My Dad and an Angel Named Charlie

Every Thursday, we hope that you enjoy “The Joy Factory: Insights on Joyful Parenting (Among Other Things)” by Ruthie Yarme.  More about Ruthie below.

As Christmas approaches, my thoughts reach for my dad.  I look for solace in loss, joyful reflections in grief, and for tiny hints of miracles to remind me that while his physical presence is gone, a larger part of him continues to share this life with me. And so, I turn my thoughts to memories of my last moments with him and to an angel named Charlie.

Last July, my dad was in the ICU. We had spent almost 3 weeks there- some of which he was awake, alert, joking, smiling, but most of which he was attached to a ventilator.

Eventually, the doctors agreed that it was unlikely that his lungs would recover.  The waiting began.  My mom, brother and I sat in with him in the ICU, waiting for them to move him to a regular hospital room, waiting for him to take his last breath, waiting for his struggle to end, waiting to figure out how to live without him, waiting.

It was at this point that we met our angel, Charlie, our last ICU nurse.  The other nurses had been our rocks during the “holding on stage”; Charlie arrived to help us let go.  While others had talked about my dad’s dying, they had really been talking about his physical body failing. Charlie knew that it was time to talk about his spirit.

We spent the day talking with him.  He told his own story of loss.  About 10 years ago, he had lost his own partner of many years.  He believed that his relationship with his partner had not ended with death; it had only changed.  I closed my eyes and said a little prayer of gratitude.  Charlie was the medicine my soul needed.

In the course of our conversations, Charlie introduced me to the Tibetan p’howa meditation.  Literally meaning “the transference or ejection of consciousness into the state of truth”, this meditation is often used at the time of death to help the dying’s passage.  I tucked that little nugget away for later.

Meanwhile, the orders arrived to move my dad up to a regular hospital bed.  Charlie came upstairs to help us settle in; then, we said our good-byes.  After he left, everyone was agitated.  The ICU had been our home for nearly 3 weeks.  We knew the drill there; we had friends in nurses, doctors, phlebotomists, cleaning women.  We were now out of our comfort zone.

The move took its toll on my dad as well.  He started to grimace and moan with discomfort.   While we waited for the nurse to return with something to soothe him, my mom’s agitation grew.  She said under her breath, “Where’s Charlie?” as if it were a prayer.  Not a minute passed before Charlie miraculously re-entered the room.  He had come back up from the ICU because he had forgotten something; his presence bringing peace back to the room.

After my dad was settled for the night, my mom at his side, I went home.  Unable to sleep, I went to the internet on a mission.  Finding the p’howa meditation, I jotted it down in case there came a time to use it.  I then fell fast asleep, comforted by my not-quite-rational belief that my dad would wait for me.

I took the next night shift at the hospital.  Lying in my cot next to him, I heard his breathing change, becoming more variable.  Faster, slower, deeper, shallower.  I asked the nurse if that meant that he was closer to dying.  “It could be an hour or a day or two.”

I remembered Charlie and the p’howa.  He had said that sometimes a dying person cannot easily find the Light and that the p’howa can help them find it.  I grabbed my CliffsNotes version of the p’howa and began to center myself.  It was time to let my dad go.

I did exactly as Charlie (and google) had told me to do.  I visualized a Divine spirit of pure light above my dad’s head (Covering all of my bases, I imagined a brilliant bright light containing the energy of Buddha, Jesus, Mary, and Mohammed).

Then I prayed a p’howa prayer.

“Through your blessing, grace, and guidance, through the power of the light that streams from you:

• May all his negative karma, destructive emotions, and blockages be purified and removed,
• May he know himself forgiven for all the harm he may have thought and done,
• May I accomplish this profound practice of p’howa, and may he die a good and peaceful death,
• And through the triumph of his death, may he be able to benefit all other beings, living or dead.”

I, then, imagined that the Divine being above my dad was so moved by my prayer that it responded with pure love and streams of light that were sent into my dad’s body. I imagined that the light was completely purifying and healing.  I imagined my dad’s body merging into the light and returning to the Divine spirit above him.

Moments later, his breathing changed again, becoming peaceful.  I knew that he was ready.  I grabbed the phone to call my mom and then stopped.  If this were to be my dad’s last few moments in his body, I wanted to be completely present with him.

I nestled in close, my head right next to his.  I told him how much I love him and that it was time for him to go.  He took 5, maybe 6 breaths, each quieter and more peaceful until his last….the most peaceful of all.  It was the most beautiful moment of my life.

On this Christmas, I feel the sadness creep in and notice myself focusing on the parts of my dad that are missing: his warmth, his laughter, his joy.  I consciously return my thoughts to the part of him that is right here with me; I remember that moment of peace when he left his body.  An angel named Charlie reminds me that my relationship still exists; it has just changed its form.

Ruthie Yarme is a homeschooling mom, living in Santa Cruz, CA. She delights in walking among the towering Redwoods; watching her dog, Ginger, romp along the Pacific; listening to her husband play music of all styles; and pretty much doing anything with her two amazing gurus, Isabella and Andre.  You can find Ruthie’s essays here every Thursday.

Tagged as: faith, letting go, presence