Not Alone

"Now we lived in the midst of the great passage from life to death. Yet each day passed, as ordinary as the previous one. I sensed how we were part of a much larger picture. I would feel linked to all others in similar circumstances. I'd remember that there was nothing different or special about our situation. Countless people sat as we did, wondering, doing their best, waiting for death. Then the lens would open yet further to include all those experiencing helplessness in inner city ghettos, in refugee camps, in war zones. These compelling images link us to something beyond our particular circumstances, and I needed some practice with which to hold them. Each evening as I sat with Hob, I imagined him surrounded by light. He seemed to be in a deeply peaceful state. Yet I wondered how, silent and alone, he had adjusted to the irreversible effects of the stroke. Given the depth of how he had reflected on the subject of death, where was he in the process of letting go into things as they were, into the imminence of his own death? No answers to these questions. Only the invitation to trust something what was apparent. I stayed with the images of light. I imagined that the light around him extended to fill the room, then radiated out beyond the room, into the neighborhood, into the city, into the larger world. I imagined it as best I could, because it invited a deep calm and helped to expand the particulars of our situation into something vast, inclusive, and loving."

Olivia Ames Hoblitzelle. “Ten Thousand Joys & Ten Thousand Sorrows. A Couple’s Journey through Alzheimer’s.” Penguin, NY, 2008.