Yesterday, we buried the cremains of my father-in-law. On June 1st, 2023, Robert died peacefully at home at the age of nearly 102 years. He was under the wonderful care of a local hospice (the hospice program that actually fledged me as a hospice physician), and he was in his home with one of his sons as his primary caregiver.

Other family were able to be with him, to say thank you and good-bye, during his terminal decline and during his active dying process. None of them were in the room at the time of his passing, but he was not alone. (More to follow on that in a subsequent blog post.)

My father-in-law was always a seeker. He read and studied until a few months before his death. Over the years, we often discussed Richard Rohr, Thomas Merton, and others. 

As he got older, he began to ask me about death and dying. He knew I spent much of my time around the dying. I shared with him many of the lessons I have learned from being at the bedside of the dying. 

The ancient Celts had a term, Anam Cara, meaning "soul friend." I became his Anam Cara. I reassured him and promised I would be there for him when he was dying. When it was clear that he was in his last days, I struggled with when I should go to be with him because he lived about an hour away, and I wanted to get the timing right.

One morning, I came out of the bakery thinking about whether to go that day. I got into my car, turned on the radio, and the song The Walk Home by Young the Giant came on. It was the first time I had ever heard the song. The chorus is "Can somebody walk me home?"

Ram Dass's quote, "We are all just walking each other home," has been a theme of my teaching over the years.  So, when THAT song came on, I knew it was time to go be with my father-in-law.

When I arrived, he was in bed, comfy and very drowsy. I pulled up a chair, grabbed his hand, and said, "Dad, it is Kevin. I'm here". He slowly opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling, and in his deep theatrical voice said, "Oh. My God. I don't know what to do or to say".  So, I spent the following amount of time (time is irrelevant in the liminal space of being with the dying) reminding him about all of the lessons we shared. When I was done, I kissed him on the forehead, said, "I love you," and left the room.  He died a few days later.

Bás sona.