When a young cellist loses his orchestra job, he and his wife move back to his hometown. He answers a classified ad for a company called “Departures,” thinking it’s a travel agency. He discovers, instead, that the job involves washing and casketing bodies. Daigo overcomes his initial horror and comes to love the reverential ceremonies, which are transformational for the families involved  .  .  .  and eventually for him and his wife.

“Departures” beautifully depicts an approach to death that could teach our culture much.  This approach is midway between a mainstream funeral and caring for our own at home.  Although a professional washes and dresses the body in “Departures,” it happens in the deceased person’s home with the family surrounding their loved one during the entire ritual. There is no embalming. Shocking, funny, and profoundly moving things happen during this process.

Anyone interested in threshold work, spiritual openings, emotional transformations, or exquisite filmmaking will enjoy “Departures.” To see a trailer, click http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaFRCLAYEF0

Nancy Manahan and Becky Bohan are authors of the award-winning Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond. Reach them at www.NanBec.com or www.FullLifeGoodDeath.blogspot.com.

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In their last Open to Hope posting, “Washing Diane’s Body: Caring at the Crossroad,” Nancy described the extraordinary ritual of washing Diane’s body. In this installment, Nancy’s spouse Becky recounts the four-hour home vigil, which gave family members and friends a chance to be with Diane’s body, to grieve, and to support each other in a sacred ritual.

While Nancy and others were washing Diane’s body, I heated up the Indian curry and rice I had brought from home. I sat at the kitchen table, eating with Bill and Diane’s four sons as they took a break from calling people about their mother’s death and the viewing being held that very day. Later in the afternoon Diane’s body would be taken to the crematorium, so this would be the only chance to see her.

Once Diane had been dressed and the room cleaned up, the bedroom door was opened for the visitation. Silently, the family and friends who had gathered downstairs filed in. I was a little apprehensive, but the scene was beautiful. Diane was tastefully dressed in a navy blue skirt and top she had chosen, and a white silk cloth swirled over her legs with an artistic flair that seemed true to her spirit.

The room was peaceful, with candles burning on the dresser and soft music in the background. A big bouquet of daisies sat on the bedside table. A few folding chairs were nearby for mourners who could not stand for long. The room was not air-conditioned and even with the window open, it felt hot on that July afternoon, so we brought in a quiet oscillating fan.

For the next four hours, friends and family streamed through the bedroom. Some people stood, some sat on the bed beside Diane for a time, and others took chairs.  Diane’s brother-in-law, Jim Manahan, arrived with his two teen-aged grandchildren visiting from Singapore. Perhaps this experience prepared them for the death of their Taiwanese grandfather the next year and the Buddhist rituals surrounding his vigil.

Jim’s wife scooped up the smallest grandchildren and drove them to Madelia, our home town, for the annual Madelia Days parade. I admired her thoughtfulness at getting the children out of the house and giving them something fun to do. I also thought how appropriate it was that the streets of Diane’s home town were lined with flags and celebrants, as if cheering her on.

One of the most touching moments was when Bill’s mother arrived from Madelia. When she entered the room and saw her beloved daughter-in-law, her face crumpled. Weeping softly, Ruth sat next to the bed and held Diane’s hand, which bore the diamond ring she had loaned her two months earlier, knowing that Diane would not live to inherit it.

Diane’s friends Chuck and Mary Lofy arrived from Minneapolis. When Mary saw Diane on the bed, she knelt and sobbed on Diane’s chest. Tears streamed freely down Chuck’s face. Their tears let loose the floodgates for me and others.

I stayed near Nancy, sometimes standing, sometimes sitting on the bed, as we had at the moment of Diane’s death. I had attended visitations in funeral homes, but never had I experienced the peace, intimacy, and profound caring for a departed one as I did in that room. I was struck by how comfortable it was to be with Diane’s body. It felt natural, but also sacred.

As the hours of visitation neared their end, Diane’s sister removed Ruth’s ring from Diane’s finger and gave it back to Ruth. “Annie’s Song” by John Denver started playing. Most of us joined in, tears welling up again. Bill, his voice cracking, sang the love song to his wife for the last time.

The mortician who had helped Diane and Bill pre-plan arrangements said he would arrive at 4:30. By that time, all the people who could make it to Mankato had arrived. One by one, we took a moment to be with Diane and say a final farewell. I kissed her cool forehead, and said good-bye to my beautiful, amazing sister-in-law, who had just shown us how to have a different kind of death and visitation.

Now it was time for Diane’s body to leave for the crematorium. She would also show us how to do this part of after-death care differently.

The next installment from Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond describes how family members accompanied Diane’s body to the crematorium and carried her remains back to her husband Bill later that night. For more information, or to order the book, visit nanbec.com or amazon.com.

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In our last Open to Hope posting, the extraordinary final moments of Diane’s death in Nancy’s arms were described. Here, Nancy recounts what happened immediately after Diane died, most importantly, the washing of Diane’s body. This ancient ritual is being reclaimed by many families as an opportunity to honor their loved ones, to grieve, and to perform a final sacred service for them.

Diane’s closest friends, Bev and Laura, arrived at the house moments after she died. I was still holding her when they entered the bedroom. They knelt beside the bed and burst into tears.

Diane’s sister and brother-in-law had been driving from their campground and were about ten blocks from the house when their cell phone rang: Diane was dead. As soon as they turned into the driveway, Patt told us later, she leapt from their truck and raced up the stairs, as if time could make a difference. When she saw Diane, resting against my chest in her cotton pajamas with little rose buds, she wailed and almost collapsed. Bill and Diane’s youngest son put his arms around Patt to support her.

Soon, Bill and Diane’s oldest son Mike arrived. Everyone was gathered around the bed or sitting on it. Bach continued to play softly in the background. At one point, someone suggested that we put on “Annie’s Song,” by John Denver. When the notes of the poignant ballad filled the air, many of us joined in singing one of Bill and Diane’s favorite love songs. Diane did indeed “fill up” our senses. We were in a heightened state of awareness, our hearts overflowing with the mystery, beauty, and sacredness of her death.

After the tears subsided, we began discussing how we should proceed. Remembering that Diane had told Bill to do what made sense at the time of her death, he suggested holding the visitation that day since so many family members and friends were already in town. He didn’t want to have Diane embalmed, nor did he want to cool her body with dry ice for a public viewing a day or two later.

We would keep Diane at the house for the afternoon and take her body to the crematorium later that day. A wake could be held in two days, on Monday, giving out-of-towners a chance to get to Mankato, and her Life Celebration could take place on Tuesday. Although we regretted that people living out of state would not arrive in time to view Diane, we agreed to this plan.  The four sons went downstairs to telephone other family members and friends with the news.

Bill knew that there was a finite window in which Diane’s body could be prepared for a private viewing. Blood would be pooling as her body cooled, and rigor mortis would fix the joints in place. The information from Crossings: Caring for Our Own at Death suggested catheterizing the bladder to prevent a natural voiding when the muscles released. Bill thought it was time to do this and to wash Diane’s body.

He invited those women close to Diane to perform the ritual. (Diane had asked that women and Bill, but not her sons, care for her body.) Others were asked to leave the room. I saw Becky considering what to do and watched her reluctantly leave.

I shifted my position from behind Diane so we could lay her flat on the bed. Her three daughters-in-law, Kate, Katy, and Jill, stayed, as well as her granddaughter Tessa, Patt, Bev, Laura, and Bill. Bev knelt down beside Tessa and told her that they were about to start a ritual that women had performed for thousands of years for people who had died. They were going to wash Grandma Di’s body and dress her in beautiful clothes.

Gently we removed Diane’s pajamas. Bill placed a thick towel under her hips and inserted a catheter to drain off the urine into a sealed bag. It was surrealistic, watching him calmly and competently perform this necessary medical procedure. An unusual mixture of practical science and sacred mystery was happening before my eyes, and I found it wonderful that Diane’s beloved husband, Bill, and not a mortician, was the one touching Diane’s body.

As Bill tucked the still-attached catheter bag out of sight under the towel, Kate brought a large ceramic bowl made by Diane’s friend, potter John Glick, filled it with warm water and stirred in lavender oil, a fragrance used for millennia in bathwater.

The nine of us had never done this before, but we seemed to fall into our roles effortlessly, positioning ourselves around Diane. I knelt by her leg.

I had often read novels or seen movies in which women washed the body of a family member, but I had never envisioned myself doing it. I felt a little tentative but still in an altered state of consciousness in which everything flowed easily.

Kate dipped a washcloth in the scented water, wrung it out, and handed it to Bill, who was kneeling at Diane’s head. She handed a second cloth to Patt, by Diane’s shoulder. When Bill finished cleaning Diane’s face, he gave the cloth back to Kate, who rinsed it out, gave it to the next person, and so on. Each person wiped a different part of Diane’s body, including four-year-old Tessa, who washed her grandmother’s stomach. Laura washed Diane’s ankles and feet in memory of all the walking and hiking they had done together. I washed her right thigh, which felt muscular and supple.

After tipping her from side to side to clean her back, we patted her dry with a towel. Kate invited everyone to say whatever was in our hearts. I have no memory of what I or anyone else said. All I remember is that the room felt like a temple filled with love.

As the ritual ended, we wondered what to do with the water left in the bowl. It didn’t feel right to pour it down the drain. Kate suggested that it nourish Diane’s flower garden. So she and Jill carried the heavy bowl downstairs and out the back door to the children’s garden, where they cast handfuls of water, pungent with lavender, into the air.? It rained down on the flowers and soaked into the earth.

Back upstairs, Laura went to the closet for the outfit Diane had specified: a navy blue skirt, a short-sleeved white blouse, a navy vest, and the blue dress shoes Patt and Diane had bought earlier that year for a wedding Diane had hoped to attend.

While the others dressed Diane, I went downstairs, where Becky was serving curried chicken, Indian rice, and vegetables. I was grateful for the familiar home-cooked food. When my nephews finished eating, they got back on their cell phones.

After eating, I went back upstairs. Diane was dressed, and Laura was putting a pillow under her head. Patt crossed Diane’s legs at the ankle so her feet would not splay, and Kate swirled a white silk shroud over her legs, concealing the catheter bag taped to her thigh. Bev and Laura applied Diane’s usual lipstick and combed her hair. We put away any clinical items, lit candles on the dresser, and opened the window to let in fresh air. Little Tessa performed the sacred ritual of smudging by carrying lit herbal sage slowly around the bedroom, sweeping aromatic smoke into each area and around Diane’s body.

My brother told Becky and me that washing Diane’s body after she died “was the most sacred thing” he had ever done. Bill said that he felt close to Diane, that “her soul was still there.” The experience was so profound that it eased his grief at the loss of his beloved wife and best friend.

I had a similar transcendent experience. My initial uncertainties dissolved in the rightness and sacredness of this ancient ritual. Washing Diane’s body with my brother, family members, and her closest friends not only comforted me but, I believe, helped surround Diane with love and support as she transitioned to the next realm.

This is an excerpt from Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond by Nancy Manahan, Ph.D., and Becky Bohan. M.A. It is the story of Diane Manahan, R.N., a professor of mental health nursing at Minnesota State University, who died of metastatic breast cancer.

The post Washing Diane’s Body: Caring at the Crossing appeared first on Open to Hope.

This excerpt from Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond recounts the extraordinary death of Diane Manahan, R.N., M.S., a professor of nursing at Minnesota State University, Mankato. Her husband Bill Manahan, M.D., a holistic physician, had helped his wife to be in the driver’s seat for her five-year journey with breast cancer. Now he, their four sons, and their wives supported Diane to die at home, as she wished.

As part of the family’s round-the-clock vigil, Bill slept with Diane as he had for the thirty-seven years of their marriage, holding and comforting her when she would wake during the night and ask, “Why can’t I die, Bill? I’m ready to go. Dying is harder than I thought it would be.”

On the last morning of her life, Diane sat up while two of her grandchildren sang to her. Her sister-in-law, Nancy Manahan, took the next shift. No one realized it would be the last shift.

Two hours later, surrounded by her family, with Bill holding her hand, Diane Manahan slipped away, as consciously and as gracefully as she had lived her life. Nancy tells the story of Diane’s last hours.

Nancy says:

I could hardly grasp the reality: Diane, my beloved sister-in-law, was dying.

This strong, healthy marathon runner had gone from hiking, to walking, to needing a cane, to using a wheelchair. This popular college professor and gifted public speaker now whispered. She had lost almost thirty pounds, was profoundly jaundiced, had difficulty breathing, and hurt. Recently, while hugging her goodbye, I had inadvertently pressed on a tumor near her spine, and she had winced.

But the worst symptom, Diane said, was the unrelenting itching. a week and a half before she died, I offered to give her a massage, which normally she would have loved. But this time, she had asked for a body-scratch.

Diane lay on the sofa, her supple, tan legs across my lap. While I was scratching her calves and thighs, Diane said she loved the poem I had sent her, Mary Oliver’s “In Blackwater Woods.” She asked me if I would read it at her Life Celebration. I said I would be honored. (She had asked many people to actively participate in this meticulously-planned event.) We talked about it calmly, rationally, as if discussing her funeral were the most natural thing in the world.

On the 90-minute drive back home to Minneapolis, I gripped the steering wheel, sobbing, gasping, and howling as wave after wave of grief washed through me. How could I let her go?

Ten days later, on July 13, 2001, I drove to Mankato to see Diane. When I arrived, my brother told me, “Diane’s ready to die, but she doesn’t know how to do it. She’s so strong she could live for several days or even weeks.”

Bill went upstairs with me. Diane was lying in bed, looking tired but beautiful. There were no visible signs of cancer. Their daughter-in-law Kate later told me that two days earlier, after she had given Diane a bath, Diane’s stylist, had come to the house to wash and style her hair. As I leaned over to kiss her hello and hold her hand, I could smell her fresh warm scent.

“Diane, it’s Nancy. I know it’s late, but I wanted to say hello before I go over to MaryPat and Jon’s house for the night.”

She nodded and squeezed my hand. I sat on the bed and tried to be an open channel for comfort and peace, letting loving energy flow toward Diane.

Bill watched us. He knew I had to leave soon. After a few minutes, he came over to the bed. Diane put her arms around his neck and he helped her stand up and walk to the bathroom. She sat unsupported on the toilet.

“Goodnight, Sweetie,” I said from the bathroom doorway. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Okay,” Diane whispered, a smile barely lifting the corners of her mouth.

Diane’s sister Patt stayed until ten o’clock that evening. She told me that before she left, she leaned over the bed and said, “Good-night, Diane. I love you.” Diane whispered back, “I love you, too.” Those were the last words she ever spoke.

Topher took the midnight to four a.m. shift so Bill could get some sleep. As Topher lay next to his mother, he could hear her stop breathing for a while, gasp, and then resume breathing. This Cheyne-Stokes Respiration pattern is typical of someone in the dying process. At four o’clock, Topher’s wife Katy relieved him.

After an early breakfast at my niece’s, I drove back to Bill and Diane’s house. Riding with me was their only granddaughter, four-year-old Tessa, and their two-year-old grandson, Teliz. On the drive, the kids belted out a Northwoods canoeing song they had just learned.

“Can we sing this for Grandma Di-Di?” Tessa asked.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Your grandma has always loved canoeing in the wildlerness. She’d like to hear your song.”

When we arrived and climbed the stairs to the bedroom, Diane was in fresh pink-flowered Capri-pajamas. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be resting comfortably.

“Good morning, Katy,” I said. “Good morning, Diane. It’s Nancy. Tessa and Teliz are here, too.”

Diane didn’t respond.

“They’ve been practicing a song they’d like to sing for you. Would you like to hear it?”

Diane immediately pushed herself to a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Blond-haired Tessa and Teliz stood side by side looking up at their grandmother’s face and sang softly.

Land of the silver birch

Home of the beaver

Where still the mighty moose

Wanders at will.

Although Diane kept her eyes closed, she leaned toward the children and appeared to be listening intently. Their voices grew more confident:

Blue lake and rocky shore,

I will return once more.

Boom-diddy-ah-da, Boom-diddy-ah-da, Boom-diddy-ah-da, bo-oo-oom.

After another verse, Tessa and Teliz giggled with pleasure at their performance. They scampered downstairs, calling back “Bye, Grandma Di-Di!” Diane lay back down on her side.

Katy looked tired. She had been with Diane for almost four hours. I told her that I would take the next shift.

I joined Diane on the bed, my face less than a foot away. I marveled at her clear, supple skin and generous lips.

Suddenly Diane opened her eyes and gazed directly at me. The deep blue of her irises against the bright yellow-gold of her eyes still astonished me. During the past nine weeks, I had not gotten used to what liver failure had done to her coloring.

As Diane stared at me, I started to feel uncomfortable. Did she need anything? Did she want to say something? Did she even see me? Gradually her gaze soothed my fears and answered my questions. I could see no anguish in her eyes, no suffering or sorrow. I sensed a deep, calm spaciousness. It was like looking through her eyes into eternity. I settled down inside and let myself be still with her. For long, precious minutes, we just gazed and breathed together.

Then Diane pushed herself back into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet on the floor. I got off the bed and faced her. She reached up and pulled my head to her shoulder. I had seen Diane do this with Bill the night before when he had helped her stand. Thinking she needed to use the bathroom again, I started to straighten up. But Diane clamped down on my neck. She was strong!

“Do you want me to stay like this for a while?” I asked.

She didn’t respond.

I was bent almost ninety degrees at the waist. After a minute, my back was aching.

“Diane, this position isn’t comfortable for me. If you want some support to stay sitting up, I could get behind you, and you could lean back against me. How would that be?”

Immediately Diane’s hands dropped to her lap. I crawled onto the bed behind her, spread my legs, and pulled her snug against me so that her legs stretched out between my legs. She leaned back against my chest, her cheek touching my cheek.

For the next two and a half hours, that’s how we stayed. It was one of the most intimate and sacred experiences of my life. It was an honor to hold her, support her, breathe with her, love her.

After a while, I heard words in my mind. I pushed them away. Diane didn’t need any words. After all, she was engaged in one of the most profound labors of her life. But the phrases kept coming, and eventually I trusted them. If Diane wanted me to be quiet, she would let me know.

“That’s right, Diane . . . Just let yourself relax . . . I’m right here with you . . . You don’t have to do anything . . . You can relax and let go . . . .”

I sensed a little release of tension in her body. I was calm and steady, as if I had been with a dying person many times. In fact, it was the first time.

I felt grateful for the three years of Living in Process training I had done with psychologist Anne Wilson Schaef. This self-directed healing work included hours of sitting on a mat beside someone who was allowing repressed feelings to surface, supporting them in their deep emotional release process. I had learned to trust my intuition about when to be a silent witness and when to say something encouraging or reassuring. Sitting with Diane felt similar.

“You know exactly how to do this, Di . . .Just like you knew how to be born.”

I wasn’t trying to think of anything to say, but from time to time, words spilled into the companionable, luminous stillness.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Diane . . . You are going to be fine . . . In fact, you’re going to be more than fine . . . You’re going to be free of any struggle, any pain, any itching!”

I could feel her relax more deeply. We were breathing together, eyes closed, comfortable.

“You’ll know when the time is right to leave . . .You can do it in your own time and in your own way . . . Just relax and follow the process on out . . . .”

I figured it would be several more days. Surely anyone strong enough to wrap her arms around my neck in a vice-like grip wasn’t close to dying.

At ten o’clock, after almost two hours, I said, “I just want to let you know that I have a half hour left to be with you. Becky is arriving at ten-thirty to drive us to Madelia for lunch with our moms. If there’s anything you need before I leave, just let me know in whatever way you can.”

Diane gave no response.

I resumed the rhythm of comfortable silences and the occasional words that seemed to come not so much from me as through me. I didn’t even know if I believed all the words, but I felt compelled to say them.

“You’re almost home, Diane . . . All those you have loved will be there to welcome you . . . your mother, your father, the baby you lost . . . They will be so happy to see you . . . Everyone is waiting for you . . . You’ll be home free, Diane . . . Home free.”

At ten-fifteen, Bill came upstairs. He kissed Diane, looked at my position supporting her, and asked, “Are you comfortable?”

“Pretty comfortable,” I replied. Actually, my back was starting to tire.

He propped pillows around me, which felt wonderful, and mentioned that Diane’s closest friends were coming between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock. He pulled a chair up to the foot of the bed, leaned forward, and tenderly took his wife’s left hand.

At ten-thirty I glanced at the clock. Since there was no sign of Becky, I stayed in place, holding Diane. Our chests rose and fell together.

“That’s it, Di, just trust the process. Mmm-hmm. Home free. Home free.” It was so effortless, I felt as if I could stay with her forever.

Katy, refreshed from a nap, came back upstairs. “How’s it going?”

“We’re doing well,” Bill said.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as Becky arrives,” I told her.

Katy went downstairs to ask Bill and Diane’s son or his wife to take my place.

Tim and Kate both came upstairs. Tim sat by the bed and, taking his mother’s right hand, put his fingers on her wrist, as he would have done with one of his patients.

“Her pulse feels thready,” he said.

Kate studied Diane’s face, left the bedroom and asked everyone to come upstairs. She started the music Diane had chosen to die to, Bach for the Bath. The first piece was full, slow, intense. After several measures, a plaintive cello entered.

“Oh, Diane,” I said. “There’s your beloved cello.”

More family members had gathered around. Everyone was quiet, listening to the soaring music. Suddenly I felt Becky behind me on the bed, one hand on the center of my back, the other on Diane’s arm.

As the Bach piece came to a slow, peaceful close, Tim touched his fingers to Diane’s wrist again, then to her neck.

“I don’t get a pulse,” he said.

Everyone looked at Diane, unable to take in Tim’s words.

“But she still seems to be breathing,” he observed.

Diane’s chest was rising and falling, slowly, steadily. After a minute, Tim touched her neck again. “I think that’s Nancy breathing. She’s gone.”

It was true. She was gone.

Bill, still holding Diane’s hand, put his head on their joined hands on the bed and sobbed, “Thank goodness, thank goodness.” After days of yearning for death, Diane had finally been released.

Although we all were crying, I felt strangely calm, full, saturated with the sacred mystery of the moment.

“You did it, Diane,” I murmured, tears running down my cheeks and wetting Diane’s still warm cheek. “You did it. You’re home free.”

Excerpted from Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond by Nancy Manahan and Becky Bohan. For more information or to order their book, visit the authors’ website www.nanbec.com or amazon.com.

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