Dying is one of the life works that we do. It is a task that being born sets upon us. The hospice nurses say my brother's wife has about another week of life.
She now has oxygen, a catheter, and a morphine pump. They may get a hospital bed. Even with the oxygen she struggles for breath, that precious breath. She moves in and out of consciousness. I visited her today briefly. She knew me and understood when I talked about feeding her humming birds.
Today is the first day she hasn't eaten her breakfast, hasn't watched her beloved soap operas. My brother cried, out on the porch. He said these were the signs that he expected to mark her giving up.
Is death a giving up? In some ways I suppose. Or perhaps it is an acknowledgment of the impermanence, and imperfection of life and of being human that has always been there in small ways. And now in a large way.
May peace be with her and with all who are suffering today. Blessings, Suki
photos from my walk. Fallen apples. Mushrooms and other fungus. The field down the road being cut once again.