This I Believe

Having been given the privilege to be present at numerous births and almost as many deaths, I have come to believe there are many similarities between the process that begins life and what occurs at the end of life. The person being born or who is dying is the central player in a drama to be remembered and retold by the other participants with great detail, yet this person can carry no conscious memory of either event. In one of life’s ironic twists the memory of your birth is usually lost while you are still alive, while the memory of your death remains long after you are gone.

Just after a birth there is often a moment before this new person takes their first breath. All focus is on listening for a cry that will reassure everyone the baby is breathing. For this infant they have already met in their imagination to survive, there must be breathing. “Why isn’t he crying? ” “Is she breathing yet?” These questions are asked if the baby hasn’t already answered them with an easily heard cry or breathing effort. The transition from life in that other place to life outside is dependent on breathing. Without it there will be no space between the beginning and the end of this life.

This intense focus on breathing is often replicated in a room where a person is actively dying. A family waits and ponders, “Can that really be their last breath?” After hours and sometimes days of having the breathing pattern of this person they love provide the background music in the room, they can hardly believe this last pause between breaths is not a pause, but the end. How can this person so alive in their memory be gone?

The hard work of dying or being born frequently unlocks a capacity for tenderness that often remains hidden in the time between these events. Watching quietly from afar I can see a new mom curl her body to cocoon her newborn and provide the warmth necessary to let her child know they aren’t alone. Down the hall of the hospital a daughter leans her upper body over her frail mother, providing warmth and shelter. She puts her lips near her mothers’ ear and reassures her she’s not alone. Later that day the new mom gives her daughter her first bath. She washes her tenderly then wets her hand and sweeps the scattered strands of hair into order. At almost the same time a daughter is performing the same service for her mothers’ body. Gently sponging her clean, then using her hand as a comb she arranges the part in her hair just the way her memory tells her it’s suppose to be.

This I believe, beginnings and endings in life often share much in common. As I’ve come to accept that the years left to live are now smaller in number than those already experienced, I find comfort in these similarities and fear death a little less.