Goodbye to all that

Surrender with grace. That’s what the yoga teacher said as we were settling into a difficult posture. This not something I do very well, this surrendering thing. And rarely with grace. But it is what Tom did, was brave and strong and wise enough to do. Was allowed to do because we live in Oregon.I am referring to his decision to make use of Oregon’s Death with Dignity. We talked about it back when it was first enacted twenty-four years ago, two vibrantly healthy people with a houseful of small children and busy, active lives. We supported it, embraced it, were proud of our state for enacting such a deeply thoughtful, empathetic approach to end of life. Years later, when California voters had an opportunity to vote on similar legislation, I wrote a long piece for the LA Times that chronicled the deaths of two men, an Oregonian with the choice to make a dignified exit and a California man forced to contemplate illegally stockpiling pills or putting a pistol in his mouth.Our discussions were theoretical, political, medical. But not really personal. Or they were personal only in the sense that we both said, yes, this is how we would want to go. But we didn’t think we would actually, you know, go. We didn’t actively contemplate our own demise. Why should we? In the words of Tom Petty, the future was wide open.Until it wasn’t.He didn’t surrender immediately. Of course he didn’t. He did the research. He was beyond qualified to do the research, to deep-read, parse and understand the studies. He chose his doctor wisely. He had surgery, radiation, powerful (need I add debilitating) rounds of chemotherapy. There were good days, good weeks. There were carefully planned trips, not as adventurous as we were used to, but still adventures. And then there was more research, and an attempt at another treatment. And then, suddenly—it seemed suddenly although it was a year in coming—there was nothing left to do except to sit on the back deck facing the weakening autumn sun and surrender.Him, not me. He read Lao-tzu and watched the leaves turn orange on the sugar maple. He listened to the jays that circled the bird feeder. He napped and dreamed and talked about his dreams. Me? I worked my way through prodigious to-do lists. I made soup. I finished a writing project for him. I bought high-quality linen for the awful hospital bed that was now center stage in our living room. I searched online for slippers to fit his swollen feet. I kept doing because to stop doing meant I was giving up. Notice I use “giving up” instead of “surrendering.”His exit that Friday evening in mid-October, with me and the children encircling the bed, was not about giving up. It was powerful. It was intentional. It was graceful. It was ceremonial. It was, in a way that only those who witness such moments can understand, magical. I will learn from this.(The image is a double-selfie I took in the backyard the day before Tom chose to leave.)