Finding Her Wings

“I heard that you’re a death doula. Would you be able to help me kill myself?” she asked with the sort of casual British politeness expected of a question about going to tea or a comment about the weather.

I wish I could say I was completely prepared for the question, but I wasn’t. This was, after all, my first evening as Sophie’s* overnight care provider. I doubt she noticed though, because I only missed half a beat before responding, “I think I might face some consequences you’d be safe from if I were to do that, and I’m not quite sure I’m interested in a life in prison,” we shared a smile. “Let’s talk about why you want to die.”

Sophie leaned back in her bed, content with this response, and began to detail her situation. Just shy of her 90th birthday, she still lived independently and wasn’t on any medications. By most metrics, she was impressively healthy given her age.

However, Sophie was showing signs of dementia. Her daughter was planning to visit soon to help her visit different assisted-living centers and nursing homes. She was less than enthusiastic about the idea of giving up her autonomy and the prospect of her life’s savings getting eaten up by the elder care industry. She wanted to go out on her own terms. She had lived a full life and was content for this to be its end. As she told her story, I remembered my own experiences working with people with dementia.

After hearing her perspective, I was careful with my words, but honest.

“I think your reasons for wanting to die make a lot of sense. How would you kill yourself?”

In my training to be a counselor, I had been taught to assess desire, means, and a plan in clients with suicidal ideation. I walked the line between concerned practitioner assessing risk and supportive confidante.

Sophie paused. She hadn’t considered how she would kill herself. This let me know she wasn’t currently at risk of committing suicide. My question sparked a conversation about how people ordinarily kill themselves and the deaths I had supported in the past. By the end of the conversation, I had suggested telling her doctor about this desire to kill herself.

Once a week, I came to Sophie’s home after my evening class, and we would spend an hour sharing a cup of tea before she went to her room for the night. I enjoyed our conversations and, admittedly, the fact that I also got to sleep when working an overnight shift with her. Each week she took another step along her path, moving toward this idea of dying on her own terms. She eventually found a local hospice service willing to support her in the choice to voluntarily stop eating and drinking.

As a caregiver hired through an agency and not technically her death doula in any contractual sense, I was not informed that she had begun this process, and I was surprised to find out when I arrived at our final overnight shift. Her daughter was relieved to see me, as we had also become familiar in our time supporting her mother. Sophie was already deep in her process, and her daughter was profoundly attuned to her. As I got settled in, her daughter filled me in on how the process had gone so far, and I noticed Sophie’s arms lifting up, pulling her hands near her armpits.

As if she had heard my thoughts, her daughter smiled and said, “Oh, she’s been trying to unfurl her wings lately… I think we’re getting close.” She beckoned me closer to her mother.

Sophie’s face was pure peace. As she took a breath in, her arms, crossed on her chest, would lift into the air, just as her daughter had said. She moved like a bird dreaming of flying. Seeing her at peace, unfortunately, didn’t stop me from feeling ill-prepared to support her. Had I known, I would have brought my ukulele, aromatherapy, and the rest of my doula toolkit. I had also been in class for the last twelve hours and was exhausted, but I knew that Sophie needed my presence.

I fought against my exhaustion, observing her as she repeated the same continual movement over and over again in her bed. Eventually, she stopped trying to fly, and it became more difficult to stay awake as her breath grew quieter. I began to doze, waking myself again and again when my head tipped to my chest. I could practically hear her telling me to go to bed as she had after our evening tea every Wednesday night before this.

Maybe I could rest a bit if I lay next to her, where I would feel her movements or hear if she was distressed…I knew there was no way I could stay awake for her, as much as I wanted to. The best I could do was place my body close to hers so I would be sensitive to any changes. After years spent doing overnight care where I had to be up the moment my client was, I trusted that I would wake up to the slightest changes around me.

A thought crossed my mind as I lay down next to her: I was likely the first person to share a bed with her in the decades since she had lived alone. Would this bother her? Again, I heard her voice in my mind, imploring me to get some rest. As I drifted in and out of a light sleep, I felt her breath relax into a slow and steady rhythm, our bodies co-regulating in the witching hour, two women resting in a state between wakeful and dreaming. It was a strange type of intimacy—we had never spoken so little and shared so much.

When the first light broke, I was rested enough to stay awake, and I sat at her bedside until her daughter woke the next day. Sophie’s daughter came in with an air of peaceful clarity.

“I heard the birds outside, and I knew it was time to come in and see how she was doing… no one told me this was going to be like this. Like… like I’m just fully in the moment. It’s amazing. I feel like I’m completely connected to everything,” she smiled and her eyes glittered with awareness.

On my way home, I realized I had forgotten some things at Sophie’s house. After a shower and some food, I returned.

Her daughter was happy to see me.

“You came at the perfect time!” she exclaimed as she ushered me into the room, which was full of women.

On two sides of her, her beloved friends gave Reiki. It was as if there had been a spot saved for me, and I completed a trinity of women sending healing energy to Sophie. We all sat around her throughout the morning, telling stories and drinking tea. Her daughter fingered through her mother’s closet, pulling out specific pieces that held a lifetime of memories. I felt extremely blessed to be part of such a peaceful transition. It was a first for me, and I savored every moment.

Eventually it did come time for me to leave again. I gave Sophie’s hand a squeeze and told her I was grateful to have known her. She felt further away somehow, and I told her daughter, “Don’t hold me to this, but I think her time is coming soon.”

When I got to my car outside, I saw a large brown bear standing in the middle of the road. I remembered the many stories Sophie had shared of the bears exploring her yard and checking the garbage in the hopes that the lids weren’t locked. We gazed at each other for a timeless moment, and I remembered the birds speaking to Sophie’s daughter. I knew this was my sign that I was right, that she would be passing soon.

An hour later, her daughter called to tell me she was gone. Her breathing had changed shortly after I departed.

I believe that the moment of our transition is one of the sacred mysteries of life we must learn to accept. None of us can know for certain how, when, where, or why we will die until it happens. Though Sophie chose her path, she still had to walk through that threshold and face the mystery before her. Her transition wasn’t peaceful because she had all the answers or knew what lay ahead, but because she entered that mysterious passage with acceptance of her life as it truly was and did not turn away from her suffering.




* Client’s name has been changed for privacy purposes.*