A Wild Woman Dies Well
Sally Giovine-Kerr: My "Mother-in-Spirit" Shows the Way
By Cat Saunders
On Tuesday evening, April 11, 2006, at 9:45 p.m., Sally Giovine-Kerr took
her last breath. Sally was the mother of my longtime partner, John Giovine,
and she was also my friend. I called her my "mother-in-spirit"
not only because she was John's mother, but also because she gave me unconditional
maternal love in ways I'd never known before.
Sally had come back home on Friday April 7, following a brief hospitalization
for evaluation (she had pulmonary fibrosis, along with other medical conditions).
When she was discharged that Friday, Sally was aware—as were we—that
she was coming home to die.
At that point, she was no longer eating or drinking, and she was supported
only by oxygen and by occasional moisture to her lips. Once Sally was
back home, she was under the care of wonderful hospice workers, who visited
daily and offered advice as needed. With 24/7 support from family, friends,
and neighbors, Sally surrendered to the "receiving" position
with grace, allowing us to give to her, just as she had so generously
given to us over the years. She was 82.
During the course of her last five days, people came and went at all hours
to Dolphin House (the family compound) on Portage Bay in Seattle, which
had its usual open door policy. Sally was known for her willingness to
"be there" for people any hour of the day or night. With the
exception of a few brief periods when we shooed people out so she could
have a a break from visitors, Sally was available to everyone even during
her dying process.
Sally was a big believer in inclusiveness. Family members and friends
alike were welcome in her life no matter what was going on between them.
For me personally, this was one of Sally's greatest gifts to me as my
"mother in spirit." Even when we went toe-to-toe about something,
and even if we were mad at each other over some silliness, I knew that
Sally still loved me and that I was always welcome and accepted, no matter
what. This kind of unconditional love was new for me in family life, and
it was precious beyond compare.
During Sally's final days at home, there was music and storytelling, abundant
affection, and plenty of food (hey, it was the Giovine-Kerr clan after
all!). There was also a big homemade altar on the dinner table in the
living room where Sally lay on her hospital bed. The altar was a group
endeavor created and recreated each day by those who came to visit. There
were beautiful bouquets of flowers, personal mementos and old photographs,
a blank book so people could write stories about Sally, and a big, bosomy,
golden goddess statue presiding over all.
There was laughter and tears, lots of reminiscing between people who hadn't
seen each other in years, and a healthy dose of family politics—about
this decision or that decision, this perception or that perception, this
dynamic or that dynamic—just enough to remind us all that death inevitably
brings up people's "stuff" for the purpose of healing. And healing
there was for many, in spades.
On the night of April 11, I finished up with my regular Tuesday evening
counseling client a little after 9:30 p.m. Within ten minutes, John and
I left our home in Wallingford to drive down to Dolphin House. When we
arrived a few minutes later and opened the door, candles were flickering
and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We knew immediately that Sally
had just died. People embraced John and me as we walked through family
and friends to see Sally. There were about 15 people there.
One of Sally's closest friends, Ileen (whom John and I adore) said to
me as we arrived, "That was fast! We just called you!" I said
we hadn't actually gotten the call yet—that we had just come. She
nodded with a smile, "You knew."
In all honesty, I confess that John and I didn't consciously know that
Sally had died, though I don't doubt that we somehow knew at the soul
level. In death as in life, there are no accidents.
Because so many friends and family were present that night, John and I
were curious to know who was "on shift" at Sally's bedside when
she died. It turned out to be one of her extended family "grandsons,"
Jesse.
Jesse is one of three exceptional young men who are the sons of the aforementioned
woman, Ileen. It may sound strange, but I think people choose—however
consciously or unconsciously—who they want to die with. As far as
John and I were concerned, Sally could not have chosen better than to
be with one of Ileen's sons when she died. Like his brothers, Jesse is
a gentle and compassionate man, and he had known Sally since he was born.
Jesse considered it an honor to have held Sally's hand as she drew her
last breath.
John and I spent a lot of time with Sally that night, caressing her face
and stroking her arms, and just hanging out with her. No matter how many
times we've both been with people who have died, it never ceases to amaze
us how much it seems as if they could just open their eyes and start talking
again. Death is so mysterious!
At some point, I asked John if he wanted me to check in shamanically
to see if Sally's spirit needed any help. He said yes, so I cradled her
head in my hands from where I was sitting behind her. I closed my eyes
and bowed my head close to hers on the bed. Immediately my eyes felt hot
and my breathing changed to a deep, slow rhythm. At some point, I was
overcome with tears that began as a wave of grief and then turned quickly
into a feeling of overwhelming ecstasy at the realization—once again—that
death is awesome and mysterious and ultimately safe.
When I began tuning in at the spiritual level, letting the room and its
inhabitants fade into the background, I saw that Sally's spirit (however
that may be conceived) was happy. I could see that she was suddenly
able to understand, in death, what she could not understand in life. Most
importantly, I saw that she could finally understand why she had suffered
the death of her husband (John's father) early in life, why she had lost
two daughters in childbirth (five sons survived), and even why she had
needed to hold on to her unfinished business about these terrible losses
until she died.
I knew that Sally would have loved to hear about my experience of her
after death, and I like to think that somehow, in some way, she did know
about it. Of course, I have no idea what "actually" happened
during my spiritual work with her, and I don't pretend to presume that
the messages I got were "true" or "right" or in any
way the end of the story. I only know what I experienced, and I know it
was a beautiful gift, so I wanted to share it with you. That's all.
When the waves of emotion finally emptied from my body, John brought me
a box of Kleenex (always handy at Dolphin House, since Sally had been
a counselor and minister for decades). I cleaned up my face, then John
and I visited some more with the rest of the group. I love that no one
had interrupted my sacred time with Sally, and as far as I could tell,
no one seemed to think I'd been doing anything weird. I still have to
pinch myself to know I'm not dreaming when I experience this kind of acceptance
in a family.
A while later, Bob and John phoned hospice and the funeral home (see resources
at end of article) to let them know that Sally had died. Bob told them
that he would be keeping Sally's body at home for a 24-hour wake. He wanted
people to be able to come and go the next day to say goodbye to her one
last time.
Once hospice was informed and the funeral home alerted, John and Bob
agreed that one of them would call the funeral home the next night when
it was time to have Sally's body delivered to the funeral home for subsequent
cremation. The funeral home would also take care of getting the death
certificate signed by Sally's doctor before it was filed with the county.
Sally and Bob were longtime members of People's Memorial Association
(PMA), a nonprofit organization dedicated to providing low-cost, high-quality
end-of-life arrangements (see end of article for more information). As
a result of their membership in PMA, we knew that our family would receive
respectful, compassionate care—without any of the price-gouging that
so often happens within the funeral industry.
John checked with the PMA-contracted funeral home to be sure that those
of us who wanted to witness Sally's cremation could do so (they assured
us that this is totally okay). While John was asking about this, Bob chimed
in in the background, "We want to carry her to the fire ourselves!"
I joked back to Bob that we are definitely a "hands on" family!
Next, Bob asked the women who were present to wash Sally's body and prepare
it for the wake. There were five women there that night, including me,
and we felt honored to be given this task. The men went into the adjoining
kitchen, and one of the women held up a sheet for privacy while the rest
of us gently bathed Sally's body with washcloths dipped in warm water.
We worked seamlessly as a team as if we'd all done this together before.
The love we felt for Sally was palpable, and our tenderness toward her
body was profound.
We talked to Sally and thanked her for being so wonderful. We all noticed
how beautiful she still was, even as an 82-year-old woman who had just
suffered through illness and death (because of her pulmonary fibrosis,
her final days were not easy, though palliative care made them gentler).
We reminisced about Sally skinny dipping in rivers and swimming in her
sexy black bathing suit in Portage Bay. I told Sally that she was still
a babe! We laughed and talked and wept as we worked.
One of Sally's friends had brought an elegant green kimono for Sally to
wear for her wake, so we removed her hospital gown, changed the bedding
to fresh sheets, and dressed her in the green kimono. Someone placed a
huge yellow daffodil in Sally's hands, which we had gently crossed over
her chest. Another woman tucked a baby photo of her youngest granddaughter,
Nicole, underneath the daffodil in her hands. The image of crone and infant
together was very sweet.
To top off Sally's final "outfit," we brushed her long hair
and smoothed it into a bun held together with an Asian-style clasp that
looked great with the kimono. Then one of the women added a bright red
feather boa around Sally's neck, pronouncing that she was putting it there
to honor the wild woman in Sally. It was perfect!
After a couple of hours, people slowly began to disperse one by one, knowing
that Bob would have friends and family on the other two floors of the
house that night, in case he wanted support. Bob had been such a devoted
and tender partner for Sally during her dying process. John and I and
several other people thanked him again for his love and support.
John and I came back home a little before midnight, marveling at the beauty
and grace of Sally's passing. She was truly a wild woman, even in death.
This article was originally published on April 14,
2006. Special thanks to Paula Springer for her photo of Sally (from May
1993).
Click
here to read John's wonderful obituary
for his mother. If you'd like to contact John directly, you can call him
at (206) 325-5377 or e-mail him.
Special thanks to Virginia
Mason Medical Center and Group
Health Hospice for their support of Sally and our family.
Additional resources: People's
Memorial Association is a cooperative organization that provides preplanning
for death as well as low-cost funeral services.
For information about current PMA-contracted funeral
homes in Seattle and other areas, please visit People's
Memorial Association and click on "Contracted Funeral Homes."
For information about hospice or palliative care
in Washington State, please visit Washington
State Hospice and Palliative Care Organization
(click on "Find a Provider" to locate a hospice or palliative
care provider in Washington).
For more information and resources about hospice
and palliative care worldwide, please visit International
Association for Hospice and Palliative Care.
Two of my favorite books about end-of-life care
are Dying Well and The Four Things That Matter Most,
both by my dear mentor-friend, Ira Byock, M.D., who is the Director of
Palliative Medicine at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center in New Hampshire.
Ira is also a master storyteller and his books are a total pleasure to
read. You can learn more about Ira and his work by visiting DyingWell.org,
and you can read Cat's
interview with Ira reprinted on this site.
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