Death Be Not Proud

Words of Wisdom from My Friend Pascal

[Thich Nhat Hanh mosaic by Pascal Simon]

Have you ever sat with someone who is dying? That’s a trick question. Because if you’ve ever sat with anyone, including just yourself, you have, of course, sat with a dying person. It’s what we’re all doing, from the moment we’re born—moving toward death. Or, if you prefer, transition from one energy form to another.

That said, I have sat with a number of people who knew their death was arriving sooner rather than later. This is a very interesting space to occupy. Westerners are pretty renowned for struggling with the concept of mortality. But when the rubber hits the road, when we are imminently face to face with This Next Big Step—be it our own or that of a beloved—if we are lucky we find ourselves in a place where much of life’s day-to-day bullshit falls by the wayside. It is a sad opportunity to experience full presence, if we can open ourselves up to that.

I sat vigil by Bob’s side as he, unconscious, slipped away over the course of many days. I called him Baby Bird then. His dentures were out. His mouth, partially open, formed a little O, like a fledgling waiting to be fed.

When my ex-brother-in-law David, whom I luckily kept in the aftermath of a horrible marriage and bitter divorce, called me to say he was at the end, I dropped everything and flew to Portland to be with him. He had the benefit of living in a state that allows death with dignity and so had some control over how he would cross the finish line. He stayed on dialysis long enough for those of us who were able to, to come say goodbye. It was a curious and beautiful experience. I accepted his invitation to join him at the crematorium to get things in order and choose an urn. We clearly knew when our last moment together would be. And as I bid him farewell for the final time, we stood on his front step, looked deeply in each other’s eyes, and thanked one another for our friendship. Days later, he was gone.

And I also sat with my friend Molly Ivins—oh if she were alive today her head would be exploding. Molly lingered and it seemed to me that each time she got very close to crossing, and despite her lack of full consciousness, she would sense when one of us came to be with her and she would hang on a little longer until, at last, On January 31, 2007, she took her last breath.

Last September, my friend Pascal, who lives in Austin but who is from Germany, was visiting family there when she presented with signs of a stroke. In fact, it turns out that she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, which is one of those medical verdicts—like pancreatic cancer and ALS—you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Her brain tumor, which she has nicknamed Fred, is inoperable and terminal. Her doctors have been able to slow its growth, but that’s the most they can do.

Pascal was able to make it back to Austin for further treatment. Covid exposure kept me from a planned visit in December. Finally, last week, I got to see her. Driving over, I had no idea what to expect. I wondered if she would be lucid, still be able to speak. I wondered if she would be depressed, angry, perhaps both. Or maybe she would be in a coma?

To my surprise and delight, I found my friend ensconced in a recliner, snuggled under an electric blanket, drinking tea—she lovingly calls her friend and caregiver Ali “the hydration bitch”—and in very good spirits. Awake, alert, coherent and philosophical. Her humor, always swift and dry, remains intact even if she has lost use of the left side of her body.

Pascal and I have known each other more than half our lives, since we were in our twenties. We’ve followed parallel paths. We’re single mothers. We’re artists. We’re hustlers. We both always found ways to combine our artistic calling with creative ways to pay bills. I ran writing and fashion camps for kids. She ran her own camp, Bake Austin, teaching aspiring young chefs their way around a kitchen.

We also lived two blocks away from each other on the same street for a decade. And, regarding her current situation, I think our most important commonality is our shared deep love for the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh—known as Thay— the Vietnamese Buddhist monk with a massive heart and brilliant mind. I once went to a retreat in San Diego at one of Thay’s monasteries. He was there in person and that experience had and continues to have a profound effect on how I have chosen to live my life. Pascal, inspired by my pilgrimage, later attended a retreat at the same monastery. Currently she is reading Thay’s book No Death, No Fear.

Here’s a quote from the book:

“We believe that we are born from nothing and that when we die we become nothing. And so we are filled with fear of annihilation. The Buddha has a very different understanding of our existence. It is the understanding that birth and death are notions. They are not real. The fact that we think they are true makes a powerful illusion that causes suffering. The Buddha taught that there is no birth, there is no death; there is no coming, there is no going; there is no same, there is no different; there is no permanent self, there is no annihilation. We only think there is. When we understand that we cannot be destroyed, we are liberated from fear. It is a great relief. We can enjoy life and appreciate it in a new way.”

Somewhere along the way, Pascal, who is an amazing mosaic artist, created a portrait of Thay that took my breath away. When I first saw it, I was bummed out that it was priced beyond my reach. Later, when I had a little money, I was overjoyed that the portrait was still available. It’s mine now, and holds a place of great honor on my mantle, watching over all who come to spend time in my dining room.

[Night swim at Barton Springs. That’s not light reflecting off the water. It’s emanating from Pascal.]

Of all the things we discussed, I think what made me laugh hardest was when I asked my friend who had built her accessibility ramp. She smiled and said, “Four of my ex-boyfriends.” And she added that the gift of this tumor crowding her brain is that finally, at very long last, thanks to all the love people are pouring into her, she understands on a cellular level that she truly is loved and that she is truly worthy of that love.

Oh how many nights we used to sit on the porch of my little falling down rental cottage in Hyde Park, back in the days when single moms on limited incomes could actually afford to rent in that neighborhood. We did this so often we called it porching. Looking back now, at the distance of a half lifetime and with the sharp focus Pascal’s diagnosis brings, of course I can see how silly it was, the way we worried over this man or that. The things we feared. The choices that felt very important then, but so much less so now.

In all the confusion and fear being currently sowed in the world, it was remarkable to take a couple of hours to just sit, fully occupy our moments together, and share with wonder the profound love surrounding my friend. She has so many great friends because Pascal is such a great friend. Part of this hinges on her having nurtured her friendships. And one of her biggest stressors now is that she has fallen behind in her correspondence. I assured her that those of us contacting her with texts and voicemails aren’t doing so with the expectation of a reply. Still, several times, she held up her phone and said she felt bad about not returning the 753 messages just sitting there.

I suggested that maybe we could fix this with a video message to all. Pascal liked the idea and so I rolled camera and asked a few questions. Then I handed over the raw footage to my roommate/Boston Wife Chad and he did the magical thing he does with video. Here’s what we came up for y’all.

NOTES:

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Y’all, please take good care of yourself and your friends. This is what it’s all about.

More Courage

Less Fear

Do Not Obey in Advance

Love,

Spike