What Matters Most | Diane Button

Excerpt 1

Introduction

I’m a death doula, a companion for the dying. The sad part about my work is that all my clients  die. The beautiful part is they all leave so much of themselves behind for us to learn and grow from.

I was introduced to death at an early age. Through a school community service project, I began volunteering and then continued working at the Nazareth House, a convalescent home just a short walk across the street from my high school. I knew the names, dietary needs, birthdays, and special food requests of all the residents. As they became bedridden, I took the trays to their rooms and fed them whenever I had the time. It wasn’t part of my job description, but I loved to sit with them and listen to their stories.

I was a kid, just fifteen years old, with my life ahead of me. The residents I cared for were on the other end of the life cycle. They wanted to share their stories of love and loss, and to reminisce about old times with someone who was willing to listen. Often, we perused photo albums filled with a lifetime of memories from generations past. Some residents were satisfied and at peace with the lives they had lived, while others shared heartbreaking stories about dreams that never came true. I learned very early that sometimes just letting someone tell their story can be so healing.

In my next job, I worked in the admissions department at a hospital emergency room, where I  witnessed doctors and nurses dealing daily with people on the edge of life and death. I became acutely aware of the precious and uncertain quality of life and how unsuspecting and unprepared we are when it comes to facing our mortality. Unlike the long‑term residents of Nazareth House, most of those who did not make it out of the emergency room never had the chance to say goodbye.

By the time I was thirty, I had been with quite a few people at the end of their lives. But when my Grandpa Charlie died in my arms, something happened inside me that still feels like the most spiritually meaningful moment of my life.

My grandfather was my hero. When I was a little girl, I felt like he was 100 percent present, wherever he was. If he was talking to me, then I was the only person who mattered to him at that moment. He made me feel important, valued, and special. I wasn’t the only one who idolized him. He was a renowned San Francisco plastic surgeon who specialized in treating severe burn victims. He witnessed excruciating pain and suffering, and he grieved deeply with the families who lost loved ones he could not save. He was humble and kind, and he held himself with a confidence that was devoid of arrogance and full of compassion and the desire to heal the hurting people he served.

At the age of eighty‑four, Grandpa Charlie was diagnosed with lung cancer. In a matter of months, it metastasized throughout his body and into his brain, causing him to need full‑time care. It was an honor to cook and care for him, but heartbreaking to bear witness to this brilliant, loving man losing his independence more and more each day.

One night, just days before he died, my mom decided to make my grandfather his favorite home‑cooked meal of lamb chops with mint jelly, mashed potatoes, green beans, and strawberry shortcake for dessert. The entire family gathered at the same round table where we had eaten countless meals together for over twenty years. My grandfather was so peaceful. He had Frank Sinatra crooning in the background from the antique Victrola, a delicious feast, and his family surrounding him. I watched as he devoured his meal and giggled to myself as he repeatedly spooned a heaping portion of mint jelly over every small bite of the lamb chop.

At one point, he took a giant bite, put his fork down, and looked at each of us very slowly. I felt he was telling me he loved me and saying good-bye. My brother thought he was thinking about all the memories of his life spent with us. Then my grandfather leaned forward. I leaned forward, too, just waiting for the words that I thought were surely going to be emblazoned on my heart and soul forever. 

He paused and slowly said, “When I die ‘… I’m really going to miss ‘…  mint jelly.”

We all chuckled at my grandfather’s comment because it was funny and unexpected, but also because we were not surprised. My grandfather loved us in his own way, fiercely and often silently. He showed me that there are many ways we can express love, and it isn’t always with words.

The following week when my grandfather died, he was smiling. The breeze was blowing as the church bells rang, filling the bedroom with an angelic song of peace. I stared in awe at his face, and that gentle, giant smile, realizing immediately that I would never have the chance to ask him what fulfilled him and brought him such calmness and peace. I wanted to know more about my grandfather. I wanted to know what made him die with such a big smile on his face.

That is where this journey began for me.