Thank you, Lene. Thank you very much. At the park yesterday, knitting with yarn from my mom's stash, I began "hearing" a piece of writing about my mom who died in 2003. Your writing gives me the courage to continue writing about my mom's death, especially those days right before her passing. I had never seen her so at peace. Interesting, yes, that you would publish this piece today. Thank you.
Your experience with your grandmother was similar to what I had with my grandfather at the age of 11. I was on codiene for strep throat at the time so I don't know how much my "vision" was connected to that (although now I've been on codiene for 8 years and no such happenings). We had a large slug or maggot or something -- big fat and tan in colour -- in the firewood in the room where I was sleeping. I screamed and hollered and cried that it meant that something terrible was going to happen. That night I dreamt strange druggy dreams of my grandfather and when we were awoken with the phone call I knew what it was about before I was told. And no, no surprise. I still blamed that slug-thing, but in reality my grandather had smoked for 50+ years and had a large number of terminal illnesses so while the moment was unanticipated, the event itself was not a great surprise.
I've had some weird vision-ish dreams later that then came true, but nothing significant enough to really think I am psychic 
But it's been many years, before the pain and the meds, and I think those days are over.
I saw that series. I was saddened to see how many of those people felt cheated that the end was near. I've only been around two corpses - that of my grandmother, and my mother. Both had passed when I was not present. I felt no peace looking at them - they weren't my relatives, they were husks. Their spirits were long gone before I came into the presence of what was left behind.
I think that being with someone as they pass can be the greatest gift you will ever give them. My sister and I were both with my mother. One of us on each side, both whispering our own words of love. My sister, who lived with her, gently telling Mom it was ok to go, that my sister would be ok, that she could take care of things now. I, who lived far away, telling her that I was here, that I loved her and that she had been a wonderful mother. Somehow, between the two of us, she heard what she needed to hear and she departed.
Jordan's father has just passed in his sleep, and though he wasn't able to be with him, he did get to see him, and to see the peace and relief on his face.
Thank you to linking to the piece. My own reaction was somewhat different because I was, like many, struck by the solomn beauty of the dead. So I looked again and again until I realized that it was thier living faces which were in turmoil, or in a seeth of emotion, or etched in a history of particular expressions, wiped clean in death. That death was peace and life was not. And that whatever was bursting, carving up the face and eyes had gone away.
Thanks for writing that, I don't know why death has become our great taboo. I too had the privilege of sitting with someone for many days as he died. My brother had cheekbones like a runway model towards the end, it seemed odd to see him with the familiar chubbiness gone. Before witnessing the process of dying, I had thought it was like birth in reverse and through that time saw him loose functions - bladder, walking, talking...just as a baby learns such things one by one...til finally he forgot how to breath.
Death is so not like the Disney portrayal. Even a beautiful death may have nasty death rattles (that laboured breathing), long gaps between respirations when you prematurely think they have gone, messy bodily functions. But it is a privilege to be there. One we shouldn't fear.
I, too, miss my Daddy. Lots.
Your entry and all the comments made tears well up in my eyes. You've also made me re-think my original thoughts on that art project.
I remember the room after my Dad passed. I know what you mean that there was something "missing". A part of him had departed, and I feel the loss still, 13 years later.
So many, many, many things I want to say in response to all these. It would take a whole book. The uncle who was present--and who was the one who needed to be--when my grandpa quietly passed on. Such a healing time. The experience of having myself been the one fighting for the last few breaths as the bodily tissues broke down--and then somehow surviving that. Finding, through the emotional caring of my visitors, including and especially my doctor who so fervently needed me to live, a physical strength in a way I still cannot begin to put into words. But to me, it was the most real experience I had ever had.
I couldn't go through it, for reasons of my own.
Just dropping in to say hello. I've been fighting a war with my wrist, and so not commenting much... but wanted to say that I can still READ, and so enjoy your posts.
This one is touching more than most..
I'm remembering seeing my grandmother at her funeral.... and wondering how different she would have looked before the funeral home folks had done their thing.
Hello. I found your site through WT's. I am very touched by your post. Anniversaries are difficult when your are missing someone you loved.
I read a while back about an organization that photographs deceased babies for families that otherwise would have no photographic evidence that this life had even existed. I cried when I looked at the photos on their website Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. They are so beautiful. How precious these photos must be to those parents. They aren't sombre or macabre in the least.
http://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/
Ruth
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