I came across an article about shared death experiences but like death, it disappeared quietly. So this somewhat dry Abstract will have to suffice.
Anecdotal evidence suggests that some loved ones and caregivers of dying patients undergo a type of end-of-life phenomena known as a shared death experience or SDE, whereby one feels that one has participated in a dying person’s transition to a post-mortem existence. Anecdotal evidence also suggests that SDEs can have a range of profound psycho-spiritual-emotional effects. However, SDEs have been all but ignored in hospice and palliative medicine, leaving professional bereavement services uninformed about SDEs and leaving individuals who report SDEs without adequate professional support to process and integrate them.
This morning was the first time that I’d ever heard the term “SDEs”. I had 2 Near Death Experiences in November 2018 that were lucid experiences and bizarrely took that shape of floating text messages. Not that shitty flat design from Apple, but the original 3D, embossed look that was wonderful to look at. But SDEs? Never heard of them but now I know what to call my beautiful experience with my mother.
I cry every time I tell someone about it because it was beautiful, powerful, and meaningful. This is the first time that I’m writing about it.
A month before she passed, my gut started screaming her inevitable passing was soon to happen. I wrote it off as my imagination which prompted a quick punch to the gut. The more I rationalized, the more intense the pressure became because I intensely dislike disappointing people. See, I was the lead Navigator for a potentially dangerous hike in Utah. I had the maps, I studied the satellite photos, I read and reread firsthand accounts, checked the weather forecasts weeks ago. I rarely plan anything because I’m Mr. Spontaneous. I’ve had numerous adventures. At least once a year my wife will ask, “Why have we never heard this story before?”
I’ve been given up for dead 3 times, stumbled across a mountain lion den where the only route through house-sized boulders meant a nerve-racking jump that would land me near the entrance if I failed. I survived a monumental ice-fall from the north side of the Great White Throne in Zion and barely escaping the clutches of a mountain lion two days after that. I go off trail as often as I can because if I stay on the trail, I know that I’m 99.997% likely to come back without a scratch. Off trail I’m 100% engaged which has led to some fantastic experiences such as stumbling across the afore-mentioned mountain lion den.
That potentially dangerous hike was down a slot canyon during the hottest time of the year and stormy weather. People were depending on me to lead it, friends who I never want to disappoint.
So…I went with my gut and bailed on my friends.
Always up for an adventure I slept in my car in the middle of the mountains to squeeze in a quick ascent of a 14er, and then went to visit my Mom.
The moment I entered her hospital room I sensed I crossed into another realm, the spirit world if you will. Overwhelmed with grief for her suffering that began 4 months before I was born, I broke down and sobbed. For the first time ever my head touched her bosom as I cried. I held back my tears, waiting her words, “Try not to feel that way” whenever I cried. Instead she stroked my hair as I let go and sobbed the way I probably did the way I was born.
Then a soothing presence washed across my consciousness. It was her mother. She approached gently, as sweet as one can be, and told me how beautiful I was. All of her regret of killing herself on my Mom’s birthday while 5 months pregnant with me was gone from her heart and finally gone from mine. With that, she and my Mom poured all the love that I wondered about but never experience into my heart. When I felt I couldn’t fill up anymore, more of it poured in and then ancestors on her mother’s side joined in, introducing themselves and telling me wonderful things about myself that I also wondered about it.
Her father, a tool and die maker, gifted me with the precision of his occupation, informing me to use my raven-like mind with love and kindness.
Five hours passed like 5 minutes. My father called. My mother asked if I wanted to see him. I shook my head ‘no’ and was surprised that it wasn’t 5 hours, but eight. The sun was soon to set.
My mother died too young due to the way her sociopathic husband, my father, treated her. How do you not tell your wife once “I love you”? My siblings and I never heard those 3 words once in our entire lives. Just a few years ago my brother was shattered at the loss of his daughter, but what made our father cry wasn’t the death of my niece or mother, it was the death of his companion dog. That totally enraged my brother and sent him spiralling further into the bottle. Socially acceptable and utterly useless, alcohol and relationships have never mixed. Today we call it a mental health issue as if spending money talking with a stranger or getting a prescription can buy one love.
That was 22 years ago. Only yesterday did I find a name for it: Shared Death Experiences.
