What Still Remains?

There are moments in life that will forever change the way you enter another person's space. I want to share one of mine with you.

Several months ago, I had the privilege of being asked to start supporting a woman as she prepared for the end of her life. During one of our conversations, I shared that I had begun studying sound healing. She asked if I would bring my singing bowls the next time I visited.

What began as practice soon became something neither of us expected. As the sounds filled her room, something within her began to soften. It was as though layers were slowly being loosened, giving her permission to release what had been held tightly inside. Conversations became deeper. Emotions surfaced with surprising ease. Stories that had never been spoken found their way into the space between us.

Neither of us anticipated that.

I don't know whether it was the sound itself, the vibrations moving gently through her body, or simply what became possible when she felt completely safe. Perhaps it was all of those things together.

As her illness progressed, she made the deeply personal decision to choose Medical Aid in Dying (MAID). Together, we prepared for the day she had chosen. Along with that decision came one final request. She asked me to do my sound healing from the moment she took the medications until after her last breath.

That morning, I brought my singing bowls, a few chimes, and my wave drum. I chose each one with intention, wanting every sound, and every pause between the sounds, to gently accompany her through those final moments.

She said goodbye to each of us, one a time with love and gratitude, she swallowed the medications, and I began playing the sounds she had requested.

As I played, I watched her soften into the experience.

I watched her family and friends soften too.

Some closed their eyes.

Some held one another's hands.

Some simply breathed.

It was as though the sounds met each of us differently, offering every person in the room exactly what they needed without asking any of us to experience the moment in the same way.

When she took her last breath, I didn't stop playing. The notes became quieter... farther apart... allowing the room to settle gently into the silence instead of being suddenly overtaken by it.

When the moment felt complete, I offered one final tone.

Clear.

Gentle.

Lingering just long enough to be felt before it slowly disappeared into stillness.

No one moved. No one reached for words.

We simply remained together, each of us holding the moment in our own way and yet somehow sharing the very same silence.

After a few minutes I quietly stepped out of the room, leaving her family to be together in those first tender moments that now belonged only to them.

I stood at a window overlooking her garden and allowed myself to take in all that had just unfolded. It was there that I realized the most meaningful part of that day had never been the music, it was witnessing what becomes possible when each person brings the very best of themselves to another human being.

Some offered their voices.

Some offered their tears.

Some offered quiet acceptance.

I offered sound.

Different gifts. One shared act of love.

Some moments become part of who we are, I know this will always be one of them for me.

Perhaps none of us are here to offer the same thing. Perhaps our greatest offering is discovering what is uniquely ours to give... and placing it, with tenderness and intention, into the life of another.

Sometimes that offering is a conversation.

Sometimes it is a hand to hold.

Sometimes it is silence.

Sometimes it is music.

Whatever it is... may we offer it generously, because when we do, we create something far greater than any one of us could create alone.

And long after the last breath has been taken, what still remains? The music remains, the silence remains, the courage remains, the love remains, the room remains, the garden remains, and the memories remain.

xo

Gabby