Accompanying a loved-one on his final journey

Well done Uncle, well done 

This summer, I had the unexpected honor of accompanying my uncle through the final days of his life, becoming an impromptu death doula. This is a personal account of accompanying a loved one through his final days, including some of the spiritual experiences and unexpected moments of peace I encountered along the way. I share it in the hope that it may bring comfort, encouragement, and perhaps a little more understanding of one of life’s greatest mysteries.

My Mum and I were visiting him at his care home during some of the hottest summer days in Germany. He had stopped eating a few days earlier, could no longer leave his bed or speak, and his gaze seemed to be directed somewhere far beyond us. I stayed by his side for three days until he took his last breath.

It was a first for me and a deeply humbling experience. Dying truly is the last great, if not the greatest, journey of our lives.

 

Between Two Worlds

When I entered the room and sat by his side, I noticed that his process of leaving this world had begun. He was gazing beyond the physical, toward what appeared to be a dimly lit garden path. He was an avid jazz pianist, and I noticed that his right foot, which mainly operated the piano pedal, was twitching a lot. Was he playing a sweet symphony? I could hope so! Or was it an automatic movement caused by muscle memory, after practicing this art for one to two hours daily for a good 80-plus years? When I spoke to him, I felt he was visibly relaxing, although I’m not sure who received more comfort from it, my uncle or myself.

The next day, my Mum and I visited in the morning. I noticed that his breathing had changed. He was breathing with more difficulty. His body felt more tense. The nurses had already looked after him, and he was on an IV drip. We took turns sitting by his side. Speaking softly. Massaging his feet. Moisturizing his lips. What does someone who is between worlds really need to be comfortable and make a smooth transition? And what does that look like exactly?

I went back in the evening by myself. His piano foot was no longer twitching, and his body was more relaxed. I spent time in silence, and I was so glad there wasn’t too much commotion around him. I was trying to find clues about what was happening so I could help him as best I could, reading his energy and the room while staying present and bringing a sense of calm and peace into the space. It was then that I noticed my grandparents in the room with us. Their loving kindness filled the room. Was it my imagination, I wondered? Were they really there to help their son to the other side?

My own near-death experience had left me with a deep conviction that guardian spirits are present to welcome us to the other side. Clearly, I was witnessing how the veils between the physical world and the celestial realms had become very translucent, as the physical world was increasingly disappearing in the rearview mirror. It is so comforting to get glimpses beyond, to feel the ultimate peace and immense compassion from the Light that never fades, stripping away all the facades and going home.

Nothing much had visibly changed for my uncle. Around 2 a.m., I checked in with the night nurse and left, making sure he knew we would be back in the morning. Would he be gone by then, simply whisked away in his sleep? I didn’t know the answer. Whatever path he was going to take was between him and the Divine. That I knew for sure and trusted. I was praying for his peaceful passing.

 

An Unexpected Turn

Saturday morning, we had planned to visit my uncle and then drive home, but the day was off to a tumultuous start. Saying goodbye to her beloved brother was understandably difficult for my Mum, and we needed a little more time before leaving the hotel.

I was getting restless, as I knew there was an urgency to go back. I didn’t know why exactly; I just knew we had to return to the care home that morning, around 10 a.m. At the same time, I had to remain calm to support my Mum while staying laser-focused. Everyone was impacted by the heat wave, and I knew it was a time to be extra vigilant, to hold my uncle in his passing process and support my Mum while managing my own grief, energy levels, and sense of time.

On our way to the care home, when we were about five minutes away, I had to pull to the side to let emergency services pass. I instantly had a silent knowing that they were coming for my uncle. My Mum said she didn’t think so. Sure enough, they were heading up the hill toward the care home.

I felt an increasing urgency to reach the care home, while also being mindful of my Mum’s needs and the exhausting heat. We were moving at different paces, and I was trying to navigate the situation with patience and determination. Parking was almost impossible to find on the hill, so I told her I would drop her off, park the car at the bottom of the hill, and walk back up. I asked her to go ahead quickly to his room to make sure they didn’t disturb his parting process. The more I tried to smoothly organize what I could see unfolding ahead of us, the more resistance I met. I became utterly silent and mapped out the ideal path in my head.

As I arrived at the top of the hill to drop my mother off, the emergency services vehicle was parked in front of the care home. She said she wasn’t able to rush because of the heat. I wasn’t willing to let this derail my determination to arrive in time. I also made sure she didn’t feel ignored, because who was I to judge an 87-year-old under such circumstances? At that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a parking space, a prime spot in the first row. I couldn’t believe it, and at the same time, I felt immense relief and support for our endeavor.

It required a very daring swerve to the left, which I executed smoothly, slipping into the parking space as if a master driver had taken control of my steering wheel. After walking my Mum to the entrance and helping her to the elevator, I ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time to the first floor, and darted into my uncle’s room. The EMTs had already positioned the stretcher outside the room and started spreading out their gear on the floor.

“He is going nowhere!” was all I could blurt out while catching my breath.

They spun around on their heels. The manager of the care home entered the room apologetically, explaining that my uncle had a high fever and she had to call emergency services. I acknowledged her efforts, keeping my eyes on my uncle while speaking to the EMTs.

Meanwhile, his room was filling with six people: two EMTs with their massive backpacks, the care home nurse, the care home manager, my Mum, and me, all crowding around my uncle. I took my position at the end of his bed, massaging his feet and grounding him in the room. I explained who we were.

His legal guardian was off on Saturdays, and the living will was nowhere to be found in his medical file. A classic, I thought. All the things you hear can happen in someone’s final moments were surfacing. I knew I wasn’t in a position to make a medical assessment. What I could do was share what we knew about my uncle, explain my concerns about transferring him, and ask the medical team to consider whether he could remain peacefully in familiar surroundings.

While the EMTs performed their routine checks and waited for the emergency doctor to arrive, I managed to establish a conversation. They started asking the nurse and me questions about him. Very calmly, I shared how I had experienced him around Christmas, when I visited him while he was still living at home, bringing Christmas goodies and a home-cooked meal from my Mum. My Mum was able to contribute details about his medical history before he was admitted to the care home.

We had been strangers a minute earlier and had organically merged into a support group for my uncle.

The medical team and care home nurse stepped aside to discuss his condition and the appropriate course of care. Following their assessment, they concluded that my uncle could remain in the familiar surroundings of the care home and receive palliative care. I felt immense relief.

The doctor instructed the nurse to remove the IV drip and administered morphine subcutaneously. He spoke gently to my uncle, and his final words to him were, “I wish you a good journey.” It was then that I understood how near the end truly was. He turned to my Mum and me and said, “I have hardly seen such sensibility from family members.” He thanked us, and subsequently everyone left the room.

 

Making Space for Good-Bye

We needed a break. My Mum needed to eat something and wanted to go home. I didn’t want to leave my uncle behind in his last hours, but I was also my Mum’s driver. What was the best thing to do? I weighed the options, each with its respective outcomes.

I decided to arrange a car service for my Mum’s three-hour journey back to her house and stay with my uncle. We went to a nearby bakery to have a little lunch. I gently introduced her to the idea of taking a car service and was met with disappointment at first. She had been looking forward to driving back with her daughter visiting from the States, not a stranger.

Over a cappuccino, a glass of water, and a buttered pretzel, we talked through the arrangements until we both felt comfortable with the decision. I made the call.

She walked back to my uncle’s room one last time to say her goodbyes to her beloved brother. It was a very tender moment for me to witness my fierce mother being so gentle and enveloped in so much love as she kissed her brother on the cheek.

I remember the day my Mum picked up the phone when my uncle called in a panic because my grandfather had suffered a heart episode. That was 40 years ago, and it was the only time I remember my uncle being so agitated and at a loss about what to do. And now it was his turn to leave. Where did the time go?

I offered my Mum my arm, and we went downstairs together to meet the driver. I had informed the car service that they would be receiving an 87-year-old lady, grieving and leaving her dying brother behind. The driver took care to introduce himself beyond the superficial, explained the route he would take, and reconfirmed the negotiated fare. We all felt very comfortable with one another in this rather bizarre moment.

Then he helped my Mum into the car and made sure she was seated comfortably. I wished them smooth travels, entrusted her to the driver’s care, and watched the yellow Toyota RAV4 slowly disappear down the hill. I was relieved, to say the least, that my Mum was well taken care of.

I went to the supermarket and bought a bouquet of colorful, vibrant roses for my uncle. I chose hues of white, yellow, orange, and rose. I thought a burst of freshness would be uplifting for his otherwise plain room.

Then I stepped into the unknown.

 

The Unseen Dimensions of Passing

It was impossible for me to hold his hand comfortably while seated on a chair much lower than the care bed without putting a strain on his body or having my arm go numb. I decided to sit halfway upright on the bed, right next to his body, our legs touching.

I could feel his high temperature through the thin blanket. His body was hotter than the ambient temperature of the room, which was already very hot. It was the only time I noticed anything about my own body: I was sweaty. Since my Mum and her loving, reassuring presence had left, I felt a little alone for a split second. I gathered myself, and my focus returned solely to him.

The carers had checked on him and, following the emergency doctor’s recommendation, applied oxygen through a nasal cannula. The oxygen machine, placed between the nightstand and the upper part of the bed, had a rather boring rhythm, adding a monotonous melody to the whole scene. Luckily, it wasn’t too noisy.

I checked my uncle’s temperature frequently by gently touching his arms and applying cool washcloths to his forearms and forehead. I had to change them often. His body was piping hot. He clearly had a high fever and appeared to be fighting an infection of some sort.

Upon yet another return from the bathroom, equipped with cool cloths, I experienced the atmosphere as unsettled and felt a strong impulse to bring greater clarity and peace into the room. Now, I am a space clearer and have seen worse. As I settled beside him, I perceived what felt like a question arising from somewhere beyond my ordinary awareness: What do you think you are doing here?

Fair question, I thought to myself. What am I doing here?

Over the years, I have learned a lot about the workings of subtle energy bodies, transforming ordinary mental consciousness, perceiving other people’s energy bodies, and, of course, navigating spaces beyond the physical dimension. But this was new land for me. I sat up straighter and tuned in above my head, looking for inspiration about what was best for my uncle right now.

It was then that I noticed the blanket flapping up and down at the bottom of his feet, and a sense of urgency overcame me. Since I was in physical contact with his legs, I could feel that no part of his body had moved.

He was lying motionless with his arms folded over his tummy. The only movement was his breath gently moving his chest up and down. His face was very smooth, as though he had just had a facelift, and I made sure to watch for any frowns on his forehead that might signal discomfort. I had massaged his feet earlier, and they were already motionless. I felt a strong need to do something.

I didn’t have my space clearing gear with me, and clapping the room was out of the question, as I needed to keep it as quiet as possible. But there is always something you can do.

I began engaging a helix motion from my first chakra downward, grounding the room and drawing on tools from my clearing practice for working with what I understand as elemental energies. At the same time, from my seventh chakra, I uplifted the room with unwavering attention beyond the mere realms of the care home.

I extended my consciousness into every corner of the room and flooded it with clarity and love. I made a clear, silent, and fierce declaration to whatever I perceived as unsettling in the room: this space, with immediate effect, was under my care and divine guidance, for my uncle and nothing else.

His eyes were almost closed, and I encouraged him to let go. I was a little anxious for him to move beyond his strained breathing. I demonstrated how to let go by breathing deeply and actively. I inhaled deeply and made a noticeable sigh as I breathed out, releasing and feeling that release in my own body.

I offered him encouragement. I cheered him on to let go of the strained breathing that had been going on for over two days. This had a very unsettling effect on me. How exhausting it must have been for him! I knew his personality well. I knew what to speak to. Not empty words, but a few meaningful words tailored to him.

Disciplined, trim, optimistic yet realistic. Always on the lookout for something interesting. He had a slender frame and stunning blue eyes and always walked through life as light as a feather, as if he were barely touching the ground. Free-spirited, witty, and charming. Bright and alert. He knew how to engage people and make them laugh. I never once saw him stuck in sadness.

He had been a great inspiration to me, especially during my corporate career.

“Pass 100 days without judgment.”

The best piece of advice he could have given me as a beginner. He knew my drive to change things around could have been perceived as criticism and might have cost me the beginning of my career. So I developed the skill of listening, observing, and absorbing instead. By following his advice, I was well served.

I realized how much I resonated with his personality, his way of living and thinking, and how similar we were in many respects. It was a profound realization that only struck me then and there, sitting next to my dying uncle.

I knew this precious moment had been presented to me so I could also let him go. As painful as it was, I knew this would make his parting easier. I didn’t know what to expect, and I wanted to be as helpful as possible in assisting him through his dying process. Time was running out, and I had only one try.

I was looking for inspiration, leafing through Death – The Great Journey, which my spiritual teacher had written for moments like these. I opened the document on my phone and was swiftly overwhelmed by its more than 300 pages and my inability to remember the name and location of the chapter containing the recommended passage of spiritual text suitable for this moment. Plus, the small print on my phone was straining my eyes, which I didn’t want to take off my uncle.

Well, that was a tough and sobering moment, knowing there was a useful tool that I couldn’t use. I decided it was a waste of time to lament over it or blame myself. Better to rely on what I knew and could do. I wasn’t sure how much time was left, and I knew I didn’t have enough time for another attempt. Crumble or stand up? Stand up!

I turned to AI.

I explained the situation to Chat in a few words. I was astounded by the swift and warm response. It explained that the intervals between his breaths could become longer and his breathing more sparse. This put me at ease.

Then the door opened, and the carer came in to check on him and change him. A doctor had been announced to be on his way for the evening round. He had been expected at 5 p.m., and the clock now showed 7:30 p.m.

Where had the time gone?

I hadn’t noticed how much time had passed since returning to his room at 1:20 p.m. I stepped aside to let them do their work swiftly and noticed the strain on my uncle’s face as his body was touched and lifted.

The doctor’s visit was very short, and I tried to think of anything important I needed to ask, something I might regret not asking later. How would I notice when the morphine was running low? Pharmacies were closed on a Saturday evening, the doctor didn’t carry any with him, and there was none in the care home. I asked what I should do.

The night nurse said there was a supply belonging to another patient, and they could spare some if needed. I could let go of that worry. The doctor spoke to my uncle as though he were still responsive, which I found very soothing. He wished him a blessed journey.

I was left alone in the room with my uncle. Night began to fall, and I could hear the whispering of the linden tree leaves from the plaza below.

The linden trees reminded me of my childhood days at my grandmother’s and how she would sing to me at bedtime. My uncle was used to being around excellent and talented singers, and I became very aware of my untrained, scratchy voice.

Was it more important to bring him comfort, or should I let this opportunity pass because I was judging my voice? It took me a while, as the memory made me homesick and I missed my grandmother. My throat was tightening. I hoped that hearing the familiar melody and lyrics would bring him comfort regardless.

I started humming the song to my uncle, hesitantly at first, then more confidently. I could feel him ever so slightly squeeze my hand. He recognized something, and it really moved me. The temperature eased, and a little breeze drifted into the room.

 

The Final Breath

After some time, my uncle made a deep sigh. I had been encouraging him to let go, and witnessing that moment filled me with hope that his struggle was easing.

Very shortly afterward, his head tilted vigorously backward, and his eyes opened wide, revealing his sparkling blue eyes one last time. He was looking straight up at the ceiling, as if he knew where he was going. I had shared with him that afternoon my own experiences of visiting the other side, and I felt that he recognized where his journey was taking him.

Everything unfolded extremely quickly from then on. His chin moved back a little toward his chest. I caressed his hand and gently disconnected from him, releasing his hand.

His breathing became less and less frequent. I saw silvery, shimmering strings coming out of his mouth. Was he breathing out his last remaining life force? His breaths became progressively quieter.

Then he was down to his last breath. I told him he was the lucky one, being able to depart, and that we all still had it ahead of us.

“We love you so much, Uncle, and thank you for everything.”

His closed eyes moved inward, and he was gone.

I sat very still, tears streaming down my face. My heart was pounding. I was filled with pain, grief, love, and immense gratitude that it was over.

What a beautiful parting.

It was dark outside, but the room was filled with luminescent light and ultimate peace from the other side.

Well done, Uncle. Well done.

After a long while, my bladder demanded my attention, and I went to the bathroom, rinsed the tears off my face, and let the fresh, cold water stream over my wrists, respecting the still atmosphere with reverence.

I went back out and picked a white rose from the bouquet, which I placed on his pillow. He looked so peaceful, and I was so happy for him. I sat by his side in silence for a good 30 minutes. Then I went out to find the night nurse.

Three nurses came at once. They knew my uncle and were pleasantly surprised by how smoothly he had been able to depart. One nurse said he looked so peaceful, as though he had lived life well. Another said it was so rare to see a relative so engaged with someone who was dying, as they had noticed me being around for the last few days.

The nurses had never heard him play the piano for the residents in the evenings. I had been told earlier that, when he was still able to, he was wheeled to the piano in his wheelchair and entertained the residents of the care home.

I pulled out my phone and searched for a short piece I had recorded of him playing for me back in December on his grand white piano at home. At the end, he looked up from the keys with a big smile. So typical of him, his wide, enchanting smile that made everyone around him feel better.

We were all joyful, standing around my uncle, celebrating him, his life, and his departure. The nurses propped the window wide open. They would lock the room, and nobody would enter except for the coroner, although it was unclear when that would be, probably not until the next day, which was Sunday.

I was at ease knowing he would be able to rest a while longer before being moved, as undertakers don’t work on Sundays.

Now it was time for me to take care of myself. As exceptional and sacred as this experience had been, I could feel exhaustion kicking in. I wasn’t able to make the three-hour drive back to my parents’ home.

I hoped the hotel I had checked out of that morning would have a room for me so I could take a shower and get some sleep.

I took one last glance at the body of my departed uncle, thanked the nurses, and walked slowly into the dark, cooling night. By the time I left the care home, it was almost 11 p.m.

 

Reflections Beyond

As I drove toward the hotel, I found myself contemplating life’s great mysteries.

Life is a miracle. Is parting from this world meant to be equally glorious? Is the way we enter this world somehow connected to the way we leave it?

What does a dying person truly need? Do they wish to have someone by their side, or would they rather make this final journey alone? How can we know?

What difference does it make to a dying person to be visited by a doctor who is clearly a person of faith? Is every ending as unique as the life we have lived, perhaps allowing us to complete the lessons we came here to learn?

And beyond the moment of leaving our human form behind, what greater mysteries are still awaiting us, yet to unfold?

With Love,