Good Death

It has been so many lives, so many years… I have lost track of the count.

It was not an easy decision to make when I was offered this job. Nobody is ever going to appreciate my work, are they? Death is death isn’t it? What is good or bad about it? Does it really matter if I am a good death?

The way I was explained was that my job was not about bringing upon death but to help a soul to move onto the next stage with peace and tranquility so that they can start their journey after the mortal stage. 

I try to explain it to them. I beg them to listen. But they don’t hear me. They wouldn’t hear me. They just took it all in without processing anything.

That’s when I learned that I had to get better at my job. When a person died, they had to be ready for the next realm. They had to have a clear understanding of what was happening to them. I get to give constructive feedback about their life before death (that’s me) and guide them to be a better person when they are born again. Otherwise, it was a big ol’ mess for everyone involved.

The worst was when a person was scared. I wanted to scream and run away when I saw the fear in their eyes, but that would only make things worse. Instead, I tried to be as gentle as possible. But sometimes I could see them looking back at me with a pleading look, asking me to help them stay with their family and friends who were still alive.

That’s when I started to pray for help, for guidance. I didn’t want to turn people away. I didn’t want to send them away scared and confused. I wanted to comfort them. I wanted to say a few words that would make it better. But I didn’t know what to say. I just tried to be as strong as possible, but sometimes they broke me. Sometimes, I left them broken.

I know everyone deserves a good death but I just can’t serve everyone, can I? There are rules people!

It takes a lot of energy to be a good death. I’m not a spiritual person, but I am a religious person. If I were to break one of those commandments, I’d be thrown out of work. I’d be out of a job. I’d be out of a purpose. I could never live with myself if I didn’t do my job correctly.

The strange thing is what I’m doing isn’t a job. It’s not a practice. It’s not something that can be learned in any amount of time.

It just is.

No one can explain it. It’s not even a thing that can be explained. I have to just be there. I have to just be with someone when they die. I have to just be there to hold their hand and keep them from being afraid. I have to be there to help them be ready for the next stage of their lives.

Sometimes I think about when I’ll stop doing this. Will I’ll be able to move on. Will I stop being a good death? Will I always be a good death, or if I’ll eventually have to move on to be a bad death.

I’m not sure I’m ready to be a bad death. I’m not sure I’m ready to hurt people.

I don’t know if I’ll end up being a good death, or a bad death, or an average death.

I still remember my first assignment like it was yesterday. The first time I took a person from the world of the living to the world of the dead, I was overwhelmed. I cried.

The woman was getting older. She was looking at me, then looking at the hitching post. She went to the post, then looked at me again. She stood behind the post, then looked at me again. She paced to the hitching post, then looked at me again. She turned and faced me. She looked at the hitching post, then looked at me again.

I wonder what she was thinking. I wonder what she was going to do.

She looked at the post and started to set the saddlebags on a hook.

“I’ll take those,” I said, extending my hand.

“No, I can handle it,” she said, turning her head and keeping her arm.

“I’m sure you can, but I’ll help you set them...”

“I’m not going to die,” she says. “That’s not going to happen. None of it is going to happen. You’re going to stop it all.”

“That’s not my job,” I say.

“You can’t interfere.”

“I’m not interfering. I’m allowing you to make...

She cuts me off by muttering something about not needing her hand held. That she’s a grown woman and she can do this on her own. That she doesn’t need anyone else around to make it better.

I try to tell her that she doesn’t need to be strong. I try to tell her that she doesn’t have to be fearless.

But the woman continues pacing.

I remember her when she was younger. She was so full of life. She was full of her passions. She was full of love. She was full of children. She was full of family and friends. She was full of history.

She was full of memories.

“Did you know if I didn’t do my job, I would be thrown out of work?” I say. “If I didn’t do my job correctly, I would be out of a job.”

“Huh?” She says.

“When someone dies, it’s my job to help them cross over. I help them understand what’s happening. I hold their hand. I keep them from being afraid. I pray for guidance. I pray for help. I pray for a few words that would make it better. A few words that would comfort them. Words to help them be ready for the next stage of their lives.”

“I think you’re a little lost,” she says. “I think you should go find some help.”

I have to be with someone when they die. I have to hold their hand and keep them from being afraid. And I say those words over and over in my head, even though the woman doesn’t want to hear them.

I wonder if she’ll ever listen.

I wonder if she’ll ever be ready to hear the truth.

I wonder if she’ll ever be ready to know what’s coming.

“I’ll be back when I’m needed,” I say.

“You don’t need to be here.”

“I’m not here to help you. I’m just here.”

“Well, I don’t need you,” she says. “I really don’t need you at all.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” I say, putting my hand on the saddlebags and pulling them away from her, “but I’m going to take these and set them in my room.”

“You’re going to set them in your room?” she says, like she isn’t sure she heard me. “You’re going to set them in your room where I can’t reach them?”

“You don’t need to keep them,” I say.

“I need them,” she says.

“You don’t need them. You don’t need the past. You don’t need the stories. You don’t need the memories. You don’t need the correspondence. You don’t need the history. You don’t need anything.”

“I need it all. I don't want to die," she said.

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that she didn't need anything, but I knew that she did. We all do. We need love and connection and meaning. We need to feel like we're a part of something. We need a way to make sense of the lives we have.

I didn't say any of that. I didn't know how. I didn't know if it would make any difference. I don't know if it would have made any difference.

"You're going to stop me from dying," she said.

"No, I'm not," I told her. I tried to explain that she needed to die, that she didn't have anything else to give, that she had already given enough, that she had already done so much for so many.

"I don't want to die," she said.

"I need everything."

"I need everything."

"I don't want to die."

She kept saying it over and over until I didn't know what else to say. I stopped talking, and we just sat together in silence. She pressed herself against me and held me close. Her head was on my shoulder, and she ran her fingers through my hair. She kissed my neck and held me tighter. She was warm and soft and smelled like the night sky after a summer rain. She was beautiful and strong and soft and gentle and pure and brave, and she was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Life continues and so does death…