"They are all here"

This is a story of one of my doula clients who invited me to walk beside him through every stage of his end-of-life journey.

From the moment he received his terminal diagnosis to the hours just before his death, he shared openly what he was feeling and experiencing. He had been ill for many years, but when things worsened and he was told he had only months left, he asked me to help him plan the time he had remaining. It was an honor, and a journey for me as well. His honesty and transparency asked something deeper of me, and because of him, I became a more intuitive and present doula. Every person I sit with teaches me something; this is one of the things I love most about this work.

In our early weeks together, we spoke often about his life, his accomplishments, what he was proud of, how he wanted to be remembered, and also about the regrets he carried. There were many. He had privately held a lot of guilt, anger, and disappointment along with his regret. I helped him write letters to the people who mattered most. Some were filled with love and gratitude; others held apologies and requests for forgiveness. We created rituals together that allowed him to face his regrets, to make peace with his choices, and to offer himself forgiveness. Slowly, he began to set down the weight he had been carrying since childhood.

A few days before his death, he told me he was seeing people in the room, people who had died long ago. I asked if he was afraid. He wasn’t. Then I asked if he wanted to tell me who they were and what it felt like.

His father had been killed when he was a small boy. His mother died when he was a teenager. His brother and sister had died after years of estrangement. His wife was killed in a car accident not long after their son was born. His son had died just three years before we met.

He looked at me and said, “They are all here.”

He told me they didn’t come with anger or judgment. Instead, he felt they were there to let him know he would not go alone. That realization brought him a deep sense of peace. He described it as a reunion, beautiful and gentle, without harsh words or unresolved pain. He believed the work we had done together had mattered, that by letting go of his own guilt and regret, he had made space for this moment. There was no need to rehash the past or make amends. Somehow, that had already been done.

Before they arrived, we had spent time going through his photographs, arranging them into an album. Afterward, we looked at them again so he could show me who was with him. He said they appeared exactly as they did in the photos, unchanged by time.

On the day he died, he was acutely aware of where he was on his journey. He knew he was close. He knew he was dying. And he knew they were all there. One of his earliest fears had been dying alone. That fear was gone.

Before he took his final breath, he reached for my hand and thanked me. He closed his eyes, gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and died peacefully. My heart was full.

Afterward, I walked through one of my favorite forests, gathering natural items to create a mandala. With each piece, I thought of him, our conversations, his death, and the gift of our time together. I honored him there. I said goodbye.

The photo attached is the mandala I made.

xo

Gabby

This is another blog I wrote about the visions, voices, and visitors people experience at the end of life:

https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/visions-voices-and-visitors