Asatru, Death, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized

Death Counselling

Death Counselling

I was asked to write an article about death from a Heathen perspective.  There is rather a lot written about the esoteric nature of death, about the soul, our conception of mortality in heathenry, and much of it has been done by far more skilled authors and priests than myself.  I have little to contribute in those discussions beyond recommending the words of some others that I have found useful and worthy.

What I needed and did not find when it was my time to first deal with this particular aspect of priest craft, was the knowledge of how to counsel a Heathen who is dying.  There are most likely experts out there who have done this dozens of times.  Any who are reading this and either disagree with me, or have the ability to take it both further and deeper, please do so.  I would have benefitted at the beginning with even as little information as I can provide you now.  Such as I have learned, I will share.  Those heretofore silent experts may feel free to do their duty as well and provide better information, but what I have earned, I will share with you now.


The misconceptions that I had about dealing with the dying are legion.  Most of my experience hands on had been with traumatic deaths, casualties whose time to appreciate what was happening to them was either short on non-existent.  End of life care is a much different experience, and far more difficult than I was prepared for because it was decidedly non-linear.


What I mean by non-linear is simply this, in a traumatic injury situation, a person who perceives that their injuries are quite likely going to kill them undergoes a spectrum of responses as they struggle to deal with this realization.  The spectrum from denial to acceptance, defiance to ignorance, fear to fatalism is expressed, but generally only in one direction of change.  This is not the case in end of life care at all.


Heathen world view puts a great deal of emphasis on struggle, on meeting your challenges, on fighting.  To this date, most of my experience has been with men, and most of them military in background, so this particular predilection to view life as a struggle or battle has implications that bleed into all aspects of the death counselling process.


Fear is a strange beast in the slow onset of death.  Fear is not as constant and unchanging as I had expected, rather it is a slippery shapeshifter that is always in the room, but not always in the same form, and not always as a foe.


Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote in her seminal On Death and Dying ( about the five stages of dying. I am going to reiterate what she points out, because people generally tune it out, and then make avoidable and costly mistakes because of that.  These are not linear stages.  You or the person you are working with may or may not pass through all of them, if they do it will be in any sequence, and there is a great possibility ( a probability in my experience) that you will pass through some of the stages repeatedly, and with differing results.


Kubler-Ross defines the stages as denial, anger, bargaining, anticipatory grief and acceptance.  Presented in this order it makes a tidy map and implies that your job is to help a person transition through these stages from one end to the other and great the final passage out of life with quiet acceptance and dignity.  This may happen, but this is not actually a map, nor a plan.  These stages may or may not occur in this order, will frequently repeat, and will be experienced quite differently as your person passes through changes in both their physical state, and mental capacity.  I will not lie to you, if the death proceeds long enough, where the physical state supplies a maximum of pain, and the mental capacity is degraded far enough, the gains that had been made towards acceptance will be lost as the capacity to understand and accept is stripped away by the very process of dying.


Let us have a look at the phases, and how they relate to our own theology, world view, and tool set.  We are not given faith, the gods don’t actually come out and tell us what awaits us when our thread is cut, so we don’t have a whole lot of promises to give save this one;


Cattle die, kinsmen die

You too will die

One thing alone will not die

The fame of a good persons deeds


As far as emotional anchors go in the storm that attends the death of a human being who is aware of the oncoming end, this is a powerful tool not only for the care giver but for the one cared for.


Denial is the first stage described, but you will see some form of denial recur again and again.  It is not your job to crush their hope, what it is your job to do if asked to provide end of life care and support is to focus that hope on what they may still win, what may still be done.  Denial first comes as denial of the disease state that is the proximal cause of their death, whatever it may be.  This is the idea that the doctors made a mistake, and, as previously experienced, this is something they may survive.  As heathens we understand that it is within us to survive every battle, every foe, except our wyrd.  Against everything but our wyrd we can will, battle or cheat our way to victory.  We have literally lived our entire lives amassing a body of evidence that proves we cannot be killed, that everything can be survived, and after all, we can only be proved wrong once.  When you are facing your wyrd, the lifetime of experience surviving anything makes it easy to seek a reason that this is simply another in a long line of challenges you have surmounted, and one you can beat.  Understanding that it is their wyrd is hard, and requires support.  You do not shove this thought down their throat, you are not there to fight them over hope, but you are there to help them to find real targets for their hopes, real matters they may struggle towards.  You cannot promise them life, what you can do is work with them to define victory conditions for them that include death, but on their own terms.

Along with denial that the doctors have identified the threat, comes frequently the “miracle” clause, where by the person who is facing death will cling to anecdotal stories of miracle cures or misdiagnoses to open the phantom of a second door at the end of the road they are facing, one that leads miraculously to health, rather than the grave.  The emotional need for hope is one that is real, and your job is not to take hope away, but to guide them towards pinning their hopes on those things that are still possible, and focusing on those victory conditions; the set of conditions by which their control of their own passage out of life constitutes a win, an outcome of their finals struggle they can claim with pride.


The second stage described is anger.  In my experience (which I will be the first to admit is with a unique class of individuals to whom anger is as much a part as breathing), anger, hope and acceptance are three blades of the propeller driving them forward each day.  All three are present in some form at all times, with one dominant, one rising, and one falling.  Sometimes you get a steady predictable cycle, but as the physical and mental state changes, the sequence can reverse many times.

Anger is important. Anger is a power source.  Anger is to be cherished and cared for at the guttering flame of life, but as with any flame, directed properly it lights and warms, and directed poorly it scars and destroys.  Anger will be at the world, the doctors, the gods, YOU.  Remember, as the care giver or counsellor you are proximal and knowable, where as science, the medical system, the disease, fate, the gods are all far away, impersonal, uncaring, or inaccessible.  You are not.  You may expect to be the target of this anger many times.


Anger is not the enemy of acceptance, nor does it need to be the force that powers denial.  Anger is the natural result of the understanding, both of the current physical state, and the emotional acceptance of the end state (death) which is approaching.  Anger is the defender of life, you cannot flee from the sorts of death we deal with in this context, so that leaves only fight in the “fight or flight” mammalian tool box, and anger is the fuel and armory of the fight response.  Your role in this stage is to support anger that is not directed against people, but against their physical state and approaching end.  Anger at what is happening to them is valid.  Anger at what awaits them, and at the fear/despair they feel welling inside is also valid.  Be very careful not to be dismissive of feelings of the person you are caring for, it is neither just, nor helpful.


Bargaining is an interesting stage with Heathens.  We do not have within our world view a great deal of evidence for an afterlife.  There is conflicting information in the surviving lore about rebirth, not a lot of support for a general afterlife beyond Hel or the mound that accepts all of our dead, unless you happen to fall rather spectacularly in battle, which would put you outside the scope of our care at the end of life.  We do have an understanding that this world is it, we share it; both the living and the dead.  We understand that death can only take breath and pain from us, it can still our flesh, but it cannot touch our deeds or our words.  Death has remarkably little power for a heathen, as it cannot undo what you have done in life, cannot take from all of those you have affected that which you gave them in life.  Death is the period at the end of a sentence, the silence at the end of the song, but itself contributes nothing but the marking of the end of the passage.  Bargaining is the most important stage for us as care givers and counsellors.  This is where we look at the tafl board and define our victory conditions.

Life and Tafl are similar to chess in that there are two very clear opposing forces, and very different from chess in that both sides do not seek the same objective.  In chess, both sides seek to capture each other’s king.  If we were to look at end of life care in this model, both sides would be seeking to win by either taking the life, or preserving it.  Clearly chess is not a useful model here as all you can do is lose.  Tafl is a different game, and a much more interesting one for end of life care.  In Tafl, one group seeks to take the king, the other to get the king free of the board.  This is a useful model to use at end of life care, as both sides have different victory conditions.  Death is a given.  Losing is not.

Victory conditions can be defined by the person who is dying, and can be terribly important.  One last birthday, to die in your own bed, to simply not give up, to fight to the end, to see a grandchild or any other milestone can be used to define their victory condition; the achievement of which will constitute their victory over death.  We have to die, we do not have to lose.  Very real victory conditions are to see that your loved ones are looked after when you pass, to see that family legacies are passed on, to see that responsibilities are taken up by others that your death is not “letting others down”.  Death is very real, and so is victory.  Death has one universal definition, but victory does not.  You can work with your people to find their victory, and work to help them achieve it.  This is the single most Heathen friendly stage of dying, and where our world view provides very real and measurable benefits.  Get your person to establish meaningful victory conditions and help them to work towards them until death finally takes them.


Anticipatory Grief is hard, very hard.  This is part of the acceptance, for as much as denial/anger/bargaining are a cycle, so too is anticipatory grief and acceptance.


Anticipatory grief is not something that will occur only once, it is something that will hit them again and again as they accept the inevitability and imminence of their own death.  To accept these things is to accept the loss of everyone and everything they love.  The emotional impact of this, the loss of all they love, is terrifying, and the courage to face this in no way lessens the pain.  Here your job is really important, and potentially costly.  You are there to witness their grief, to be with them while they grieve, to accept they will never hold their loved ones again, that they will never walk out onto the balcony and watch the sunrise again, never pass the horn at Yule, or hear their grandchild tell of their first goal or last report card.  This is real, true, and not to be dismissed and trivialized.  This is not for you to offer perspective or try to get them to see the positives.  This is for them to feel, and you to be with them through.

This is hard.  This hurts.  This is frequently uglier than the fear or anger.


Acceptance is the last stage of dying, and because we like to think of this as being the state with which the people in our care face the end.  We cannot know.  Accept this, and try to limit the lies you tell yourself, as you limit the lies you tell those you care for.


As the physical and mental state deteriorates, the anticipatory grief/acceptance cycle may run several times, and with results that vary widely and terrifyingly.  It is really important as caregivers and counsellors that we do not judge; as a person’s capacity diminishes, their ability to understand what is happening diminishes as well, and what was previously placed into context and accepted can be again strange and terrifying.

Acceptance when seen has a terrible and compelling beauty to it.  I can understand why we have a goddess Hel, and why she bears for us two faces.  In the early stages of dying we see the dark face of Hel, the blue-bloat terror face of death’s ugly reality.  When your person passes from anticipatory grief into acceptance, you can see the physical letting go of tension, not the crushing of defeat, but the loss of fear.  This is the bright face of the goddess, this is the merciful face.  This is the release from pain, the release from fear.  Hel is the goddess of the unbroken promise; the end of all pain and struggle, freedom from every bond.  Acceptance is those times when the dying see the fair face of Hel, not the dark.  Both faces are equally true and present, but the moment when the dying see the fair face of Hel is one of power and presence if you witness it.

These are not stages you pass through in order, necessarily.  They may occupy minutes or weeks, depending on the person and time.  They are exhausting for both you and the person you are aiding through the journey.  This is their journey, you are present to assist, but in the end, they make the final steps alone, and it is ours to make sure this constitutes no defeat for them, but a victory they can claim before their ancestors, and that their decedents may face openly.


On corpses.  They are no longer people.  It is a strange thing to stand beside what was once a person known to you, and know without a shadow of a doubt that they are gone.  What is left is smaller, somehow.  Lessened in some non-material fashion even as materially it undergoes changes you need to be prepared for.  The pallor and rigor are natural and not to be feared, they are not the “coming of death” but what is left behind when life has passed.  Death is not a thing, life is a thing.  Death is the awareness that a necessary part of the person is no longer there.  The disturbing awareness that something is “not right” about a body is visceral and natural, as we see the physical shape that should contain life, but no longer does and on some level the cues that tell us this cause us to react.


I have known a lot of corpses, and they don’t bother me, but others have very deep issues with the bodies of the newly dead.  There is no judgment attached to which reaction is yours, but be aware that the fact you have been working with this person on their end of life does not actually prepare you for your own reactions sitting next to a corpse that once housed one of your own.  You must give yourself the freedom to react as a person, not as your idealized view of what a caregiver “should be”.  You can get used to anything, but some things are a lot less fun to acclimatize to.


It may seem like you are making no progress at all.  It may seem like you are actually “going backwards” as the physical and mental abilities decline and the stage that they are expressing moves back from the level they had achieved previously.  As I said earlier, and as Kubler-Ross points out, these are not neat linear stages you pass through in order ending with dignified death, but a list of stages you may find your person experiencing some or all of, frequently cycling through repeatedly.


The last thing you have to accept is that if you are capable of this duty, you have the ability that successful soldiers do of “put it in a box, deal with it later”.  This is a good skill, this is only a skill and not an immunity.  You will need to allow yourself once the duty is done time to process.  If you are doing this duty often, you will have to take responsibility for caring for yourself, and being aware of when the load of what you have not processed is beginning to impact your ability to function.  You are no good to anyone if you break under a load you could have let someone else take up.  Take the time needed to process, death is not something we were raised to accept as part of life as our ancestors were, and it takes more out of us to deal with it on an emotional level.  For the record, those who are simply not bothered by it at all cannot help you emotionally process this, or anything, as it literally does not invoke in them any reaction at all.  In dealing with the physical needs of the seriously injured or dying this is an advantage, but makes them largely blind to the emotional steps required to deal with a loss you do feel, or deal with the reality of your own impending death.






Aesir, Asatru, Death, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized

Living with the dead


It seems somewhat obvious, but for those who haven’t done the math, let me do it for you now.  For every person that lives today, there are fifteen dead people.  One hundred and seven billion dead occupy this world, along with a mere seven billion living.

We are less and less comfortable with death and with dying as we use our technology to stave off personal encounters for the better part of a century, over a century for some.  This does not change the number of dead that exist, or will exist, it simply gives us lots of time to pretend death doesn’t exist, and work really hard not to think about those who have gone before.


We put walls around cemeteries, fences whose job is not to keep people out, as most of them are fairly token, but they are deeply important to us, as they are the boundary that separates the living of this world, from its dead.

Burnaby Cemetary 1

Some people don’t have that option.  Some people, by inclination, training, experience or just wyrd are aware of the dead who have not gone.  What can we say to those who don’t have the option of just denying the existence of the dead, outside the rituals we have constructed for the purpose of interacting with out dead deliberately?


First, the dead is a really broad term, about as useful in deciding specific actions as the living is.  There are all kinds of dead, just as there are all kinds of living.  Of the seven billion or so living on the planet with you right now, almost none of them are going to have any effect on you at all,  so it is with the dead.  The default answer is that it is a big old world, and you can get on for a whole lifetime without actually encountering someone who moves through spaces fairly close to yours on a daily basis.


Most of the dead are bound to the mound, to the underworld, to the sea, or to whatever received either their body or their ash.  Like gravity, death defines the lowest energy state and eventual end state of anything without a great deal of energy to expend as in the mound, the earth, the stream where they were laid.


We are still tied to our dead, and they to us.  We can and do call to them, consciously or unconsciously through the ties we forged in life.  Those ties often stretch far beyond a single generation, and can carry along all the ties that bind, not simply blood.  When we stand at the Centotaph and call our warrior dead to us, their spirits answer, and the living, however stooped and aged stand strong and proud again when they feel the ageless brothers (and sisters) who served with them return to their call.  They shall not grow old, as we who were left grow old.  We who are left are charged to keep the watch for them that fell, to defend the freedoms and the families for which they fought, and fell.  Yet although they have paid the final price, still do they come to our call, and we give them bright offerings of praise, and gifts to honour them


Families still make pilgrimage to the mounds, the graves, the internment place of their dead for the purposes of making offerings to them, and of feeling again the touch of the spirit of their honoured dead.  We use the reciprocal gifting relationship that we learned to use in life to maintain the relationships with our dead.

That is our honoured dead.  There are two categories that remain, the dead that are not our own, and those who are not worthy of honouring.

Before beginning to answer the question about what to do about dead people who fall into the “other than my own honoured dead, but still bugging me” category, I find it helpful to reflect upon the words of my grade eight English teacher reguarding conversational intent.  Consider first two questions; Audience and purpose.  To whom am I speaking, and what do I want from them.

OK, that is really important, first of all, look at the second one.  What do you want?


Basic level, most common and defensible concern for the living who are aware of the dead, and not happy about it, the purpose would be, quite simply, to be safe from ill-wishings of the dead.  Totally reasonable.  The Norse understood unquiet dead spread famine and disease, could through Wod bring possessive  frenzy and violence into the community.  Physically anything that came back was disposed of through bogging (stake out in the  bog, bound to the bog and staked down to it), through dismemberment (cut off the head, tuck it below the knee so the dead will not rise or walk again).  You could give the dead to the fire, that it strip the flesh away and remove the ties that bind it to the land of the living.  You could cast it into the sea, for what Ran takes she keeps.  In fact sunlight, the essence of Sunna and the primal fire of life is easiest bar to the dead, as it takes great energy to bring the dead into its presence (ie group ritual like the rememberance).  Salt is also a bar to the dead, blood of Ran, it has the power to deny passage to spirits, and to disrupt their form.

Your own hearth will offer such protection, often enhanced by a deliberate land taking, you can simply banish from the limits you define as your own space, those wights with all ill intent.  This will bar hostile wights, but it also binds you to a duty to maintain a positive reciprocal gifting relationship with the wights who are beneficial and remain in the space.

If you do a land taking and the spirit persists, it has bound itself to your benefit, and to your hearth.  You now have a duty to it, as any of your house-wights to  share your hospitality, and derive from it such benefit as is within its power and matching scope of your offering.

If you are bothered by dead at night in places other than your own, well for work places or school you may want to work on fostering relations with the other wights of those places to ensure your not being harassed, as far as the rest of the planet, it’s a big place, and we don’t own it, so live and let live, even with the dead.


If you are truly concerned about the dead being a problem, reach out to your Disir.  Male spirits after death are not usually given the ability to do more than communicate or teach unless they pull together an easily destroyed revenant or draugr, but your maternal ancestor spirits are proported to collectively weild great power  to affect change in this world, and have a deep and abiding interest in your life and wellbeing.
In essence, if you are being bugged by a nasty spiritual pitt-bull that you are worried about, call out the hunt, and a wolf-pack of your maternal ancestral spirits will take care of anything that needs taking care of.  Do not invoke them lightly, for they are real, they are powerful, and they are going to act as they see fit, reguardless of what limitations you would like to set upon their actions.  They are powerful, motivated, and purportedly prone to permanent solutions, so  call if you honestly need them.



Being dead does not make people any better or worse than they were in life, however it does make them a whole lot less connected with this world in any independent fashion.  We share this world, the living and the dead, but death is to spirits as gravity is to arrows, a powerful attractant that gathers to the earth almost everything that once soared high.  This world is given to us from the hands of our dead, and held in trust by us for those who are yet to come.  There is no us and them, we are all of us bound together, the dead who have gone before, the living who are now, and the future descendants yet unborn.  We all have the power to affect each other, the web of wyrd stretches in all directions, but from the point of view of those of us bound in it by life and time, power to make change belongs to the living almost exclusively.  We are the power that shakes the world, the dead are but echoes of that.




Asatru, Heathen, Heathentry, Pagan, Uncategorized

My Father’s Death: Palliative care journey

My Father’s Death: Palliative care journey

Dad at Home

Let’s begin with the word.  My father (Jim) had been sent for tests because he was losing weight and had some sort of gastro-intestinal issue they wanted to run some tests on.  We figured he might need anti-biotics, but they wanted to test to be sure.  I was supposed to pick up his stuff from Fraser Canyon Hospital in Hope and take it to him in Chilliwack where he went for testing.  When I called Fraser Canyon to confirm I was on my way, I got told he was already back, and did I want to talk to him.  They were in an absolute rush to bring the phone to my father.  That was weird.  You can’t call patients on the ward, its like getting a Syrian Mullah on the Trump Ticket as Vice President to even try to get a message through the nursing staff, but they were absolutely leaping to hand the phone over to my father.  What the Hel?  My father’s voice, cold, hard, and grim gave me the reason.  Pancreatic cancer.  Inoperable, wrapped around the pancreas already.


The next weeks are doctors visits, and boy did he go through a few.  Playing Hot Potato with the corpse in waiting is a sport, as no one is responsible for his care, as everyone is passing him off.  How many meetings with how many doctors?  I lost track honestly.  The treatment options were: none.  Radiation is a non starter, surgery is impossible, and chemo will kill him for sure.  Palliative care is the only option.


My father and I have discussed this for years, we know the options, we know what he considers a win, and what he considers a loss, what he considers freedom, and what he considers prison.  He will NOT die in hospital.  He has willed it so, and I have oathed his will be done.  Now the System gets involved.


They held the “Family Meeting” with the Social worker, doctor, and nurse.  Note there is no mention of my father, nor myself as next of kin in the family meeting, as we were not invited, nor notified.  When I demanded that we review his care plan, his code status, and the plan for his palliative care I got a call from the Palliative Care Social Worker, a trained professional whose only job and task is working with medical teams, patients, and families to work out end of life plans that address the patients and families needs in a cooperative and open fashion.  Sounds great hey?  Too bad the reality is that she was quite put out that I demanded she do another Family Meeting in which the family is actually present, and the patient is actually consulted.  She was quite put out and tried to inform me how much work this would entail.  I asked her if she was the Palliative Care Social Worker?  She replied indeed she was.  I then replied her only job on this fucking earth was to set up these meetings and fill out these care plans so she had the twin choices of do her fucking job or pass it to someone who would.  We were off to a great start.  My job is to advocate for my father, I will work with any and all professionals who are there to do their jobs, but I will not sit back and let people simply not do their job, and their duty to my father because it is the part of their job they find unpleasant.  I am much more than unpleasant if you cross me, and I am willing to be infinitely more terrible than whatever distasteful part of your duty you seek to avoid, and I cannot be avoided.


The Family Meeting was insane.  We had about a dozen people present.  The doctor is the only one who didn’t come with their supervisor.  Social Worker, Supervisor.  Community Nurse practitioner, Supervisor.  Physiotherapist, Supervisor.  Hospital nurse, Supervisor.  Hospice Care coordinator and supervisor (the last was the only one that really wanted to help, only she was the only one we didn’t actually need). I was there as next of kin, my Uncle Jack and Aunt Shirley had flown in from St Catherine’s Ontario, and my father’s long time friend and support Connie was there as well.  It was pretty crowded.  The meeting was pretty grueling.


We covered first what dad’s treatment options were, which was a long checklist of items done and items that could not be done, along with reasons for them.  I will say this of his diagnostic and treatment, they worked swiftly, efficiently, and aggressively to move as soon as cancer was suspected to pursue any and all chances to treat.  The fact was that at first presentation of symptoms, the cancer hand surrounded his pancreas, and he already had a massive blood clot lodged in his aorta.  The cancer had spread aggressively through the surrounding tissue and there was no way to go after it that would not kill my father.  Chemotherapy would kill him, he was brought in for testing at first weight loss because his early battles with stomach cancer cost him the bottom third of his stomach and top third of his intestines and he was already at the bottom end of the sustainable BMI index at his healthiest, with no prospect of getting better.  That was pre-pancreatic cancer, this was the death blow, and all knew it.


Full marks to the team there, no irony, and deepest respect.  From first suspicion to the full exploration of all treatment options, including consultation with three different surgeons, took only days, with the consultations with the radio-therapy teams, and oncologists about radiation therapy and chemotherapy happening in parallel.  The full weight of the system at its best was brought to bear, and cancer won.  That is wyrd, it weaves as it will, and to it even the gods must bow.  No failure of the medical system in this battle, it was over before the first trumpet sounded, and they never had a chance.  They gave their all with consummate professionalism, and a sense of urgency that is rare in civilians.  This is the face of the Canadian Medical System when it works.  What follows unfortunately is the face of the Canadian Medical System when it fails.


We went over his treatment orders, his code sheet.  One by one we went over every possible way my father could die, and what was to be allowed for an intervention, and what wasn’t.  Did you ever want to sit in a room and pass a death sentence on your loved ones a hundred times in a row?  If so, that is the meeting for you.  There was a real divide in the room.  Two were able to use the words, and everyone else was not.  My Uncle Jack and I were soldiers, and we loved dad as the two closest to him in life, for all of mine in my case, and for all of dad’s in the case of his older brother Jack.  We were the only ones who could say the word death, and could sit there and state the reality that my father becoming confused and falling out of bed at night was not something to be feared, but welcomed as if he died from a fall, while It would be a terrible evening, would be far, far more merciful that what everyone agreed, and could provide huge detail on, was waiting for him should he survive the distance of pancreatic cancer which offered so many, varied, and horrible ways to die.


Beginning the meeting with about a ten minute mealy mouthed little attempt to prepare us for the fact that palliative care meeting meant that our loved one (they could no more say his name, than they could say death or dying) was going to (insert any word but die).  That would be fine, if a little annoying.  It was about like the wedding speech from a conservative Christian fundamentalist where they just can’t bring themselves to tell the couple its legal to have sex now.  They couldn’t seem to bring themselves to say it, and promptly forgot about it for the rest of the meeting.


In every case as they talked about options, either Jack or I had to remind them that they have to stop basing all their judgements on the rationality of my father’s choices on their medical model.  Each and every thing they disagreed with they did so on the basis of the fact that it did not prolong his life.  At every stage, they defaulted to the medical model which is life at all cost.  This is palliative care, life is off the table.  No one is offering to save his life, we are looking at his death, and what level of enjoyment he may have of the time remaining, and what level of suffering he must pass through to finish dying.  Every time we reminded them of that, they failed to meet our eyes, and began shifting in their seats like they had collectively soiled themselves and needed new underwear.  The cowardice and hypocrisy in that room were staggering.  This was planning of my father’s death, and none of the professionals in the room were actually willing to step outside their comfort zone of pretending to be saving lives to actually do their job of palliative care.  This was to be a theme of the weeks ahead.  Palliative care is not something the medical system does well, as they want only to save lives, and will strive always to pretend they are doing so, even when that is actively a problem.


The dear sweet hospice volunteer was a little weepy thing who cared deeply.  I am not mocking her.  I had no use for her, nor did my father, but her care was legitimate, and for those who wanted care and comfort, someone to hold their hand and pray with them at the end, I’m sure she would be lovely.  My Uncle Jack is more than half deaf, so when the hospice volunteer mentioned that she had tried to offer her services to dad directly he “must have been confused at the time, because he refused her with some quite inappropriate remarks”.  I was sniggering to myself when Jack looked confused and my Aunt Shirley translated for him “She tried selling Jimmy Jesus, and he told her to go fuck herself”.  This caused everyone in the room to wince, but Jack and I to laugh.  In all seriousness I had to tell her that while we thank her for her offer, and respect her commitment to those in need, my father’s spirituality was shaped by war in Africa.  His beliefs can be summed up simply by the statement he offered me many times that “Every priest in the world should be lined up and shot, preferably through a nun”.  To which my Uncle Jack (also a Congo veteran) agreed full force.  Dad, Jack and I were actually the only professionals at death in this meeting, and the gap between those who actually understand death, and those who only serve life was vast and probably unbridgeable.   Death simply is. Denial does not serve anyone, and acceptance of its reality is absolutely critical to making decisions when facing it.

RC57 Congo


My father thought hospital was the single most humiliating and degrading place to be, it stripped him of his independence, his liberty, his dignity, while making it impossible for him to rest.  To him hospital was the equivalent to prison.  He demanded of me to die at home, and I swore to my father it would be so.


Full marks to the DVA.  The Department of Veteran Affairs made what I did possible.  The care plan for getting my father home was in the hands of the Social Worker, and she proceeded to drop the ball in every single particular.  You know, I once asked a Social Worker the difference between a Social Worker and prostitute, and she didn’t know it.  Not surprising, they have about equal utility, only the former is overpaid for a service not provided, and the latter while also screwing you can at least claim to be providing a service you actually wanted.  To get my father home required 1) a powered hospital bed 2) a hospital tray table 3) a Roho anticompression mattress 4) an overhead bar.
Lets review the Social Workers performance.  Had me book a time off work to accept the delivery of the bed.  Turns out, there was no bed available.  Lost a day’s pay, had no bed for dad.  I called the DVA, gave the company and contact that confirmed the palliative care program could not provide the bed, and voila, the DVA had one for me the next day.  Point to soldier+DVA, zero points for the entire Ministry and the collective competence of Social Workers.  The Social Worker called Connie to pick up the tray table and she went to Abbotsford to pick it up, taking a half day off work.  Oddly enough, again the supply company did not have one to pick up.  Connie contacted her own work and asked if her boss could loan her one, and on her own risk was able to secure one.  This time family and friends score the point, the entire Ministry and all its Social Workers…..still zero.  Roho anticompression mattress?  Never ordered by the Social Worker.  The supply company that was not asked for one by the Ministry contacted the DVA because they had expected a palliative care request to come with a request for the specialized mattress to prevent (really to minimize, you are NOT preventing) bed sores.  DVA answered that of course it was authorized, and tracked down another company to provide the lifting bar.  DVA now standing at three points, family one point, Social Workers and Ministry?  Zero.


I arraigned for Dad to be transported home by Ambulance, and moved him into the bed myself.  We had his No Code orders posted on the fridge, along with his Expected Death at Home form.  EMS had been notified, as had all the community health care teams.  I went back to work.


I got notified by Connie that Dad had been taken back to hospital, against all the orders, and given life saving intervention, against the No Code orders clearly posted both at the hospital and at his home.  They had “saved” my father from a quick and almost painless death, against all of his orders, wishes, and the treatment plan agreed to by every level of medical professional in the community, in the hospital, and on file with the goddamned province.


I show up at the hospital, fire in my eyes, and willing to get my hands as bloody as they need to be to get to the bottom of this clusterfuck.  This is what I got from the meeting I forced with the attending nurse, the admitting doctor, community health nurse, and of course, the useless Palliative Care Social Worker (because after all, this is all she does for a living, for a total of four cases in all of the Hope Region right now).  Well yes, the orders are posted, and yes everyone involved is aware of them, but you see, if my father is confused at all, or not responsive, the care aids, nurses, ambulance personnel, and doctors are uncomfortable with following the written orders and will tend to fall back on their standard life saving protocols.


I asked if she meant they would only do what everyone in the room agrees is their legal duty if I am standing over them in the fucking room at the time, to which the Social Worker replied bluntly.  “Pretty much, yes”


The doctor winced, and the nurse blushed.  I turned to him next and asked him why he used life saving interventions on a man with standing No Code Orders.  I reminded him that when he was admitted, those orders come up at the nurses station and would be on his chart, the same chart he wrote his orders on.  I reminded him that not only himself, but the nurses at every shift signed that chart to signify they had read those orders all while proceeding to ignore them.  The doctor replied that he hadn’t actually read the chart until told that 275# of raging next of kin with notarized Power of Attorney in one fist, and Expected Death At Home/Orders for Medical Interventions in the other was in the hospital demanding answers.  Yes ladies and gentlemen, no matter what you do, no matter what you say, no matter what is agreed to in writing and written as a standing order, every single medical professional is free to ignore your wishes the second you are unable to verbally respond unless someone is standing in the room with a signed order that allows you to speak for them.  Yes indeed, your palliative care team that has agreed to your plan for your death will save you from every single easy death that is offered, until you die in the most slow and horrible fashion possible simply so they don’t have to do something they are uncomfortable with.  It is not about your death, it is about their comfort.  Understand this, know this, prepare for this, and counter this.


I had to book time off from my work on an emergency basis to care for my father at home.  I have no idea how much this has damaged my standing at work, and weather my career is now in jeopardy.  That is fine, I am not happy about it, but here is the thing, unlike the System, I understand this is about my father’s death, not about my needs.  My wife and two daughters are behind me out of the love that they bear my father, and the knowledge that he has always been there for us, and we will be there for him, regardless of cost.  Right now our own bills are bouncing like frigging rubber balls, so the financial costs alone are staggering, the stress is worse, but the cost is agreed to, as duty to those you love comes first.


For days watching dad decline was hard.  Each day he slept longer, was conscious fully less, and in his periods of confusion, things were pretty horrible.  Death slow is ugly beyond all reason.  It strips away your dignity, your humanity.  The matter of doctor assisted suicide has again been sent to Parliament to deal with since the Supreme Court ruled the laws against it were unconstitutional.  It is too late for my father, but for all of those who don’t have someone able and willing to stand the vigil I did, it is the only chance that people in my father’s position have of avoiding the worst fate I can even imagine.


Watching my father choke on his pills when the care aids came to deliver them was hard, but what was harder was the discovery that NONE of the medications given him were for his comfort at all.  Not one.  He was in agony, and they were choking him to give him pills that served no purpose at all for him.  Antidepressants, antipsychotics, antinausea, vitamin pills the size of 22 Long Rifle rounds are being choked down someone who can barely swallow.


I put a stop to that.  No more would they force feed him pills that were not for his care at all, that were to keep him docile when his wishes as expressed were clear, nothing to cloud his mind was to be permitted, period.  Pain control only.  That was his will; that was the care plan signed off on by his doctors, and totally ignored.  Look up the name of every medication given, because the System will lie to you, but they do not actually have the right to argue with you when you catch them.  My father’s orders while competent were clear, agreed to by the whole palliative care team, and then ignored when they were no longer facing us.  I had signed power of attorney, so I am my father’s will, and remain competent and quite able to deal with such horse shit.  Guard your loved ones, for the palliative care system cares only for the ease of the system, not the patient.  Know this, prepare for this, counter this.  You are the shield of your kinsmen, be ready and do not hesitate to deploy when you think your loved one is getting shafted.  You are their only shield, be a strong one.


When my father was no longer able to swallow, I knew the end was near.  He had already refused IV or nasogastric feeding.  He would live as long as he lived as a man, and that was that.  I was no longer able to take breaks, I would stand the watch 24 hrs a day until the end.  The nurse practitioner would not be in for another 18 hours, so pain control when needed was administered by grinding up his morphine tablets, making into a slurry with ice-cream, and administering sublignal (under the tongue).  This is a laborious process and the absorbtion was slow, so relief did not take the usual 20 minutes but close to forty before the effects were noticeable.


No longer able to speak, no longer oriented to time or place, my father still could recognize only one thing; people.  For me or for Connie there was recognition, and as he past closets to awareness he would reach out with his remaining controllable hand and grip our hand with his full strength.  For those moments, his awareness that we were with him (me always, Connie when she could and the bulk of his last two days), the cost was worth it a thousand times over.


He would never rise to consciousness again.


I learned to read his pain state by his breathing.  Without pain control his breath was 36 labored and distressed.  With pain control his breath was 24 labored.  I read in his breath the state of his feelings, and followed the sound of his breath every moment that remained.  72hrs is the Canadian Infantry standard.  You must be able to be fully operational for 72 hours straight to qualify, but this was not a very demanding watch so I could do far better than that, I was betting I could last at least 96, and I couldn’t see how Dad could.



Middle of the night, 0210 or so, dad began thrashing.  Not a grand mal seizure, this was literally writhing in agony, a level of pain and horror that really exceeds anything in my memory, or imagination.  If you know what I have seen and done so far in life, that would terrify you, and I assure you it terrifies me whenever the memory threatens to escape from the little box I have locked it in.  I again ground up two tabs of morphine and administered it.  Such a slow process, but all I could do until the Nurse Practioner arrived to put in a port for injections.


Full marks to the Nurse Practioner when she arrived.  She called on Dad’s theoretical doctor, not the ones in the hospital, but the private practice GP who wrote his medication orders, and got some liquid morphine prescribed.  I filled the prescription, and practiced with the provided syringe and port as the nurse gave the first dose herself.


I got the lecture then about how I must prepare myself that each dose I gave could end his life, and she spent about twenty minutes going on about how I could think of it any number of other ways, building chain after chain of alternate ways to look at things until I begin to wonder how anyone can function when they must lie to themselves that much about what they are doing.  I don’t.  I have discussed this with my father hundreds of times over the years in preparation.  I will assure he has adequate pain control, he will not suffer needlessly.  If his pain control measures result in his passing, so be it.  The pain control isn’t killing him, the pancreatic cancer is killing him.  All my actions will do, if they do anything at all is take him out of his pain.  Take him out of his pain to comfort is a win, take him out of his pain to death, is a win.  Leave him in his pain out of my fear is a loss.  I do not lose, and my father will not suffer for the fear of anyone.



For syringes are prepared for me, to take him until the next visit.  In fact, only two are required, and no, neither one caused his death to hasten.  At 0545 the next day my father stopped breathing.  I was expecting what the fiction has presented to us as the end, a gasping breath, a death rattle, or some other sign that this particular breath was it.  There was nothing.  His rate was 24 and labored, which was his best rate, and then he stopped.  I snapped fully awake from my doze with the silence.  I put my hand on his chest and felt for both pulse and breathing rate.  No pulse was present in his wrists, no breathing was detectable in his chest.  I went to the carotids, and couldn’t find them.  There was no longer any blood pressure to allow the vessles to be palpated.  He was warm to the touch, but the vessles were lost in the waxy flesh.  He was gone.  For one hour I must stand the vigil before I call the mortuary.  That is the Expected Death at Home protocol.  I begin the notifications.  Connie, Jack, Jan, my own wife.  Between calls I do my five minute ABC checks, the training of a lifetime defaulting to my own protocols, when you are passing off a casualty as beyond your scope of care you check airway, breathing and circulation every five min, and record vitals every 15.  Well, that allowed my mind to know it was doing everything possible, which was literally nothing, while another part of my mind recorded a few thing, like his head was cooling swiftly, as was the torso that I had exposed.  My other senses were telling me I could relax. The second I touched him, my emotions simply accepted he was not there.  He was dead.  That is why I began the notifications when the required one hour vigil had only begun.  I will follow the protocol, but dad was no longer here, this was only his body.


Connie came to be with him before the morticians came.  She wept openly, so I defaulted to being supportive.  Honestly, given the choice between being caregiver and dealing with my own feelings, I took the cowards part and helped her with her grief.  She looked upon my father as a second father for herself, and weeps for him the way his own daughter never would.  She stands as family to me, for duty to him, is duty to me, and loyalty like that does not end with death.  Strapping dad to the gurney and helping to carry him to the elevator and slide him into one of the four cargo slots in the unmarked white cargo van that picked him up to take him to the mortuary was helpful.  This was not my father, this was just a body.  This was a cargo pickup, not a patient transfer.  Does that sound cold?  It isn’t.

Cattle die, kinsmen die

You too will die

One thing alone will not die

The fame of a good man’s deeds



My father is dead, his deeds will be sung long after his passage, and the effect he has had in the lives of others will continue to be felt for generations to come.  Death cannot touch what he means to me, to Connie, to Jack or Jan, to Christine or the girls, to my cousins across Canada, to his friends  in Hope, to all those who worked with him as an Operating Engineer on projects from roads to hydroelectric dams, or those who served with him in the Canadian Armed Forces, especially those who went to war with him in RC57 Congo.


There is a lot left to do.  Death begins a nightmare of paperwork, but it can wait. The important stuff is done, what is left is just stuff.


Life goes on.  My father prepared me to face it, and his teachings, his strength, his voice will be with me always.  Like my Grandfather before him, he is one of my sacred ancestors, one of the pillars of my world, even though their ashes are either in the mound already, or preparing for the flames even now.


Palliative care, it is a lot like labour.  There is a painful and terrifying process that if you see it through will give you a new life, or in this case a new death.  The passage between not yet living and life is hard when it comes slow, and the passage between dying and death can likewise be hard when it is slow.  It is a part of life, and taking away its mystery makes it easier to face, easier to do, and easier to live with.  After birth, you forget the pain of labour and focus on the new life that you hold.  After death you can forget about the pain of dying and focus on the life that was.  It was a good life, and it is worthy of memory.  Birth and death are ugly things, filled with literal shit and blood, pain and details that in any other context would be deeply humiliating, but are honestly just the cost of the transition.  Your hands wash clean, so do the sheets, and you can get back to celebrating the life that either has come into being, or has past.  Either way, life goes on.  Either way, love is always worth the cost, and always gives more in joy than pain.  Embrace love, embrace life, and screw the cost.


So ends the death of my father.  Now all that is left is the man he was, and what he taught all of us we could be.

Asatru, Heathen, Pagan

Stealing Victory From the Dead



I had a co-worker today who came to me in the verge of tears because she is losing a friend to dementia, and is having to accept charge of him, and his affairs, as his ability to care for himself slips away, and he slides from the vital life she shared with him, towards a death that promises to strip him of dignity, ability, and even sentience before the merciful embrace of Hel takes him to the mound, and his ancestors.   While he yet owns his mind, at least for periods, he is taking pains to let those he loves know what he has provided for them with his passing.  From failing hands, he offers a last gift to those he loves, before all power to aid those he cares about, or even recognize them, is stripped from him.

Out of love for the man, she strives to refuse his gifts.  At the end, when all power, and even command of himself is lost, when life promises to strip from him everything a life of hard work has forged for him in body, mind, and material, he has the courage to accept death, and a terrifying ugly form of it, and not accept defeat.  Facing the worst fate I can contemplate, he has chosen to not let that be his defeat, for death is the unbroken promise, the price of every life given.  He has chosen the victory that he will stirve for, to give to those people that he would have been there for in life such gifts as will make a difference in their very real challenges ahead, as he would do, were his hands still strong flesh linked to cunning mind and loving heart.  Hands will be forever still, mind will be lost long before the heart stops, but the love and cunning can both survive the grave, and aid those they love through the bequests they make when love and cunning were both his to command.

Death need not be loss, if through your death your gifts can bring aid and comfort to those you cherish.  Death will bring your victory, unless your gifts are rejected.  Only then will death equal defeat, only then can the last act of failing hands be made futile.  Reject that gift, and you steal victory from the dead, let the dying eyes see only their final failure, that they go to the grave with helpless tears rather than the light of victory burning in their eyes.

There are a few things you can’t turn off when you have been a soldier, and when you are a priest.  Oddly enough, the former is more important than the latter as far as understanding, but the latter is needed to explain to civilians the truths we hold about death, and victory.

Not everyone has people in their life that they love, whose presence becomes a pillar of your life, one of those emotional touchstones you hold as the bedrock of your world.  These are the people you trust, the people who, even if you don’t see them for long periods, hold places in your memory that are central to your understanding of yourself.  If there is no person like that in your life, you may stop reading, for nothing I say will affect you, and your passage through this life will be untroubled by the passing of others, even as you will be unblessed by their presence.

For those who have such bonds, those who have forged such friendships as will last a lifetime, hear this soldier’s truth; a lifetime is not forever.  But it can be.

Havamal tell us (verse 78)

Cattle die, kinsmen die

You too will die

One thing alone will not die

The fame of a good man’s deeds

We all die. Those we love will die.  Accept it, embrace it for the truth that it is, for accepting it makes life precious, and the time shared with those you value then becomes more precious by accepting that it is finite.  Denial of a person’s death is acceptable when they are dead, as your unwillingness to deal with the loss hurts none but yourself.  Denial that a person is going to die when they themselves have accepted it can hurt the ones we love.  People are always going on about how the Vikings sought death in battle; hogwash. Our ancestors sought victory and wealth from battle, not death.  Death happened, and they didn’t get worked up about avoiding death, any more than they got worked up about avoiding dawn or sunset; such things simply happen at the appointed hour, and there is no reason to waste energy crying about the fall of night, or the rise of the sun when you have so much else to do, and a finite amount of time to do it in.

Those who face the imminent possibility of their own death are left with their relationships, and their duty.  If I am to die, have I honoured all of those who have been a gift and a blessing to me?  A gift for a gift is our way, and when the grave is a very real and imminent possibility, the time to settle accounts has come.  There will be those people who have been valuable to us in our lives, whose presence has been important to us.  Death will come; there is nothing you can do about that, save dicker about the hour of the appointment, and even that is frequently beyond our power.  Victory, now victory and death have an odd relationship.  Victory does not equal life, nor failure death, unless you make it so.

Hamaval tells us (Verse 41)

Friends shall gladden each other with arms and garments,
As each for himself can see;
Gift-givers’ friendships are longest found,
If fair their fates may be.

Those who accept they will not be there to share their words, their laughter, their comradeship with you once they have passed understand that this loss is both theirs and yours.  There is naught they can do about that, for we will all be initiates into the mysteries of death in our time.  They can, however give you gifts from that which they have earned, a wealth that serves them now only as they may use it to serve those who remain.  Their life is ending, but their duty is not, nor is their love.

Those who love them not, will take the wealth offered without a single care, in this case, those who deserve it least are most likely to accept it well.  Those who love them best mistake accepting their final gifts as choosing their gold over their love, their goods over their lives.  This is, honestly, self serving twaddle.

With deepest respect and love, honestly I want to slap the shit out of every single one of you who speaks this.  They are not dying because you will take the collection of books you used to swap back and forth and spend hours arguing over.  They are not dying because you accept the big screen TV you used to watch cheesy movies on and heckle.  They are dying because everything that lives, dies.


You do not have the moral right to do this, but you have the ability to do this.  You have the ability to make your fear, your unwillingness to accept the death they CANNOT prevent, into an act that they will know is a failure, because you have turned what they are trying to make a victory, by seeking to give to those they leave behind gifts that will make them stronger, into a defeat.

If you, through your weakness, let them know that their death will cause you terrible pain, and that nothing they can give to you can possibly make up for what you are taking from them when you die, you are making their death an attack against you.

You have stolen the victory they tried to carve from their own death, and replaced it with the knowledge that they die a failure; their last act upon this earth inflicting terrible pain upon those they love.

With deepest respect and love, honestly I want to slap the shit out of every single one of you who speaks this.  You do not have the right to make the death of another human being about you.  This is about them.  They are going to die, that is not in your power, or in theirs to prevent.  They do not have to fail, that is in their power, and in yours.  We accept many things from those we love when they pass.  We accept the duties and burdens out of love, as it speaks in the poem Flanders Fields

To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

We accept duty, but not gifts, we accept burdens, but not those things that will make those burdens easier to bear.  We will let those who pass let us take up their struggle, but will somehow not let them give you a gift in return for that gift.

A gift for a gift is our way, because that is how healthy relationships are formed.  World accepting religion is what we style ourselves; well death is a part of the world, as is the fact that the death of an individual does not change the sun coming up in the morning, the bills still needing to be paid, kids still needing to be fed, and the ten thousand demands of daily life for those that remain.  If their hands cannot be there to aid anymore, the work of those hand can be; if you accept it.

The time for your loss is the funeral, and the grieving process that follows it.  Funerals are not for the dead, they are for the living.  Hel is the unbroken promise, the freedom from pain, from weakness, from disease and age.  The dead are beyond need, and funerals are thus for the living, for those they left behind.  It is meet now that tears be offered, that rage be offered that one you loved was taken from you, it is now that fears be spoken of what that loss will mean to each.  This is right, and good, and part of the healing, even as the tears shed are offerings to the honoured dead.  This is the time and place to begin, and such a beginning can enable you to remember them in life, and remember the gifts they gave to you by being in your life.

They dead are only lost if you permit them to be.  Death cannot change a single word spoken, a single laugh shared, or take from you one single thing that they shared from you in life.  All that they were, still exists, and will burn as bright in your memory as you dare to keep it.

Do not confuse accepting death of a loved one, with being OK with losing them.  These are only connected if you are foolish enough to permit it.  Soldiers live with death, we accept it as the cost of doing business.  We get used to losing friends and family early, and get used to making sure our duties will get done if we are not going to be there to take care of it.  Accept this truth from us, the giving of gifts is a sacred thing, as is the accepting of them.  When you are offered a gift from failing hands, you accept it, and you make it clear that the gift will be valued.

I really don’t care what the gift is, even if it is utterly unneeded as a physical thing, the giving is a material expression of a relationship that is valued, a way of looking at the responsibilities you have in life, and your own pending death and saying “This you may not have, this you may not take from me, this I have the power to do for those I love”.

Death cannot take that victory, but you can throw it away.  Do not.  Love enough to accept the gifts as the honour they are, and give the gift in return of showing them that their victory is assured, that they have brightened their friends and families with this gift, that death can take from them only their life, not their victory.

When they have passed; come together to deal with your loss.  While they are passing, accept from their hands their gifts, and allow them to take from this life one last victory, and bind their love to those lives that continue.  Get this right, and the dead will never be lost to you.  Get this right, and death will hold no power over you, or those you love.  But don’t wait too long to learn it, because life gives us fewer chances than we would like, and wyrd weaves as it will.  You do not get a second chance.