When Someone is Afraid to Die: A Story About Dennis
I wasn’t going to tell this story.
In fact, I’ve spent the year since Dennis died reflecting on the experience. Even though most of the stories I share about my bedside work as a death doula are uplifting, that’s not the only type of witnessing I do. Death can be gentle, it can be beautiful, it can be peaceful. But it’s not always those things and death doulas companion all types of death. And that leads us back to Dennis.
Dennis was a handsome man in his mid-sixties who referred to himself as a “silver fox” and appropriately so. Aside from his full head of hair, Dennis had a big toothy smile and he was a consummate flirt. Dennis’ mother reached out to me, a woman in her late 80’s, to come and meet her son. She feared his denial was causing him agitation and wondered if I could help.
When I first entered Dennis’ space, he was laughing loudly on his cell phone. He quickly hung up and set his sights on me. This is a man who was used to moving through the world with charm and jokes and we quickly fell into an amicable rapport. Within 15 minutes, I was perched on the side of his bed, holding his burly hand, and laughing as he regaled me with his stories.
As I laughed, my hair shifted and the top of my “Death Doula” badge peeked out. I saw Dennis’ bright eyes track the movement and saw him mouthing the words to himself as his grip grew firm and his shoulders tensed. “Death. Doula. Death. Doula. Death. Doula.” He was repeating the words to himself as his eyes darted from mine back to the badge, “What does that mean?” I took a steadying breath and spoke quietly, “Doula is an ancient name for servant,” I began, “We can serve at the beginning of life, as birth doulas, or at the end of life, as death doulas.”
His panic grew so immediate and so tangible that it felt like a thing sitting in the hospital bed between us. Dennis’ grip tightened on his bedrails until his knuckles pulsed pink, and his breath became rapid and shallow. His words started off as a plea, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.” The panic mounted and the words became a chant, “I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die.”
I slid off the side of his bed and grounded myself low, kneeling at his side. I placed my cheek against his hand, that I now held in mine. I spoke calmly and quietly, “We’re here now.” To each of his chants, I repeated, “We’re here now.” Eventually, his protest became a whine and then a whisper until finally, “I’m not going to die” transformed into the words that had been buried beneath. Dennis began to sob, big tears rolling into his silver beard, shoulders shaking as his recounted his regrets, his failures, his fears, his grief. As he talked, his breath slowed and his hand started to pet my head, lying on the bed beside him, almost as you’d pet a cat. With me barely saying a word, just breathing deep and slow and repeating back the key phrases, Dennis poured it all out.
When I came back the next day (I was surprised he’d said yes when I offered), Dennis was no longer communicative as he’d entered the active part of his dying process. That night he died. Just 48 hours from when he’d flat out refused to meet death, he did.
In the past year since he’s died, I’ve gone through a truckload of feelings. Initially, I felt guilt; obviously I never want to disrupt the dying days of any person I’m called to serve. But since then, a wiser part of me has found her voice and she reminds me that I’m not the catalyst, simply the companion. I don’t know if Dennis got what he needed out of life, I’m not sure that he ever fully left denial or found his way to accepting that he was dying. I don’t know if it matters. What I do know is that for Dennis, I was a safe witness as he stared the reality of death in the eye, and I sat calmly by his side as he weathered the storm.
I share this story now because it’s the biggest fear of many of the doulas that I train. When they doubt themselves and their ability to do this work, they tell me they don’t know what they’d say if they were in my shoes with Dennis. This year, it’s become clearer to me that there was nothing to say. The work of the death doula is not to have the answer or the fix or the perfect words. The work of the death doula is to offer a steady source of co-regulation as people face the most mysterious of life’s transitions, honoring whatever comes up as belonging and necessary and true, for them.
Today, I created a free guide for my students that I’d like to share to anyone who would find it beneficial. I offer this to you for Dennis and in honor of that charming silver fox who threw this doula for a momentary loop. You can download the guide, “When Someone Is Afraid to Die: 11 Tools for Co-Regulation” here. And if you need a mentor to sort through this beautiful, messy work of companioning the dying with, you’re not in it alone. I’m always here.
Jade Adgate is a death doula, educator, and advocate. Through her work at Farewell Fellowship, Farewell Education, and Farewell Library, she guides others in exploring mortality and cultivating understanding, reflection, wonder and care around life and death.
