Pem, Are You Still There?

Since her passing away, everything seems to be falling into place, almost as though an unseen hand is quietly arranging things for me. It feels as if a divine presence is guiding me through this difficult period of my life.

Without in any way discrediting the kindness and support of the people who have stood by me, I cannot help noticing the many remarkable coincidences that have made things easier. Even those helping me have remarked on how certain things have worked out almost miraculously, from finding the right group of lamas to perform the final rites to securing the right spot at the cremation ground and having favourable weather conditions when they mattered most.

The tse (རྩིས) says that the departed would be reborn in the realm of the gods (thoray) within 21 days. Could that be the reason why things seem to be working out so smoothly? Is she trying to make things easier for me from a place where she could like a God?  

Who knows? If she has indeed been reborn in the realm of the gods, perhaps she possesses powers beyond my understanding. And if she is still watching over me, then in my own way, I might as well consider her my personal god from now on.

It’s is difficult to not to have a person near after being together through thick and thin for 27 years. It is difficult to comprehend how someone who was such an integral part of my everyday life can suddenly no longer be physically present. The routines remain, the world continues to move, and yet the person with whom I shared so much is no longer beside me.

I tried everything I could to make her stay a little longer. Perhaps there were other options we could have explored, other things we could have tried. Such thoughts inevitably visit me and makes me regrettable. However, there comes a point when one must make the difficult choice between pursuing treatment and sparing a loved one further suffering, especially when the treatment itself threatens to become more unbearable than the disease.

I might have carried the regret of that decision for the rest of my life had the tse not offered some measure of reassurance. It told us that her life had been exhausted, like a butter lamp whose butter and wick had both been completely consumed. As if to comfort me further, it said that even if thousands of Buddhas had come together, saving her life would have been exceedingly difficult. Those words brought me some peace. They helped me understand that perhaps her departure was not the result of anything I had failed to do, but the end of a journey whose time had come.

Yet understanding something intellectually does not make it any less painful to witness. It was heartbreaking to see a beautiful woman, once so full of life, gradually waste away, becoming painfully thin and appearing to age rapidly before our eyes. More difficult still was watching her endure so much suffering: unable to speak, unable to swallow for weeks, and becoming increasingly dependent on others for even the simplest needs.

Her parents, relatives, friends and all those who loved her felt helpless. We wanted to do something, anything, to ease her suffering, but there was so little we could do. Eventually, even those closest to her came to feel that perhaps it was kinder to let her go than to prolong her suffering.

When she finally took her last breath, she was surrounded by the people who mattered most: her parents, children, best friends and siblings. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have their loved ones gathered around them at the final moment. Her pain had been eased by medication, and she was able to leave this world peacefully, surrounded by familiar faces and the love of her family.

It was a heartbreaking farewell, but perhaps it was also the beginning of her journey to a better realm, as we would come to learn later. 

As I write this, 27 days have passed since her departure. And still, things seem to be working out in ways that make me wonder whether she is somehow continuing to look after us.

The worry about the house remaining vacant has been resolved. The car broke down at what turned out to be the right time and in the right place. Small incidents, perhaps, but each one leaves me with the feeling that someone is quietly watching out.

I know there may be perfectly reasonable explanations for these events. I also know that grief can make us search for signs of the person we have lost. But does that necessarily make the comfort we find in those signs any less meaningful?

Perhaps it is faith. Perhaps it is coincidence. Perhaps it is simply the enduring influence of a woman who spent 27 years being part of my life, shaping my decisions, sharing my burdens, and helping me find my way.

Or perhaps, in ways that I cannot explain, she really is still guiding me.

Whatever the truth may be, I find comfort in believing that our bond did not end with her last breath.

Sometimes, when I find myself in a difficult situation or when something unexpectedly works out in my favour, I instinctively look up and speak to her.

“Pem, please guide me, as you always did. You got the power now. ”

And then I carry on, hoping that somewhere, somehow, she hears me.

This story touched my heart, it will yours too

"At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:

 

'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection.

Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?'

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realise true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

 

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, 'Do you think they'll let me play?' 

I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

 

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs, but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognising that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, 'Shay, run to first! Run to first!'

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, 'Run to second, run to second!'

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball. The smallest guy on their team now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'. 

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, 'Shay, run home! Run home!'

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team. 

 

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!”