Singing to the Dying

I have been reticent to blog the following experience because it seems so sacred and intimate. But I feel compelled to log in on what have been two profoundly powerful experiences that I've had while singing to the dying. I'll start with the first.

The first was my father-in-law, George. I began singing to him nightly four nights before he died, for about a half hour. The final night of his life was the night I was hosting a dinner party at a local restaurant, to honor the women who have meant so much to me and been so important in my past year. Before the party, however, I went to sing to George. He and Helen live two doors down from us during the winter and I am so grateful for the proximity to George in his final days. He was struggling gravely with the final stages of emphysema and having suffered with asthmu as a child, I knew all too well the terror from not being able to get enough oxygen into your body, even when you have oxygen tubes snaking up your nose .

That Sunday evening he was wide eyed with panic. Helen and I tried to change his pajama top and he could muster no strength to assist us in any way. Every breath was taking more energy than pure oxygen could provide and replenish. Helen left the room and I told George that it was o.k. to let go. That letting go was going to be a tremendous relief, like taking off a tight shoe after a long walk. I told him that everyone he ever loved and everyone who ever loved him was waiting for him. And then I started to sing. George has always loved music and it brought him great comfort these last eight years to listen to James Galway and those beloved Irish tunes and ballads. I sang him "When They Ring the Golden Bells". I sang him "The King of May", both songs that Natalie Merchant has recorded. I just sang along with my ipod...and George immediately started to calm down, to breathe a little easier and to my stunned surprise: to start humming along! It was a deeply moving moment. Not long after, I said my goodbyes and tried to muster some levity and mirth for the dinner party I needed to now go be "on" for.

We got a call about 9am the following morning that George was gone.