Her son was feeding her like she was a little baby. A hospital cafeteria-issued tuna fish sandwich sat atop a soggy swatch of cellophane on the palm ...
An excellent death as the capstone to a life well lived requires some forethought and planning. But what if a patient is unresponsive and has not previously expressed or documented his/her wishes? The "15-Minute Test" is a helpful guide for those who have to make end-of-life decisions on behalf of their loved ones.
I am really old, and I know death is imminent. Most of my friends have passed away, and of those remaining, they suffer from health problems in some way. I am myself totally deaf and partially blind. I live by myself. I am writing this at 6 a.m. in the morning.
Beyond green burials, recent years have seen a wave of entrepreneurs offering creative options for those who choose cremation.
It's war torn and sepia-colored now, parchment like, but the little scrap of paper containing this verse has long been a treasure of mine, a template for any poem I write.
Many people who do not want to die in an intensive care unit, intubated, on a respirator, pierced by a web of intravenous lines are dying this way. For these individuals, this is worse than death. We cannot prevent death, but we can dictate how we want to be cared for at the end of our lives.
Indeed, the mark of a successful person lies in their response to negative situations -- they lick their wounds but never leave the battlefield, they turn their scars into strengths. In approaching rejection, losing and failure, here are 10 hidden blessings...
"You want to get a Do Not Resuscitate tattoo on your chest?" I asked, as one might say to a friend whose goal was to lose 50 pounds. You'd support it, but you knew it would never happen. "No, I have one," she said quietly, pulling her shirt aside modestly to show the skin over her heart muscle. I stared at it unbelieving.
The social behavior researcher Brené Brown writes that to be fully human, we must be willing to show our vulnerable side to others. The best way to do that with a bereaved friend is to admit the obvious: "I hurt for you. I wish I could fix this for you, but I can't."
"When a person says to a friend, 'I'll see you later,' or a parent says to a child at bedtime, 'I'll see you in the morning,' these are statements, like delusions, whose validity is not open for discussion.
Nothing seems to shock us more than a diagnosis of cancer. I suspect it's terrifying because, deep inside, each of us knows it could happen to us. We pause when a friend or family member is stricken, our frightened minds turning to mush. Oh, no, we think. Am I next?
You have them right in front of you. Savor them. When you know someone you love has cancer, you are on notice. Fight hard to take advantage of each moment spent together.
Jeanne and I are left feeling strangely off balance. I imagine a three-legged stool, and how each leg is essential for its function. Over our lifetime, my siblings and I learned how to continually interact as a unit, calling upon our very different talents and personalities.
When I realize that recently I observed my own 91st birthday, and that Kirk never made it past 40, I am unable to do the math or come to any easy conclusion. I am in strange, uncharted new territory. Dying always seems to involve me in taking a trip of some kind, except there are no reservations.
I detest the news. In fact, the news has become so frightening to me, especially now that I have a son, that I often avoid it. I know it's not the responsible, civic thing to do, but sometimes, it's the only way I stay sane.
The experience of being a remainder is central to bereavement. A person left behind by the death of a loved one is often called the survivor, but remainder better captures the emotional experience.
The DSM-5, the most recent version of psychiatry's diagnostic bible, makes it possible to classify grieving that endures beyond a rather brief span of...
I'm not sure why I walked into Barnes and Noble that afternoon, except that the "self-help" aisle seemed like a logical place to be as I pushed the wheelchair of my four-year-old son who had just been diagnosed with a rare, degenerative brain disorder.
until our eyes meet again, dearest mother, until I am where you are -- above, beyond and over the clouds -- until then, know your heart beats in mine.
The friend who gave me the book knew that I had been investigating and writing about the phenomenology of traumatic loss since the death of my late wife in February of 1991 shattered my world.