An essential part of a doula practice is introspection.
When I am granted access to the most profound moments in another person’s life, I can’t help but be moved. And changed. Sometimes I’m even rattled. Almost always, I am awed.
If this weren’t to happen, it’d be an indication that I had closed off my heart and become robotic. As mentioned in a previous piece on maintaining connection to our own humanity, effective deathcare workers must “be aware of our own mortality, tenderness, perceived weakness, and inherent wholeness.”
What does this mean in practice? It means reflecting. It means considering, on a deep level, how an experience has affected us.
I recently said farewell to a longtime client and recorded my own honest thoughts in this video, along with a poem I drafted during her vigil.
Will I Still Fret?
When time runs short,
and "goodbye" looms near.
Will I still fret over all I fear?
The dishes in the sink.
The bills due today.
Advice left unsaid.
The plans to delay.
When there’s only this morning.
One last sunrise.
Will I lay down my worries?
Composed and wise?
Will I gather my courage
And loved ones close by?
Will I regret or wonder?
Feel racked by why?
Why me? Why now?
What will come? And how?
Will I trust the journey?
Or die full of doubt?
Will I relinquish control?
Or lament throughout?
Who knows? Not me.
Not now. We’ll see…
~Francesca Lynn Arnoldy
I was so struck by my client’s apparent readiness and sense of peace. As I wondered about my own potential reaction and approach to the end, a glaringly obvious truth emerged: The world existed before me and it will continue on after I’m gone.
Imagine that!?!
For some people, this realization might induce nihilism, or meaninglessness, i.e., “What’s the point if it’s all going to end anyway?” For me, it has the opposite effect. My time is fleeting, so I’d like to try to embrace it. I want to live fully while I’m alive. Additionally, I’m comforted by the reminder that somehow, someway, life will go on without me, even for my closest beloveds.
It just will.
I can attempt to wrap my head around it all through writing, contemplating impermanence, healthy preparedness practices, decluttering, or by creating remembrance gifts for those who will mourn my absence. I can cultivate compassion for people facing their mortality and find the courage to step into times of intensity and mystery alongside them (hopefully avoiding my own depletion in the process).
Is there a magical fix for angst caused by the greatest of unknowns? Likely not. Or at least, there isn’t one simple, universal antidote. But really, who really knows? Not me. Not now. We’ll see…
Francesca Lynn Arnoldy 