"Death is Beautiful"

"Death is beautiful if it's allowed to be natural and to have it's own language."

That was how Michael Hamman described his experience of his wife, Paula's, death on July 1, 2009 from breast cancer at age 49.

He and dozens others, including myself, gathered tonight at the Crystal Lake Boathouse to remember Paula and share stories of our time with her.

First we head from others who described Paula's bright dancing blue eyes, her upright gait, her gentleness, her excitement and enthusiasm that drove her to try new things and take new directions, her and Michael's support of each other in their 26 years of marriage, her love of goat kids and farm life (she grew up on a farm), her unconditional love and her ability to connect and at the same time remain detached (as in not clinging to ideas or people).

I shared with the group that she was my massage therapist for several years. I saw her regularly. She helped me heal physically and spiritually.

In the fall of 2005 while I was sitting in her waiting room, I picked out a small book of Zen from her bookshelf. I opened it and started reading it. It resonated with me very strongly. I told her this when it was my turn for a massage.

"If you like that book, I've got two others for you," she said.

This was unusual. Paula never directed me or gave me advice.

I ordered both books on-line that night and one of them, "Loving What Is" by Byron Katie, changed my life. Paula was very interested in The Work, a method developed by Byron Katie of questioning our stressful thoughts. As I did The Work over the years, I shared with Paula the impact of The Work on my life. She was always encouraging.

She and Michael moved away in 2007. The last time I was her was last summer when she was here for a visit. She sought me out.

On June 29th there was a message on my answering machine from Michael saying that Paula was "very, very ill" and that she wanted me to know how much I meant to her and would I please call her back. He said she was too weak to speak and not in any pain.

I thought about what I would say to Michael, prayed and then called him back. After a short greeting, he handed the phone to Paula. Her voice was soft and weak and recognizable.

"Hello, Paula. I'm so glad to talk to you," I said.

"I love you Kimberlie. I adore you."

"I love you too," I replied.

"Is there anything I can do besides listen, I asked?"

"I am sorry we connected so late," she said.

"We'll meet in another realm," I said.

"I love you."

"I love you," I said through tears.

"Goodbye, Kimberlie."

"Goodbye, Paula."

Not knowing if she was going to give the phone back to Michael, I stayed on the line. I could hear her slowly moving the phone back to the receiver until it connected and the call was ended.

Paula made many such calls letting people know how much she loved and adored them. I was both special to her and loved by her in a big and universal way, the way she seemed to love everyone.

One of the pictures at her memorial was taken the same night we talked. It is of a thin Paula in a hospital bed in her and Michael's home with her arms outstretched and her smiling. It was taken just after a group of women sang to her.

Michael told us that when Paula was first diagnosed with breast cancer 2-1/2 years ago, she decided not to have surgery to remove her tumor and to treat her condition with remedies that would not cause her damage. At first he and others urged her to have her tumor removed. She wanted to live and she was going to try and heal on her terms.

Michael told us that the story of her death was not a downer. The way they and family and close friends dealt with it was transformative for them all.

Michael stopped working in January to spend all of this time taking care of Paula. They realized that dealing with her illness and eventually accepting that she was not going to live, was the best time of their relationship.

I believe it. I can understand how this could be.

Paula died peacefully with very little pain (morphine tablets helped with that)and friends and family gathered around.

I am grateful to have been part of tonight's gathering.

Paula was one of my support people.

Thank you, Paula, Michael, Janice and everyone who participated tonight and shared.

I close with a poem that Michael read by Tagore as printed in Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' book, "On Death and Dying":

In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the
corners of my room; I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it
can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her
I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which
nothing can vanish -- no hope, no happiness, no vision
of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it
into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost
sweet touch in the allness of the universe.