I’m nearing the end of Joan Halifax’s book about being with the dying. It’s been a challenging read, particularly as it is as much about one’s own dying as another’s. I hold fast to it, that image of my own demise, though I am conscious that I have a rather aesthetically neat idea of it. When Halifax described lying amongst the rotting bodies on a Tibetan Charnel Ground I got a glimpse of my deep fear of viscera, of the disintegration of the body, of order, of the self. Is that why I am both fascinated by and horrified by the dotage of others? I will never forget how we found her, lying in all that faecal filth. My love, my blessed mother. I think of her dying alone. Did she know me when I came? Was her spirit still present as I held her? Did she want me there? Did she feel my love and forgiveness and compassion? Oh, I hope so. I do.
