"A time to be born, a time to die". It SOUNDS so tidy and symmetrical and perfect. Only it rarely is. As if we can neatly schedule a gentle family consult around a bedside without discord, and as if it takes only a respectful few hours for our loved one to pass, and then we all quietly get on with it.
My friend, Martijn (known here in Thailand by his nickname, Tino) transitioned from this earthly life in Rotterdam, Holland, yesterday, at the tender age of 40.
The very first day I met him, almost 10 years ago and looking just as he did, above, he talked to me about the way he planned his death here in Thailand. I found it hard to believe he could or would die so soon, and we did what we could to prolong his time here on Mother Earth. Yesterday was his big day, finally, after a drawn out process that spanned 6 months and 2 continents, and cost a bomb.
And sitting here in Thailand this Saturday morning contemplating things over coffee (the ONLY way to really contemplate life, except arguably over wine or good whiskey) I have come to the conclusion that if you can't make the time or space for really living with people in the moment, without an appointment, then the space for being with their dying never really happens either. People have asked me, how do I DO it? How do I make the time as a single entrepreneurial mama to whiz into the ICU, to sit by a hospital bed or to help orchestrate the transitions that people invite me to participate in by virtue of my being their friend? And the answer is simple. I make the time by Living with them. Being intuitive, feeling the moments of their fear, ignoring a hundred dreary event invites from plastic people who don't make time for me, and by not watching the clock. Sometimes it means I don't answer emails on time, or get my own "stuff" done. But actually since my deepest most-important "stuff" in this life is loving and connecting, I am actually ALWAYS getting my "stuff" done.
I would see Tino out and about, at Free Bird or Amrita Garden or Blue Diamond, whilst doing my product deliveries. And he would invite me to eat with him or share a drink, as he was nearly always alone. And I would. Often making myself "late" for an over-scheduled life, but happy in the shared "now" moments of rich conversation with him. I have come to understand our lives are crafted out of those shared rich impromptu moments, which turn into shared moments in hospital or around a death bed, eventually. Our lives are NOT made through a series of "occasions", by attending an endless stream of events, talking about 'building community' or sitting in a room full of homogeneous people all grasping and seeking for the next trend or place to be.
Dying is intimate. Like the best lovemaking, it takes lots of texts and calls and time for each other. It takes touch and laundry. And it means other things have to give. Just this morning I read an article about the world needing to be prepared for more people dying. You can read it here: http://www.bbc.com/news/health-43159823 And yes, that means we need calm, peaceful, pleasurable and affordable, well-equipped places for people to transition. Getting to that soon. But more importantly, it means we all need to make TIME for one another during the often protracted dying process. To drink tea, listen to the rambles of dementia or simply do the laundry. And before someone blesses us by dying near us, we have to learn the art of Living with them first.
I yearn for the day when dying is given the sacramental value it needs and deserves.
The most challenging Guru you will ever sit in front of is a dying person. Someone who is aware of their dying. And Tino was that guy. He showed me my own unfulfilled places, my petty self, my untraveled journeys and my own wasted connections. He had depth of calm and knowingness in his eyes that was all-embracing. I am blessed to have supported his imperfect dying journey, and to have received his forgiveness just a few weeks ago for not being able to complete it here in Thailand for him. He laughed when I asked for it. As much as one can laugh in a text message when it takes half an hour to select and press the button for a sticker. Cos words were hard for him at the end.
His spirit soars and his suffering is ended.
In Loving Memory of "Tino" Martijn Casper Veen. Flying free. Profound gratitude for my young daughter, Ploi, who sat long hours at the hospital with Tino, made him laugh often and lovingly-uncomplainingly helped clean and close up his Chiang Mai home. Tino was born with, and died from, a rare genetic disorder called X-ALD, which is similar to ALS. Deepest respect and love to his amazing parents, Antoinette and Ferrie, who gave him all the space in the world to be himself and then gently brought him home.
Be good to one another, people. Cos LOVE is the only thing we get to take with us!
