggie bed. My daughter slept with her most of the night.

Our appointment at the vets was at 11:30. We spent most of the morning with Kenya, snuggling, helping her to go outside and plying her with favorite treats. Despite the ravages of old age and disease, Kenya had not lost her appetite or her good humor. At 11, we helped her into the back of a Honda element and began Kenya’s last journey. She had always loved to ride and was in good spirits, despite occasional twinges of pain.

The veterinarian's office was the friendliest I have ever seen. The examining rooms were cozy, decorated with straw furniture and painted in bright colors. The doctor, an attractive woman in her mid thirties, was warm, understanding and compassionate. She had taken care of Kenya for several years. She provided some favorite treats, explained the process and asked my daughter to confirm her decision. Then she left so we could spend a few minutes more with our friend. Kenya lay on her blanket, resting peacefully.

The doctor returned with a sedative and the IV that would administer an overdose of barbiturates. Kenya lay peacefully after enjoying one or two final treats. The process was over in a few minutes. A stethoscope confirmed that her heart had stopped. The doctor left and we spent a few minutes more in the cozy room with Kenya’s still body. She seemed peacefully asleep. Then we went out to lunch and celebrated a good life, well lived.
The next day my daughter and her friend buried Kenya’s body in a secluded garden spot. I went for a long bicycle ride on the Pinellas trail, stopping for lunch on the way. When I returned home, a florist was making a delivery. The veterinarian's office had sent flowers and a note of sympathy.

When I die, I pray that I, too, can have a good death. Like Kenya’s.

Impermanence

The following is a quotation from the site UrbanDharma.org entitled ‘The Buddhist Concept of Impermanence.

Impermanence and change are thus the undeniable truths of our existence. What is real is the existing moment, the present that is a product of the past, or a result of the previous causes and actions. Because of ignorance, an ordinary mind conceives them all to be part of one continuous reality. But in truth they are not.
The various stages in the life of a man, the childhood, the adulthood, the old age are not the same at any given time. The child is not the same when he grows up and becomes a young man, nor when the latter turns into an old man. The seed is not the tree, though it produces the tree, and the fruit is also not the tree, though it is produced by the tree.
The concept of impermanence and continuous becoming is central to early Buddhist teachings. It is by becoming aware of it, by observing it and by understanding it, one can find a suitable remedy for the sorrow of human life and achieve liberation from the process of anicca or impermanence.

The ‘breaking up’ of a deceased parent’s home and the apportionment of his worldly possessions brings home the reality of impermanence in a way that few other events do. Of course there are similar circumstances, some event more wrenching: the destruction of a home by bombing, earthquake, fire or tsunami would be examples, but I have been blessed not to experience those. The breaking up, I experienced last week.

Even though my parents and I were estranged for some years, I still viewed their home, with its familiar possessions, as an anchor; as a secure nest to which one could return. It seemed permanent. When they moved from our family home, to a smaller retirement home and then to an even smaller apartment in an assisted living community, traditional possessions remained. There was the leather topped desk, the “ancestor” portrait with its gilded frame, the civil war epaulettes, the states of green winged horses, the tennis trophies, still shined regularly, and much more. After father died, we returned to his apartment for the night and things seemed unchanged. It was as if he had just left for a short visit and would return shortly. I left, on Sunday afternoon, with my memories intact.

When I returned the following Wednesday, the tranquil ambience had been replaced by chaos. The three small rooms were filled with siblings, a packing crew, labeled packing boxes and debris. The walls had been stripped. The prized possessions of decades had become ‘stuff’ to be sorted, allocated, packed and loaded. Packing proceeded apace as we dealt with other formalities and logistical imperatives that accompany a death - reading the will, arranging the memorial service, obtaining necessary documents from the courthouse, renting two U-Haul trucks and loading them. By Friday, we were mostly done, though half a truckload still remained, to be picked up later. My siblings hit the road. I was alone the the empty shell of my father’s apartment, with more than six decades of memories.