Death, Life and Open Space

Michael Herman mherman at globalchicago.net
Sun Apr 22 10:58:43 PDT 2001


this is a bit long, but seemed to fit into the thread.  this is one of
my favorite stories of death and love and open space.  as the evolution
at work collection was coming together (http://www.michaelherman.com), i
knew that this piece definitely belonged in the story.... and still,
sometimes, it still seems strange to include so personal a story in such
a public and professional sort of place.  seems that's just one of the
opportunities and challenges of open space, however... to bring the
personal and professional together.  anyway, here it is...




Breathtaking Transformation: A Story of Opening
by Michael Herman

----------------------------------------------------

This is the story of my maternal grandmother's last days. But, for me,
it's about the amazing transformations that are part of every lifetime.
It's about doing the things we must, but finding ways to do them in the
peace of who we really are.

I think that her experience and this story are important because they
give us all an opportunity to observe our own personal reactions to pain
and suffering, fear and uncertainty, growing confusion and loss of
control -- AND the possibility for peace, in the midst of it all.

For me, this experience captures the essence and spirit of the work I
want to do, with individuals and organizations, in times of swirling
change and breathtaking transformation.

----------------------------------------------------

my grandma died last week. she was 82 years old, but didn't know it. she
often struggled to recall our names when we appeared in her room.
recently, when we asked her if she knew where she was, she looked around
her room in the intensive care unit, white sheets, intravenous pumps,
electrodes wired to bleeping monitors, "i'm in my dining room."

since she was diagnosed with alzheimers disease a few years ago, we'd
grown accustomed to our own incapacity to really connect, to truly be
with her, to help her in any significant way. "how's grandma?" we'd ask.
"she's pretty confused..." is usually how the report began. then, about
a month ago she forgot that she couldn't walk without her walker. she
ventured off without it and fell. she broke two large bones,
necessitating an ambulance ride and several invasive medical procedures
which seemed to propel her on a final crossing from confused into lost.

but the journey downward wasn't without its wonderful moments. one day
toward the end, after a difficult attempt at mandatory physical therapy,
she laid back and closed her eyes, "oh-boy, i just want to go to sleep"
she groaned

to which mom responded, "that's okay, you can do that, mom"

"no, i mean for good" she reinforced.

"i know. you can do that, mom"

"oh," she said, opening her eyes. "really?" and closing her eyes again,
she continued, "could i have a little vanilla ice cream before i do?"

in her lifetime, she'd known desperate odds many times before --
childhood diseases, multiple cancers and surgeries, crippling arthritis,
months of unexplained blindness, and intense lonliness after my
grandfather died. she always seemed to meet them with willful acceptance
and renewed determination to do what she could for others, even as her
strength and capabilities left her. doctors who knew her history didn't
like to make predictions.

but this last time was, of course, to be different. lost in the
complexity of so many of her internal systems complaining at once, her
thoughts and communication deteriorated until we could understand almost
nothing of what she was saying, except for key phrases like "oh, boy!"
"oh my god!" and "please help me." these always came through loud and
clear. she really wanted out of this world, but giving up was something
she'd never allowed herself to practice. and so, after three weeks of
degeneration, she'd curled herself up in her bed, the muscles of her
neck, chest and stomach tightening with fear and tension, an involuntary
retreat from overwhelming uncertainty. she just couldn't let go.

her troubles reached a sort of climax the last monday night of her life.
after weeks of downtime, her lungs were filling with fluid, she was
falling behind on her breathing, and she was scared. when she opened her
eyes, she could barely see us, but reached out for help, instinctively.
it's hard to know what to do at those moments when you so want to help
but have to admit that some things are beyond our control. small doses
of morphine helped calm her a little, but gave no real comfort. we took
turns sitting with her all night, following her breathing, reassuring
where we could.

at dawn, she was restless and anxious, due for the next morphine shot. i
recognized the tension in her body as an extreme form of the tightness i
feel in my own chest and gut when i am under stress. i sighed a big sigh
for her, "aaaahhhhhhh." it gave her pause, a break in the steady stream
of quietly desperate murmuring "...oh my god, oh my goodness..." i
sighed again, "aaaahhhh," releasing my own tension. soon she was echoing
me eagerly on every exhale. mom picked up on it and started "the sleep
song," a cadence of "aaahhs" that grandma used, to rock all of the
babies she loved to sleep. "ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah..." grandma
echoed our humming all day long, whenever she'd get anxious or restless,
we'd hum with her and she'd breathe easier, straighten out, loosen up.

it was better than morphine -- for all of us. it was real conversation,
real connection, the likes of which we hadn't had for years. the truth
was finally clear enough, the need strong enough, and the message simple
enough for us to connect with her. in one syllable, "aaahhh," which
means peace, we said we saw and heard her pain, remembered her love, and
reminded her that it was still deep inside of her, beneath the pain and
fear. with that same syllable in response, she seemed to say, "i hear
you trying to help, i'm doing as you say, and it's working." it filled
the room with a new energy. even the staff took note.

we'd managed to keep them from turning on the bright lights, sticking
her with needles and making other customary, but now unnecessary,
intrusions into her space. by tuesday evening, however, her bed had to
be changed. the process, done as gently as possible, still proved
tremendously upsetting for her. after hours of peace, she was now a
tightened little knot again, gasping for breath, crying out for help. i
called mom back to the hospital, sure the end was near. but, after
several hours of rosaries, prayers, singing, crying, releasing and even
humming, she remained as knotted as ever.

worn out, mom looked across the bed at me, "she hasn't eaten or stood up
for 25 days, where can she be getting the strength to do this?" i paused
and then it flashed for me. "maybe she's getting it from us," i smiled,
"maybe we should go take a walk." we restated our final goodbyes and
left her room. we got a snack, resaid our goodbyes and left her to
finish her work on her own. we'd finally accepted that she could not be
coached, sung, prayed or hummed into this transformation. she should
have been dead years ago, should have gone this morning, certainly she
would finish this up tonight.

given her history, it wasn't a total surprise when she lived through
tuesday night -- but nobody could have predicted or even imagined the
rest. none of the doctors and nurses had ever seen anything like it, but
mom could hear it clearly, from down the hall, before she even reached
grandma's room on wednesday morning. "ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,
ah-ah-ah-ah-ah...." she walked in the room, sat down at the bed and
listened,"ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah."

"hi mom, i'm here, mom."

no response, but the chanting, "...ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah...."
with every exhale.

in a minute, there came a short pause which mom filled in with her own
chanting. grandma wrinkled her eyebrows in a little scowl, eyes still
closed. in a minute, another pause and mom tried again, getting the same
grumpy little scowl, that seemed to say "it's my song, my life, my
death, and i can do it by myself, thank you very much."

and so, with eyes closed and lungs nearly full to drowning, she chanted
her sleep song without accompaniment, without interruption, all day and
all night, wednesday, thursday and friday. by friday evening you
couldn't hear her down the hall anymore, but the sound continued loud
enough to be heard in her room and peacefully enough to be described as
singing by one listener. as she chanted and sighed, she softened and
relaxed her whole body until she finally let go, just after midnight, on
good friday night.

she had reconnected with her own deepest love and caring - her own most
important work and calling - beneath the fear, the pain and the
uncertainty of the present moment -- and beyond the limits of her
physical circumstances.

sometimes the simplest things can lead in the most amazing directions,
the most personal is most universal, and the most obvious is hardest to
remember. when seen in this light, the moment of leadership becomes a
personal quest to remember how to do amazing things with ease.



--

Michael Herman
300 West North Avenue #1105
Chicago IL 60610
312-280-7838 voice
312-280-7837 fax

http://www.michaelherman.com
-michael herman associates - consulting
-evolution at work - online book of open space
-invitation resources - open space workbook
-websites worth visiting - community
-michael's open notebook - journal

mailto:mherman at globalchicago.net

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