Simon is a man of great strength and determination, and I try to take comfort from recalling his taste for long-distance solitary journeys and all the other wild and crazy things he’s done over the years. This time around the test of endurance is taking place in a dimly lit hospital ward, and I can’t help wondering how much more he can take. For the first time, my instinct is whispering that maybe I will lose him.
In the evening there is a particularly horrid incident. The 8pm handover usually takes no more than half an hour and I decide to stay on, because it has been such a worrying day. At 9.15pm the blue curtains are still drawn so I ask what’s going on. “They’re preparing to move him,” I’m told. “Where to?” “Only to the bed space opposite.” Earlier in the day an elderly man had died in that bed space. I close my eyes and get a sense of it being haunted and off balance – a place of darkness, a place where Simon will die. In contrast, we have spent two weeks doing everything we can to turn Bed 12 into a place of light and healing.
Convinced that this could be Simon’s final straw, I freak out. It’s as if I’m playing Monopoly and spending all the credit I’ve accumulated up until now as a calm and undemanding visitor on the ward. “Simon mustn’t be moved! For religious reasons, and because he’s particularly ill at the moment, and because….” (shamelessly, every reason I can think of). After a few minutes of this, preparations for the move are paused and a ward sister comes over to speak with me. I haven’t met her before but she asks me to trust her: he won’t be moved. I cycle home, thinking: have courage!
The following morning, for the first time I wake at 4.30am, deeply anxious. For half an hour I try unsuccessfully to calm my churning feelings, and then I pick up the phone. Various night nurses have encouraged me to consider ringing the ward when I feel the need for an update. However it takes an age to get through to Simon’s nurse, and when I do, I am only adding to her stress. She explains that it’s been a difficult night. Simon is very agitated and hasn’t stopped tossing from side to side. “Sorry, I have to go!” she exclaims suddenly, and puts the phone down in a rush.
Thoughts racing I lie in bed until 6am, which feels like an acceptable hour to ring our friends Tony and Denise. Between them they have experience of psychology, psychiatry and hospital chaplaincy, and both as friends and professionals they are magnificent. While not pulling any punches they gently and sensitively help me explore the situation from the perspective of both head and heart. We discuss how I handle the concept of Simon’s mortality, as well as whether to go into the ward now (yes!) and whether to post on the Facebook page that we’re in crisis (yes!).
I get to the ward at 7am to find Simon even redder in the face, racked by coughs and curling in and out of a foetal position. As I approach the bed he stops for a moment, opens one eye and looks at me with what feels like a deep timeless gaze, soul to soul. It is the first time he has done this since he fell ill, and perhaps it is his goodbye to me. Then the moment is gone, and the relentless tossing and turning resumes. I caress him, mop his brow and whisper words of comfort in his ear.
When the night shift ends, I make a special request that Simon be allocated a nurse who is already familiar with him for the coming day. I am overjoyed to find that it is our old friend Nurse Clare. With the support of daylight and the ward team she brings about a wonderful turnaround: Simon clean, lying quietly (albeit more heavily sedated) and back to a more normal colour. My dear sister Kate also drops by again. Together we sing, massage his feet, and intuitively recreate a sense of peace around the bed. Going way beyond words, we are doing whatever we can to help him pull through.
CHAPTER 14
Prayer surge
One of the most powerful and profound of Tibetan Buddhist practices is also the simplest. It is called Tong-len, which translates as ‘giving and taking.’ On the in-breath you imagine taking in another person’s suffering in the form of black smoke. As the black smoke reaches your heart, you visualise it dissolving all your own self-centredness, suffering and confusion. On the out-breath, you imagine that you are breathing out love and compassion to the other person in the form of white smoke. Even if you start by doing Tong-len for a particular person or animal, the visualisation can be extended into a prayer for the wellbeing of every being in the world who is suffering or in pain.
Tong-len is my practice of last resort when I can do or think of nothing else. When my mind and emotions are at their most agitated it allows the intuitive body to take over regardless of whatever is going on around me. Everything gradually falls away except for the sensation of being the compassionate bellows of the world, connected with everyone and everything, gently recycling suffering into peace and happiness with every breath I take. It is the perfect practice for ICU.
The Dalai Lama, who is said to practice Tong-len every day, says: “Whether this meditation really helps others or not, it gives me peace of mind. Then I can be more effective, and the benefit is immense.” Over 25oo years ago, the historical Buddha taught that deep down we all possess a natural peace and clarity of mind, but that just as a mirror can become covered with dirt, similarly our minds have become obscured by unskilful and destructive habits such as greed, anger and—above all—by ignorance of our true potential. All the different Buddhist practices are simply tools and techniques to help us reconnect with this natural peace and clarity of mind so that we can help others do the same and together bring more happiness into the world.
I became interested in Buddhism back in the 1980s specifically because of this affirming and empowering can-do approach. In my late twenties I’d abandoned my first career as an expert on nineteenth-century British paintings with the auction house Sotheby’s to seek a way of making my life more purposeful and fulfilling. I’d had a taste of Christian meditation at St James’s Piccadilly, and although it was too late to be a hippy I suddenly developed an urge to buy a single ticket to India and see where that might lead. Until now I’d been the obedient oldest daughter who went from school to Oxford University to a well-regarded job in the West End of London, so I was curious to discover what choices I’d make if there was no pressure on me of any kind.
I had no intention of cutting my ties with Christianity, my home base, but a chance encounter with some other travellers led me to a ten-day Buddhist meditation retreat in Dharamsala, the home of the exiled Dalai Lama. On my second day there I was invited to join a group interview with him, where I offered a packet of seeds from the garden at St James’s Piccadilly and marvelled at his strong hands, earthy presence and warm laughter. I subsequently visited a series of retreat centres and monasteries in India and Nepal, where I relished how young people from all over the world were coming together, studying Buddhist and other philosophies, and discussing how to live a meaningful life. Gradually I realized that Buddhism wasn’t just about revering the teachings of extraordinary religious figures such as Jesus and the Buddha, but about developing my own capacity to live by the same standards and ideals. At that point I was hooked.
The other compelling factor in my shift to Buddhism was the calibre of the teachers that I met. First and foremost there was the Dalai Lama, who since I first encountered him in 1987 has become a Nobel Peace Prize laureate and an internationally respected champion of compassion and wisdom. I was also particularly drawn to the powerful and practical teachings of Lama Zopa Rinpoche, who had started life as the son of an illiterate and penniless single mother in the high Himalayas and now heads up a network of over 150 Buddhist centres in 30 different countries. These teachers gave me confidence that it is possible for a human being to function in a completely different way free from any trace of anger, ill-will, jealousy or miserliness, and to manifest an extraordinary capacity to be of benefit to the people and animals who they encounter. I never felt particularly drawn to becoming a ‘Buddhist’, but I definitely wanted to follow their example and become more like them.
After 19 months of study, practice and retreat in Asia I returned to the UK and for eight years worked with stre
et homeless people. Working for non-profit organisations such as Crisis and Centrepoint was an immensely dynamic and enjoyable period in my life but on some level it still wasn’t satisfying. I came to the conclusion that the main reason why the men and women I worked with were homeless was because we’ve created a system in which we fail to adequately protect and support each other when we are vulnerable. From that came the wish to help individuals develop more compassion and wisdom so that we can work together to create a better society.
When my Buddhist teacher Lama Zopa asked me to switch careers again and help develop a new Tibetan Buddhist centre in London, I saw this as a logical next step. From there I went on to set up an educational charity, designed to share the teachings on compassion and wisdom which I’ve found so helpful myself with a broader range of people from all cultures and traditions. In the course of all this, I unexpectedly fell in love with Simon, who comes from solid Christian stock.
As a result, inter-religious dialogue and prayer is part of our family DNA, and the bedrock of many of our friendships. From the outset, it was also an integral part of the ‘Simon in hospital’ Facebook group.
In the first week of Simon’s illness, I was particularly touched by the following post from a Buddhist friend:
Please pass lots of love and a big hug from me to Alison and Simon in sure knowledge that compassionate Lord Jesus, the gentle mother Mary and the great Christian spiritual masters will be helping their devoted son Simon through this difficult time. Please let me know if there are any special Christian prayers to recite.
Our Christian friends had responded to this posting with a wonderful selection of prayers and poetry from the Bible, St Augustine and the Iona Community, which I recited at the bedside each night before leaving for home.
In view of the deepening crisis over Simon’s health I now ask for a prayer surge, and the Facebook group becomes a treasure chest of inspiration from our Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Jewish and Muslim friends. It informs me that candles are being lit at Lourdes, in Jerusalem, in front of the Dalai Lama in Toulouse, at the peace projects that Simon has been working with in Northern Ireland, along the medieval Spanish pilgrimage route the Camino di Santiago which we had walked together, on St Columba’s Island off Lindisfarne, and in chapels, churches, synagogues, temples and cathedrals across four continents. I am told about an elderly woman who is stitching a tapestry and prays for Simon with every stitch, even though neither of us have ever met her.
Our friend Denise writes from the USA: “It looks like Simon has facilitated quite a lovely, extended interfaith prayer service! So busy, even while healing.” Gill, in nearby South London, responds “It’s a living testament to interfaith co-operation, and Simon as a visionary will be thrilled when he wakes up to see what he made happen.”
Amid all the religious exchanges, one of the contributions that I find most moving comes in from an atheist friend in Sussex:
Dear Alison and Simon, my lack of faith does not allow me to post prayers but I wanted to say that I think of you both in the small things of daily life – and the rather lovely things, like being on top of the Downs – and am willing there to be a time when either you both come here and enjoy those things or we can come again to Kingsbridge and see some film on the projector over the fireplace whilst Simon types smart and witty and thoughtful notes on some other film made by an Uzbekistan director, shot in Fiji, about miners in Siberia. We loved that New Year with you both and would very much like to be able to give you such a generous, warm and easy welcome here. With lots of love from us both, Lucy and Nick.
I am also particularly touched by a friend in South Africa, who writes: “// silence (but I am here also, and thinking of you both with love and compassion)”
Our friend Rabbi Mark in Florida somehow manages to unite everyone, both believers and non-believers: “As much as I believe that You, O God care passionately about Simon’s well-being, the intensity of the caring and praying and hoping somehow magically and mysteriously and spiritually reinforces the shield around Simon and within Simon.”
We’re basically trying everything. “I was very happy to hear that people were praying for me,” the Dalai Lama commented when unwell a few years ago, “and even happier to know that I was in a top-class hospital.”
CHAPTER 15
Desolation
It’s Thursday morning in Week Three, and I am lying in bed trying to come to terms with my overpowering instinct that Simon is dying.
The previous day was long, traumatic and tearful. As Simon tossed endlessly from side to side like a fearful child I had begun to wonder whether my desire for him to live meant I was no longer a source of support but a liability. It’s hard to be of any real service when I’m in constant terror of losing him.
My Buddhist teachers often remind their students that death is completely beyond our control, and that one of the most important things we can do in life is to prepare ourselves for the inevitable. The premise is that through familiarising ourselves with the imminence of death, and with each step of the death process, we will be able to navigate the transition to our next life in a more calm and skilful way.
As part of this training, Buddhist students are encouraged to contemplate on a daily basis the fact that everything around them will decay and die, including the people they feel most close to. So now I am being put to the test. I have no idea whether or not my Buddhist training makes it any easier to contemplate my husband’s mortality because I have no yardstick to measure against.
“Simon is hanging onto the edge of God’s kingdom, and which-ever way it goes he will be fine,” writes Simon’s nephew Sam, an evangelical Christian. I find solace in any well-considered and time-honoured interpretation of the unknown, even if it doesn’t fit with my own metaphysical leanings. The Buddhist proposition is that the lives of human and other living beings are a continuum rather than a brief one-off and that the most subtle part of our mind continues from life to life like the seed energy of a plant. However none of us will know for real what happens after death until we go through that experience ourselves. If I arrive at the Pearly Gates to find that I backed the wrong horse then all I will be able to do is apologise, and trust that my good intentions will mean that I am looked on favourably!
After an hour or so of wrestling with my thoughts, I experience a surprising degree of acceptance and serenity, sufficient to set off for the hospital. As I cycle the empty streets I curl a new word around my mind and tongue: bereavement.
The evening before, I’d received an unexpected call from Geoff, a dear friend whose daughter was formerly married to the son of a man called Karma Dagpa who works with ill and dying members of the Tibetan community in northern India. Geoff had asked Karma Dagpa to use the ancient art of divination to provide an additional perspective on Simon’s illness and how he might be cured. As I listened to Karma Dagpa’s insights I experienced mixed emotions. His message was that Simon’s spirit is attempting to leave his body and needs urgent support not to do so. This support should take the form of a powerful puja—the Sanskrit word for prayer ceremony—to be carried out by a high level Tibetan Buddhist lama as soon as possible.
Despite my past struggles with the more esoteric aspects of Tibetan Buddhism, on this occasion Karma Dagpa’s advice tallies exactly with my own interpretation of what is going on for Simon. I text Geshe Tashi the teacher at our Buddhist Centre for his advice and at breakfast time he rings me back.
We strain to hear each other above the noise of the AMT café. Geshe Tashi’s main question is: do I really trust this advice? Somewhat surprisingly I hear myself give a deep-down “Yes!” On this basis Geshe Tashi agrees to organise the necessary puja at his former monastery in South India. It can’t be done today, because of the time difference, but he promises me that it will happen tomorrow. After the puja I will be sent a small turquoise stone attached to a yellow cord. This is usually tied around the patient’s neck but Geshe Tashi has been in the UK long enough to know that even the
multicultural principles of the NHS have their limits. We agree that the turquoise can be hung from Simon’s bedside table instead.
Other friends take the initiative of asking the advice of a Tibetan mystic and teacher popularly known as Khandro La. Her suggestion is to put some blessed salt into Simon’s mouth and to organise an animal liberation on his behalf. The latter is based on the Buddhist principle that, when complemented by appropriate and heartfelt prayers, saving animal lives can create the cause for a specific human life to be saved. I have friends in Singapore who regularly buy fish in the market, make extensive prayers over them, and then release them back into the ocean. They are happy to help out, and send me a short but poignant video clip of the rescued fish joyfully leaping into the water.
As a small contribution of my own, I decide to spend the morning reciting the Medicine Buddha puja at Simon’s bedside. The beautiful medieval poetry of the words and images soon takes me into a completely different psychological space full of beauty and blessings. I visualize that Simon is lying not on a hospital bed but a silken couch. The grey lino floor of the ward is transformed into a carpet of alpine flowers, redolent of a Northern Renaissance fresco, and the tan liquid of his nasal drip morphs into mouth-watering golden nectar. He is no longer attended by nurses but by elegant footmen and beautiful handmaidens in exquisite silken robes.
On nine occasions during the puja the text requires me to pause and rejoice at all the good deeds of the person I am praying for, in their past, present and future lives. Buddhism proposes that the forms that we take in the future will depend on the choices that we have made in this and previous lives—for example between kindness or ill-will, generosity or self-centredness, contentment or greed, intelligence or dullness. In Simon’s case, I am confident that his abundance of patience, humility, generosity and kindness will bring him a positive rebirth, and find immense comfort in rejoicing in the future life of someone who seems about to die.
Bed 12 Page 6