This was incredibly hard to read this morning. My dad is approaching this last stage, this final bout with the mad dog. I’m not ready to even consider my own death yet but damnit you made me do that too on this Sunday morning. My personal anguish aside, this is a powerful piece of writing that strips away any romantic notions of death and lays it bare. I’m glad this series only has three parts. Not sure my heart could take more.
This was heavily informed by the death of each of my parents (and, unfortunately, of my understanding of myself.) But I won’t be surprised if the throes of death are followed by something that has both beauty and logic. May it be the last puzzle 🧩 piece finding its home. We’ll see. The rest I’ve got money on.
Of course, I’m aware this is a tough time to read this. There is no third part. I wanted the last death with the middle one.
I think maybe we get to chose which dog. Saw it with my grandfather– he smiled so sweetly, held my hand and said, "goodbye, dear." I saw life and letting go of it through his eyes for a moment... everything else seemed to fall away–he was just... grateful for love and full OF love. And although he's still alive, I've seen the same in my own father each time he was near death in a hospital setting. I feel lucky to have such examples.
Jeez Adam, you laid it all out so vividly, that I was back in the hospital bed having one or three of my surgeries from, luckily, the distant past. Only this time it felt more of a dreamscape, some how , I was you laying there, I didn’t recognize my own thoughts ( a bit more cantankerous than my own , but close enough ) Good thing pain does not have a good memory , so that part was missing.
Spot on.
Then of course you did an about face . Waves of emotion. Ah, the dog , walking the path to eternity in the snowfield.
It all comes full circle. I return my focus to the picture. It would be a perfect moment to follow my life filled with dogs down the next path. Feeling much better now. Feeling it all.
It is a good thing pain doesn’t have a good memory. Although I have fairly vivid memory of others being in pain. I don’t attribute this to some deep sensitivity, really just how vivid visually other people’s pain is. Much, almost all of this is sourced in seeing other people’s pain and trying to reconcile how I will handle it. I hope better than I worry, but if I have to go through that doorway to get to the dog, then I am all in.
Right, because most people wear their pain like a helmet that’s 10 sizes too small. I figured you’ve been a keen observer. Humor and sarcasm go hand in hand as a healing balm . At least for the observers anyway.
I’ll write ya a new scenario. And if you don’t mind, I’m signing up for this one too. Old age comes many years from now. We pass in our sleep and follow the dog . Yeah, like that one much better.
Adam-this is astonishingly powerful. The idea of the nightstand as one's last personal territory immediately brought me back to visiting my grandmother in a similar scene. I see all the little trinkets she had piled on there and wonder what she thought about as, like the character, overheard the nurses making weekend plans. I like to think her mad dog circled back and slept on her chest in the beauty.
Will, I saw this wonderful note came in, began thinking about responding and then lost track. So, yes, you know this scene, too. Maybe most of us who have lost someone (particularly if it's a degenerative disease or cancer) watch the shrinking of our domains down to the nightstand. I recently watched it again with my mother-in-law. I wish her a pacified mad dog, too. Thanks for the read and commenting.
I felt this deeply today. It took me back to my cancer bed, my surgeries, chemo, radiation. To the hate spewing at me from my family for missing a wedding- I must have made up my cancer for attention. How will they explain to their friends me missing in family portraits. The memories flooded when I read this as if it happened yesterday. And it grounded me after a day where I had to stop driving because my post cancer disabilities are now affecting my driving. I came home miserable, angry and pissed at my body, stewing in pain and misery. Then I read this. And it made reach for my dog and hold him tighter.
Thanks for sharing this. Your experience sounds challenging on a whole number of levels. And yesterday sounds like a nightmare. I know the piece is mostly grim, and fearful but the point of it is the end. Hug your dog close.
Maybe we’re supposed to buckle like a childbirth. Maybe we’re supposed to rise from our tiptoes and float. I hope I’m bigger than I fear. I’d like to be the Tiptoe Floater. Maybe there’s preparing. Maybe there’s no preparing. I’m preparing here. You are preparing as a way of life. The smart money is on your approach.
That’s easy and glib mostly. Our souls are all private and barely known to ourselves. I think the work is in those final days and months when you turn inward and you’re actually saying goodbye to the people around you on the deepest level and goodbye to the world that is all you know, to everything that you know. I think it’s in that space that we take our stand, and I sure as hell hope that I’m brave there that everyone else is brave there, too.
Because I’ve been given everything, and I don’t know how much fuller life would have to be to be able to say goodbye to it in peace.
"I hold out a hope that beauty has the last word." I hope so, too- so very madly. I wrote not long ago a piece on hospital death, which I do not want to impose on you. Let me know if you want to read it. It's also here, but not on my substack.
In any case, I so long to die of something that lets you wait for death. That lets me choose where I will greet her (death is a woman in Spanish). I envision cancer, and morphine, and gin tonics, and a sunny porch, and a gentle breeze and the scent of my beloved Mediterranean pine trees, and me sitting there, drowning in cushions, listening to an Agatha Christie audiobook (I am too old and too weak to read a book). I wither away, hearing Hercule Poirot catch the bad guy.
Brilliant piece of writing! I see this everyday. I don’t see people until the end, but I always try to give back the choices that have been stripped away.
Joshua, check out “Death & Birds” by Chloe Hope here on Substack. She is an end-of-life doula and an extraordinary writer. I enjoyed your posted Notes.
I often wonder whether, when it’s my turn, all my practice runs and witnessing and befriending and preparing will stand the ultimate test, or whether I’ll buckle under the weight of it. I’ve had a couple of really horrifying psychedelic experiences, that have lasted for a long time, and I think that they’ve done a lot for me, prep wise, too. Whatever happens, it’s been worth it.
I dearly wish that the natural turning inwards which happens, sometimes for months before, was better understood, and so better respected. We’d all benefit from practicing being quiet around other people, and from not expecting so much.
I’m sad there’s only II parts, but I understand. Excellently placed quote, btw.
I have not. I don’t even know how to cross post things 🫣. In any case, as I have a large Spanish reading audience, I want to repost in English and translate to Spanish. Too much work, too little time.
This was incredibly hard to read this morning. My dad is approaching this last stage, this final bout with the mad dog. I’m not ready to even consider my own death yet but damnit you made me do that too on this Sunday morning. My personal anguish aside, this is a powerful piece of writing that strips away any romantic notions of death and lays it bare. I’m glad this series only has three parts. Not sure my heart could take more.
This was heavily informed by the death of each of my parents (and, unfortunately, of my understanding of myself.) But I won’t be surprised if the throes of death are followed by something that has both beauty and logic. May it be the last puzzle 🧩 piece finding its home. We’ll see. The rest I’ve got money on.
Of course, I’m aware this is a tough time to read this. There is no third part. I wanted the last death with the middle one.
Sorry, I thought I remembered you saying this one had three parts to it. Not that I'm complaining about a change of subject ;-)
I did, but I needed the last part on the heels of the middle part. No it’s mercifully over now.
I think maybe we get to chose which dog. Saw it with my grandfather– he smiled so sweetly, held my hand and said, "goodbye, dear." I saw life and letting go of it through his eyes for a moment... everything else seemed to fall away–he was just... grateful for love and full OF love. And although he's still alive, I've seen the same in my own father each time he was near death in a hospital setting. I feel lucky to have such examples.
That’s beautiful and gives me hope. That’s how I want it to be.
Jeez Adam, you laid it all out so vividly, that I was back in the hospital bed having one or three of my surgeries from, luckily, the distant past. Only this time it felt more of a dreamscape, some how , I was you laying there, I didn’t recognize my own thoughts ( a bit more cantankerous than my own , but close enough ) Good thing pain does not have a good memory , so that part was missing.
Spot on.
Then of course you did an about face . Waves of emotion. Ah, the dog , walking the path to eternity in the snowfield.
It all comes full circle. I return my focus to the picture. It would be a perfect moment to follow my life filled with dogs down the next path. Feeling much better now. Feeling it all.
It is a good thing pain doesn’t have a good memory. Although I have fairly vivid memory of others being in pain. I don’t attribute this to some deep sensitivity, really just how vivid visually other people’s pain is. Much, almost all of this is sourced in seeing other people’s pain and trying to reconcile how I will handle it. I hope better than I worry, but if I have to go through that doorway to get to the dog, then I am all in.
Thanks for your note.
Right, because most people wear their pain like a helmet that’s 10 sizes too small. I figured you’ve been a keen observer. Humor and sarcasm go hand in hand as a healing balm . At least for the observers anyway.
I’ll write ya a new scenario. And if you don’t mind, I’m signing up for this one too. Old age comes many years from now. We pass in our sleep and follow the dog . Yeah, like that one much better.
Thank you for taking me back to that place where everything is working right.
~
I have a suspicion;
The mad dog
is dreaming
this human life
My suspicion is related I think. My suspicion is that we have somehow hidden ourselves from ourselves deliberately.
I hear that ringing in your words. We carry some horror of a contradiction.
I can feel it in here. It's telling me that I have fallen into some kind of trap.
It's asking me to do, very impoite things.
One wing, free of the pin.
The pen hacks at the other, madly.
Adam-this is astonishingly powerful. The idea of the nightstand as one's last personal territory immediately brought me back to visiting my grandmother in a similar scene. I see all the little trinkets she had piled on there and wonder what she thought about as, like the character, overheard the nurses making weekend plans. I like to think her mad dog circled back and slept on her chest in the beauty.
Thank you for this gutting work my friend
Will, I saw this wonderful note came in, began thinking about responding and then lost track. So, yes, you know this scene, too. Maybe most of us who have lost someone (particularly if it's a degenerative disease or cancer) watch the shrinking of our domains down to the nightstand. I recently watched it again with my mother-in-law. I wish her a pacified mad dog, too. Thanks for the read and commenting.
so sorry to hear about your mother-in-law. Thank you for sharing this post, it is very helpful in navigating/reframing loss.
Whoa. This is so deep, raw, powerful, and thought provoking.
"Now you are in a ceremony where you do almost nothing, and nothing is demanded of you."
“Because I’ve been given everything, and I don’t know how much fuller life would have to be to be able to say goodbye to it in peace.”
Me too.
❤️
Truly. Everything,
I felt this deeply today. It took me back to my cancer bed, my surgeries, chemo, radiation. To the hate spewing at me from my family for missing a wedding- I must have made up my cancer for attention. How will they explain to their friends me missing in family portraits. The memories flooded when I read this as if it happened yesterday. And it grounded me after a day where I had to stop driving because my post cancer disabilities are now affecting my driving. I came home miserable, angry and pissed at my body, stewing in pain and misery. Then I read this. And it made reach for my dog and hold him tighter.
Thanks for sharing this. Your experience sounds challenging on a whole number of levels. And yesterday sounds like a nightmare. I know the piece is mostly grim, and fearful but the point of it is the end. Hug your dog close.
It was a beautifully written story. And it hit home but also made me get out of my own miserable day to breathe deep and hug my dog- so thank you!
❤️
Maybe we’re supposed to buckle like a childbirth. Maybe we’re supposed to rise from our tiptoes and float. I hope I’m bigger than I fear. I’d like to be the Tiptoe Floater. Maybe there’s preparing. Maybe there’s no preparing. I’m preparing here. You are preparing as a way of life. The smart money is on your approach.
That’s easy and glib mostly. Our souls are all private and barely known to ourselves. I think the work is in those final days and months when you turn inward and you’re actually saying goodbye to the people around you on the deepest level and goodbye to the world that is all you know, to everything that you know. I think it’s in that space that we take our stand, and I sure as hell hope that I’m brave there that everyone else is brave there, too.
Because I’ve been given everything, and I don’t know how much fuller life would have to be to be able to say goodbye to it in peace.
"I hold out a hope that beauty has the last word." I hope so, too- so very madly. I wrote not long ago a piece on hospital death, which I do not want to impose on you. Let me know if you want to read it. It's also here, but not on my substack.
In any case, I so long to die of something that lets you wait for death. That lets me choose where I will greet her (death is a woman in Spanish). I envision cancer, and morphine, and gin tonics, and a sunny porch, and a gentle breeze and the scent of my beloved Mediterranean pine trees, and me sitting there, drowning in cushions, listening to an Agatha Christie audiobook (I am too old and too weak to read a book). I wither away, hearing Hercule Poirot catch the bad guy.
Please share here so followers of your comments can read it. Also, other people: check out Ana’s work. She’s someone you want commenting on your own.
Brilliant piece of writing! I see this everyday. I don’t see people until the end, but I always try to give back the choices that have been stripped away.
Joshua, check out “Death & Birds” by Chloe Hope here on Substack. She is an end-of-life doula and an extraordinary writer. I enjoyed your posted Notes.
Thanks, I will
Extraordinarily observed. Thank you. The heaps of frustration and assaults on dignity and personhood are thankfully not completely alone.
Dazzling, like a snowfield, except that my eyes work well enough for another read. This essay rings true in many places and is beautifully made.
I often wonder whether, when it’s my turn, all my practice runs and witnessing and befriending and preparing will stand the ultimate test, or whether I’ll buckle under the weight of it. I’ve had a couple of really horrifying psychedelic experiences, that have lasted for a long time, and I think that they’ve done a lot for me, prep wise, too. Whatever happens, it’s been worth it.
I dearly wish that the natural turning inwards which happens, sometimes for months before, was better understood, and so better respected. We’d all benefit from practicing being quiet around other people, and from not expecting so much.
I’m sad there’s only II parts, but I understand. Excellently placed quote, btw.
Thank you for your words.
Here is the piece. Published in the series House of Loathing run by Daisy Cashin.
https://ihatethesepeople.substack.com/p/house-of-loathing-5
Have you cross posted this? Maybe I missed it. It should be on your site too.
I have not. I don’t even know how to cross post things 🫣. In any case, as I have a large Spanish reading audience, I want to repost in English and translate to Spanish. Too much work, too little time.
Nah, don’t be awful, it’s not worth it. Rein in your mad dog, practice now, douse the fear.