The deer fleeing for its life turns to look at me with my mother’s eyes. Dark fierce eyes, bitter-bright, locking onto mine. Not letting go. She’s not looking for help or pity or comfort. Or escape. She knows there’s no escape. That dark gaze locked onto mine wants but one thing. A witness to its passing, its inevitable and terrifying end.
I never actually saw the deer that night. It was too dark. I only heard its pounding hooves passing behind our home, its terrified scream splitting the night. But I “see” it nonetheless. For days, weeks, afterwards, even now, I see it. Screaming past me with my mother’s eyes. I’d watched her passing too. Her inevitable and terrifying end.
It came quickly. Late June she was diagnosed with cancer. By October she was gone.
I was her caretaker during those last brief months. I watched her flesh waste away, her energy, her light step, her quick smile. Her interest in watching golf and tennis on TV, in reading mysteries, in knitting, in food, in friends, in family. In me. In her own life. It all drained away in a few short months, in the time it takes to flee screaming from one side of the meadow to the other before crashing down that ravine.
And during all that time of her passing, her wide, terrified gaze locked on mine. Or so it seems now.
In fact, her passing was surprisingly mild. She refused treatment and entered hospice care. She was 80 years old. Her time had come. She was ready. Or so she said, and maybe even believed, at the beginning. The medication kept her free of the worst pain for most of that time. Until it didn’t. Until there was no escaping the pain.
She watched herself deteriorate, and I watched with her. It was like a thing we watched silently together, this draining away of her life. It was a painful thing, but for the most part she was stoic, reserved, resigned.
And then one day as she was struggling across the room with her walker, moving in slow motion like the deer in my dream, she turned toward me and fixed her eyes on mine.
By then her loose skin hung from her bones, her sharp shoulders hunched, her wide mouth drooped, her once silver-white hair turned yellow and dull, and her dark eyes shone from sunken sockets. She turned toward me in her slow struggle across the room, fixing her intense bitter-bright eyes on mine and said, “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The worst thing. Dying. And I knew she was not looking for a response from me, nor sympathy, nor saving, nor comforting words. My place was simply to bear witness to this “worst thing”, to the terror of her inevitable passing. Death at her heels on that slow passage across the room.
She slipped into a coma soon afterwards. And then she was gone.
No escape. The unalterable, unutterable fact underwriting our existence. We avert our eyes every which way as long as we can. Until we can’t. Until the time comes to bear witness, to refuse to look away, to let the fact of another’s inevitable passing, or our own, stare us down, and lock our gaze. No escape. And all we can do is be there, fully present, in that moment, bearing witness.
There’s a story about a Zen monk fleeing for his life, a tiger at his heels, chasing him over the edge of a cliff where he grabs hold of a branch. He dangles there just out of reach of the tiger’s jaws snapping at his head, while below him he sees another tiger half-climbing the cliff to snap at his feet. No escape. Just then he notices a fat juicy strawberry dangling from a nearby vine. He lets go with one hand to swing toward the strawberry where he plucks it loose and pops it into his mouth. “Oh, so delicious!” he sighs, savoring its sweetness.
Here’s another story. True story. Caught on video by a group of tourists on safari in Africa. You can watch it here on youtube. Here’s how it goes:
A herd of water buffalo approach a river where a pride of lions are resting. The lions chase the buffalos, separating a calf from the herd, and dragging it away. Only the struggling calf slips into the river. The lions climb down the bank and begin pulling the calf ashore when a crocodile grabs hold of its leg and tries to drag it under. The lions and crocodile play tug-of-war with the calf, until the lions win and pull it ashore. No escape.
Then something unimaginable happens. The fleeing buffalos suddenly stop running, reverse course, and head back, charging at the lions and chasing them away. The little calf, who moments before had been caught between the lion’s jaw and the crocodile’s teeth (no escape), gets to her feet, shakes her rump, and walks away with the herd, apparently unharmed.
What does it all mean?
These two stories roll around and around in my mind, the same way the screaming deer’s flight and my mother’s slow struggle across the room are rolled together in my memory.
What do they have in common, the monk and the baby buffalo? One savoring life while death snaps at his heels, another’s life being saved from the grip of death. The saving and savoring of life. It’s a theme I turn to again and again in my writing.
Perhaps our escape from life’s inevitable and terrifying end, like the monk’s, is by embracing life’s sweetness, savoring all it has to offer, living life in the oh-so-delicious present moment.
Perhaps our escape is like the calf being plucked from the jaws of death by something too miraculous to even imagine.
Perhaps at the very end, when there finally is no escape from death, like that deer, like my mother, and that awful inevitable conclusion chasing us down grabs hold, something unimaginable happens. Some unseen hand plucks us like a ripe strawberry from the jaws of death and swallows us whole, savoring all the sweetness of our brief lives, and reaffirming with a sigh, “Oh, so delicious!”
[This post is a sequel to my last, which you can read here. The photos were taken from an Amtrak train window on a trip to San Diego where I wrote most of this post]
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- Mountain Lion Kills Deer in Springs Family’s Front Yard (kktv.com)
- Deer Forest (charleymckelvy.wordpress.com)
Oh my gosh…such electrifying writing and such sadness. My own mother is 80 now, and I’ve had some of these very same thoughts…but have been unable to find the words for it all. Thank you my friend, for sharing all of this.
Thank you dear Carol, you are so welcome. This was a hard one to write.
I have to tell you (so serendipitously and astonishingly) that only moments before I read this post, I read the story of the zen monk fleeing for his life as told by Pema Chödrön. Ah, the universe works in mysterious ways …
I couldn’t remember where I had heard that story, but it very well could have been from Pema. I think she wrote something called “No Escape” once, a thought that resonates with me.
Your exquisite writing just broke my heart, again. Sometimes I read to escape, I feel the need to run, and I do. But then at other times I am taken by surprise, like now, like the place you have brought me to here, now, in your words, your story, your memories. Before my father died last year he locked my eyes in a gaze which tore my heart to pieces. My mother and brothers and sisters were there and all felt that something had happened, everyone began crying, not quite certain what exactly had happened, but certain nonetheless that something did. Death is a strange phenomenon, one we can hardly hope to understand until our own time comes.
Thank you Edith, and sorry for your loss. It’s such a hard thing.
Beautifully written. My husband and I are sharing days now with a dear friend who is dying. There is no mistaking it and he turns away from those who offer false hope. “We all have a one-way ticket,” he says, “let me take what enjoyment I wish from each day I have left.” One certainty – he does not watch the news any more.
Thank you for sharing this.
My 38 year old daughter is terminally ill and now under Hospice care. We are at the stage where her pain is wonderfully controlled. I see despair in her eyes as she awaits her imminent death. I see the helplessness in her boys eyes when they stand next to her bed. It is a tough journey. You write beautifully.
That must be worse than anything, to lose a daughter or son that way. I can’t even imagine how hard that must be. My heart goes out to you and your daughter and all your family.
What a powerful and beautifully written post. I think you captured something about the terror and courage of facing death. I saw my mother die of liver cancer a couple years ago and she faced death with as much grace and courage as I’ve ever seen, but she did say it was not fun. The sweet strawberries of life do help like palliative care but for me it only my faith that makes it bearable. I believe the personal soul lives on and there is healing beyond what we can imagine for all suffering, but even so the process of dying is terrible and not right. I don’t fear my own death, only the pain of the dying process.
Thank you, Carol. I also believe that something essential and individual in each of us carries on both before and after the birth/death process. My mom had faith too, but I think it was sorely tested at the end. I so appreciate your leaving this message. I love what you say about healing beyond what we can imagine now.
Another moving post. I love the way your writing flows together, then breaks apart into its individual pieces. Fabulous. You write in a way that evokes such beauty in sadness, in pain. Truly riveting. I love the story about the strawberry. Makes the fall a little bit better.
Thank you Katie. Your comments on my writing mean so much to me. This post was especially hard to write.
Deborah, This is really amazing. Your words on death really hit me here…and I quote: ” No escape. The unalterable, unutterable fact underwriting our existence. We avert our eyes every which way as long as we can. Until we can’t. Until the time comes to bear witness, to refuse to look away, to let the fact of another’s inevitable passing, or our own, stare us down, and lock our gaze. No escape. And all we can do is be there, fully present, in that moment, bearing witness.” It gives me goosebumps in it’s surreal truth. Thank you.
Thank you so much. I truly appreciate your response to my writing.
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Reblogged this on Living on the Edge of the Wild and commented:
I’ve been working on a short story tentatively titled “13 Ways of Looking at Dying, Just Before, or the Moment After.” It’s based on a blog post I wrote here last November. I’m re-blogging now to allow me more time to work on the story. I consider it one of my finer posts. Both the post and the story owe something to Stevens:
From Wallace Steven’s “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
Image 3301 is magnificent. And, the combination of images in your title was compelling. I have missed seeing well-written pieces that touch the borders of the wild. A refreshing blog.
Thank you, Mike. I really appreciate your “Thumbs Up” on the blog.
I love the idea that the monk was able to see (and taste) beauty in life even in the face of certain death. You would need to be totally at peace to react with that kind of acceptance.
I love that idea too. So hard to do, see the beauty of life in the midst of all the brutality. But so important. Thanks for writing.
Please, please be encouraged to keep writing. The small pieces you’ve been sharing
capture me each and every time.
That means so much to me, Jana! I am so pleased that these works resonate with you. Thank you so much for saying so.
Profoundly beautiful post Debra… I would love to be able to write like you, and express the truths that you do. I especially loved in this tender piece, your thoughts on being there as a witness.
I feel that this is one of the great mysteries and privileges of women’s life- their witnessing, whether it is to be there and witness for the mother in labour, or to be there to witness the passing into another state of being.
I think my daughter understood this when her labour reached a critical point and she was rushed to hospital. She said to me ” stand where you can look into my eyes, and don’t stop looking.”
Thank you, Valerie. I think that’s so true, about women being witnesses–I hadn’t thought about it that way before. What your daughter said to you is so powerful. I hope things went well for her and child.
Yes thank you Deborah, twenty one years later he is still the love of my life…
Poignant & very deep piece. I can’t quite imagine how difficult it was to write..but it had to be; for it was difficult to read. Without feeling emotions that I don’t want to feel; but very well might one day. My own parents are in their early 70s, healthy, vibrant! and so active…yet aging non-the-less. When so many of my friends have already lost their parents or at the least one of the parents; its made me cherish! even moreso time spent with my parents. You hit the nail on the head@ We’ve got to live in the moment each & every moment..None of us knows when our last day is to be lived. Your piece made me re-flect on so, so much …Thank you for re-posting this. Stay UPlifted & blessed
Thank you so much for writing–I know it’s a difficult read emotionally. As you say, it’s important to cherish each moment you have with your parents now, and all your loved ones.
This was really wonderful to read. For me, it captured how it feels to be a ‘deer’ sometimes, and helplessly watch someone else witnessing your demise, be that illness or otherwise. I feel like I don’t often come across things that adequately account for that.Thank you for posting.
So glad you liked it. Although “like” may not be the right word. Capturing difficult things–death, illness–can be hard, but shared, it’s easily to endure, survive, somehow.
So beautifully said. There are some things we don’t want to think about but at least with writing like this we know we aren’t going through these types of things alone.
Thank you, Quanie! I agree.
I have just returned from visiting with my sick mother. She is 89 years old and feeling tired. I made the emergency trip to Jamaica because she was in hospital. She was scared. I was scared. She is doing well now but we all know what will inevitably come. When I returned home, I posted my thoughts on my blog. For days I walked around just feeling sad, holding back tears that wanted to pour. I am glad I found this post. It is beautiful and moving and it has given me a sense of peace. I am not alone. Thank you for sharing.
I am so glad your mother is doing better now and that this writing helped you. It helped me too to write about it. You are not alone, and I thank you so much for leaving your story here.
…the image of you (a stranger) sitting on the train enroute to San Diego, writing these words, recollecting, looking out the window taking pictures of the sun-sparkling-on-water-endless-sea-and-sky-face-of-the-earth… what a beautifully told tale in all of its dimensions. And years later, on the wintry east coast of Canada it rises again in someone else’s mind space. Living on the edge of the wild. So very cool to have found your blog.
Thank you! It’s what I love about blogging, and you put it so beautifully here. I’m so glad you stopped here.
You write so eloquently Deborah. A beloved friend was riddled with cancer very quickly and I sat with her near the end. The few other people in the room were discussing how she could recover…their words floating above us. She looked at me with silent pleading and I held her gaze. All she needed was someone to bear witness to her inevitable passing with grace and silence. I will never forget that moment. xXx
How powerful, beautiful and poignant your writing is! I don’t think I’ll ever forget the deer, your mom, the strawberry! You have a gift.
Thanks for the well-written reminder. American society has ‘civilized’ the hard truths away from public view – where hamburgers come from, what happens to us all as we approach death, nature red of tooth and fang. I appreciate your (and your husband’s) insistence that we do not ignore uncomfortable truths. I think our society could benefit from more such clear thinking.
As you savor in your post – the fact that each day brings us closer to our final destination should drive us to make the most of the time that we have.
holy shit I came here from googling “deer snort” cause I wanted to know what it means when they huff, and ended up taking a feels trip
Not quite what you were looking for! But hope you got something from the sidetrip.