The Good Shepherd

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I would like to say something about breath pacing, and about texts that we can recite to a dying Person.
I knew Mrs. Seiberth, and we had liked each other. I knew that she was a religious woman and that she wished that her son would come and see her. Asked why he doesn’t come she said: “He’s living far away. – But also, he is afraid of seeing me so sick.” When I was visiting her now she was in coma. She looked into an empty space. With every breath she made a coughing sound. I put my hands on her arm. Calm and slowly, with long pauses in the pace of her breath I recited the psalm of the good shepherd. Her breath went calmer and the coughing noise went silent. But at the words “thy rod and staff they comfort me” the coughing came back. Maybe they reminded her of something that made her sad? The concept of systematic desensitation of fears came to my mind. So I repeated these very words so often in a very calm and friendly tone till the coughing disappeared again. Then I continued. At the words “in the presence of my enemies” the coughing came back. I did the same procedure of repeating the words in a friendly tone till the coughing was gone and she was breathing calmly. At the words “Goodness and mercy will follow me all my life” her breath got even calmer. So I repeated these words many times till it got even calmer. I finished the Psalm and said “I would like to say bye-bye now.” Immediately the coughing noise came back and continued with every breath. “I will come back, I will come back, I will come back…” I said, and the noise disappeared. The next day I visited her I read the same psalm to her. Her breath was calm and silent all the time. Only when I said that now I would leave the coughing noise came back. “I come again, I come again, I come again…” I said till it was calm again. The next day I was about ninety minutes later than on the previous days. Entering her room I saw a man who introduced himself as her son. “She’s died an hour ago.” He said. „Was she still alive when you came?“ „Yes“, he said. (Stefan Hammel, Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling, Karnac, London 2017/18)

The Cloak Room

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Noticing that the man I mentioned yesterday died so soon after my visit I got curious about the effectivity of the cloak room metaphor.

I remember I was called to the bed of a dying woman. When I arrived she was breathing about once per minute. I didn’t know that a person could breathe so little and still be alive. Her daughter and her son in law were there. I asked if it were appropriate to speak a prayer, to which they said “Yes”. After telling the dying woman that her daughter and son in law were there, who I was and what I was going to do I put my hand on her arm and spoke a prayer. Then I said to her: “I would like to tell you something, Mrs. S. I imagine there’s a door. When it will be the right time for you, you can go through that door. Next to the door there’s a cloak room. There’s someone who can have an eye on your things so they’re safe. It’s a special wardrobe. You can had in anything that’s a burden to you.
If you’re afraid – take it off. You don’t need any fear over there.
If you’re sad – hand it in. For what? You don’t have any use for that now.
If you bear a grudge or haven’t forgiven someone – hang it on the big wardrobe.
If you feel obliged to anything – take it off.
If you think you need to stay – there’s nothing you need to! If you want, give it to the one who’s standing there for guarding it.
If you think there’s still something left to do or that there’s anything missing – hand it in to the one who will guard it for you.
If there’s anything unpleasant in your body – give it to him as well.
If there’s any problem with breathing – give it to him as well.
If there’s anything else you would like to give to him – hand in anything that you don’t need any more.
Give him anything that has become a burden for you. Take it off. You don’t need it any more. And when you notice that it’s time for you, go through the door.” I finished with a blessing.
During the prayer the breath frequency of the woman had gon up to about six breaths per minutes, and thus it stayed for a while. Her daughter and son-in-law were observing her breath silently. The silence felt somewhat heavy for me and I had the imagination it could be the same for the dying woman. So I asked: “Can you tell me what happened so your mother got in this state?” The daughter said a few sentences. Her mother’s breath got very slow again. After five breaths there was a very tiny one. Then everything was still. (Stefan Hammel, Loslassen und leben. Impress, Mainz 2016)
I’ve used this metaphor a number of times now. Often the effect seemed to be very strong. The structure is thus: There’s door and a cloak room and an attendant next to it. You say: Whatever burdens you concerning the past: Hand it in. This can be specified as a bad conscience or anger against someone else or sadness about something that happened. Whatever burdens you concerning the future: Hand it in. This could be specified as worries about the relatives or about what comes after death. Whatever burdens you concerning the present, hand it in. This could for example be specified as a discomfort of the body (pain) or breathing problems.

You Can Love Me from the Other Side

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Having learnt that dying people may well notice when their relatives decide to let go of them and, if you will, allow them to go, I more and more integrated the theme of „letting go“ in my work with dying people.

I remember being at the dying bed of a man. His wife was next to him. They knew each other only since two years and had been very happy with each other. He had been inspired by her Christian faith and had adapted more and more of it for himself. I had met him in a clear state some days ago. Now he was in coma. I told him about about a coat rack for his troubles… that he could imagine the cloak room of God where he could lay down anything that would burden him. He could take off any fear or grieve and it would be taken care of. After that his wife said that he could let go and that she could let go and that he could express his love to her also when he is on the other side and that he could care for her from over there. A quarter of an hour later he died without struggle.
I kept her intervention in mind which is summarized: “You can love me and care for me from the other side”. Sometimes I say to people: “What is going to come is just the invisible second part of your live together.” The difference which this makes both for the ones who leave and for those who stay is remarkable.

Letting Go of Life

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From my experience as a chaplain I see a lot of evidence that the ears of the dying are open till the last seconds. They may not be conscious. Maybe they’re like dreaming. But certainly they hear us and it makes a lot of difference what we say to them.
I remember being at the dying bed of a man. All the members of his family were assembled: His wife, his children and children in law, his brothers and sisters and grandchildren. Some of them were crying strongly. The man was breathing in short, quick, strong inhalations with long pauses between each breath and the next. I was wondering what he could understand of what was going on. He looked as if he were sleeping. Probably he was under a high dose of Morphine. I couldn’t detect any reaction in his face. When I prayed for him at the side of the dying bed I included a prayer that God may give both him and his family the ability of letting go while being aware of all the good that would rest with them. After the prayer there was a little silence. Then his daughter said: “Letting go is so hard. But I have heard that only when you let go of what you love it will really belong to you.” Then she looked over to her father and said: “He’s not breathing any more.” (Stefan Hammel, Loslassen und leben. Impress, Mainz 2016)

On the Effects of Last Rites

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In my work as a chaplain I have been at many dying beds. I find it notable that people don’t want to call the pastor unless their Family member is really dying. Maybe they think that when the pastor’s been there, there’s no way back. You could take that as a superstition. But there’s some evidence that they may be right. I’ve seen people survive when the medical staff said they would die in the next few hours. I’ve seen one person survive for three days after the doctor told the relatives that according to brain death diagnostics the patient is already dead. I have not seen a single person survive after the pastor was there for a last prayer. I remember saying to a colleague: “I’ve always got a bad conscience. I feel as if I’m killing these people with my prayers. They all die within hours after I’ve been there.” He replied: “Oh, you as well?”
I remember being at a dying bed of an old woman. She was in coma, had an oxigene mask but still had trouble breating. There were about eight relatives around her bed, a tight-knit family clan. I spoke with them and I did a little ceremony. When I spoke the Lord’s prayer everyone spoke it with me real loud. It was quite a powerful experience. After I left the room one of the relatives said to me: “Did you see? When you came her heart rate was at 90 but during the Lord’s prayer it was at 140.” The nurse said: “It can take hours or days, we don’t know.” I remember answering: “It’s a strange thing. Mostly people die within hours after these prayers.” She left that uncommented. 15 min later I got a phone call that the lady had died and the relatives wanted to see me once again. The same nurse opened the door. “I had to think of your words”, she said.

Luís

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Yo todavía era niño. Pero también si hubiera sido mayor, no habría podido decir como el carpa se hubiera explicado a si mismo su curioso viaje. Es que algunos amigos míos se habían permitido una jugarreta con él. De noche, clandestinamente lo habían sacado de su estanque con una red. Lo habían llevado en un cubo a través de bosques y campos por muchos kilómetros. La piscina en el jardín de mis padres debería ser su nuevo hogar. Tengo que admitir: No fue poco nuestro asombro cuando lo vimos nadando sus rondas en el agua. Me parece que fue en septiembre. Ya no se echaba cloro al agua, la temporada de nadar casi se había acabado. Entonces pez y ser humano ya no se hacían tanta competencia el uno al otro, y así Luís, como lo llamamos, podía quedarse allí por el momento. Vino el invierno y con él una espesa capa de hielo.
En la primavera, el agua fue cambiada. Como se puso en manifiesto , Luís había superado bien el invierno. El consejo familiar acordó devolverlo a su hogar. Otra vez Luís fue despachado en un cubo. Lo más grande que pudimos encontrar era un cubo ya inservible de pintura. Siguiendo caminos de bosque y de campo, nos fuimos para devolverlo a sus amigos y familiares. En el cubo, Luís dio sus vueltas, en círculos bastante pequeños, porque había crecido durante el invierno, y un viejo cubo de pintura no es una casa señorial para un carpa. Encima de eso, la mitad del agua se nos derramó a lo largo del camino. Pero finalmente llegamos. Con un empuje Luís acabó en su estanque para reencontrar sus viejos conocidos. Lo que hizo después fue muy sorprendente: Luís dio sus vueltas allí, pero lo hizo como que si no se encontrara en un estanque sino en un pequeño cubo, como antes. Trazó seis o siete círculos de un diámetro inferior a medio metro. Después los círculos se convirtieron en una espiral, estrecha al inicio y ampliándose más y más. Finalmente Luís comprendió donde se encontraba. En una larga línea se disparó fuera de su órbita de cubo.

(Por Stefan Hammel, traducción: Bettina Betz)

El cine a través del escaparate

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Llovía. No había clase. Como cada sábado por la mañana, ella estaba detrás del mostrador de cristal donde se exponían panecillos, pasteles y otros productos de panadería y de pastelería para la venta. A través del escaparate veía como el viento barría las hojas de los arboles revoloteándolas por la calle.
Delante de la tienda una mujer luchó con su paraguas. Encima, en el escaparate, había una inscripción con letras gruesas que decía: “Panadería Müller”, en escritura invertida, desde luego, para alguien que lo leyese desde adentro. Cuando ella estaba sola y no tenía que atender a clientes, le gustaba imaginarse que este escaparate fuera una pantalla de cine y que lo que veía detrás de él fuera solo una película.
En su fantasía entonces cambiaba la escena. Los coches se volvían en carruajes, las hojas en pájaros y, por ejemplo, esta mujer con el paraguas se convertía en su madre luchando contra un dragón furioso. Especialmente esta imagen le divertía mucho. Su madre, que lo entendía todo mal, que malinterpretaba sus palabras, que sabía convertir lo bueno en malo y lo malo en bueno, probablemente también hubiera podido superar un combate contra un dragón furioso o por lo menos hubiera conseguido un empate. Hasta el próximo combate.
La mujer con el paraguas había desaparecido hace tiempo. Ahora ella se imaginaba, pues, qué le gustaría escribir en el escaparate en lugar de la palabra aburrida: “Panadería Müller”. ¿Qué tal si fuera “eres importante para mí”, “de todas formas te quiero” o “me enojo contigo porque te quiero”? O quizás también: “Te enojo …”. Sonreía un poco pensando en esto. Se figuró el efecto que tuviera esta inscripción en la gran luna del escaparate. Toda la gente que pasara por la panadería podría leerla, también su madre. Ella se figuraba entonces la inscripción: “Eres importante para mí”. ¿Podría su madre finalmente entenderla entonces a ella? Se la imaginó parada delante del escaparate, frunciendo y meneando la cabeza. Entonces se le ocurrió la idea: “Tienes que colocar tus palabras en escritura invertida.”

(Por Stefan Hammel, traducción: Bettina Betz)

Snail and Vole

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A story by Katharina Lamprecht…

A vole watched a snail, which dipsy-doodled along a path and asked her: “Why do you crawl so arduously back and forth? Doing that it takes you much longer to get forward”. The snail sighed. “That’s true, but I always look on both sides of the path for something to eat. When I´m on the left side I keep thinking, that there might be better food on the right. When I´m on the right side I think the same and therefore go back to the left. I´m always afraid that I will overlook some yummy greens”. The vole understood perfectly. “I´ll help you. I´m a big taller than you are and walk in the middle of the path, that´s a good lookout. You can stay on the right side and in case I see something worth coming over to the left, I´ll let you know”. And in this way they went on. The vole saw many lush and juicy herbs on the left side, but it didn’t say a word. Because now, giving all her attention to just one side of the path, the snail found enough treats. After a while, as the snail discovered that she found enough to eat, she thanked the vole for the help and went on by herself. Just following her path.

La flor en la isla

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En una pequeña isla en medio del océano extenso crecía una hermosa flor amarilla de oro. Nadie sabía cómo había llegado allí, porque en esta isla no había ninguna flor aparte de ella. Las gaviotas venían volando para contemplar este milagro con asombro. “Es linda como el sol”, decían. Los peces venían nadando. Levantaban las cabezas encima del agua para admirarla. “Es linda como un coral”, decían. Un cangrejo salió a la tierra para mirarla. “Es linda como una perla en el suelo del mar”, dijo. Y todos venían casi cada día para admirar esta flor.

Un día, cuando volvieron para contemplar la flor, se encontraron con que los pétalos dorados de la flor se habían vuelto marones y secos. “Ay de nosotros”, dijeron las gaviotas, los peces y el cangrejo. “El sol quemó nuestra flor. ¿Quién ahora nos refrescará el corazón?”. Y todos se pusieron tristes.

Pero algunos días más tarde apareció en lugar de la flor una maravillosa bola de color blanco tierno. “¿Qué es eso?”, preguntaron los animales. “Es tan blando como una nube”, dijeron las gaviotas. “Es tan ligero como la espuma de las olas”, dijeron los peces. “Es tan fino como el resplandor del sol en la arena”, dijo el cangrejo. Y todos los animales se alegraron.

En este momento un golpe de viento barrió la isla y sopló este milagro blanco dispersándolo por ella en miles de copos. “Ay de nosotros”, hablaron las gaviotas, los peces y el cangrejo. “El viento ha dispersado nuestra bola. ¿Qué alegrará nuestro ánimo ahora?” Y todos estaban tristes entonces.

Un día por la mañana, al levantarse el sol sobre la mar, allí en la luz dorada matinal relucieron cientos y cientos de hermosas flores color amarillo de oro. Entonces bailaron las gaviotas en el cielo y los peces en el agua, y el cangrejo bailó con sus amigos una danza de rueda en medio de las flores, y todos se alegraron.

(Por Stefan Hammel, traducción: Bettina Betz)

Midsummer Night’s Dream

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Another beautiful story by Katharina Lamprecht…

One day, it was Midsummer and the Swedish days where as long as the dinner table for the king’s birthday. A wise old moose on his evening stroll met a young boy, sitting on a moss covered tree trunk, sobbing deeply. The old moose stopped and looked at the boy who did not notice him because of all his despair. Not until the moose nudged him with his soft muzzle did the boy raise his eyes. And just in front of him he saw the big brown eyes of the moose. He saw in those eyes all the stars in the heavens that he could not see before on this Midsummer night. So big, so deep and so endless the eyes seemed to be that he got the feeling he could just take a walk right into them. The stars where so beautiful, like jewels, iridescent and glittering in all colors he could imagine, scattered like the crumbles on grandma’s apple-pie, big ones and small ones, thick and thin ones, each of them meaningful and unique. At the sight of all those treasures the boy got the feeling he was surrounded by good friends, who bestowed upon him potency and love.

So they stood for a long time and looked at each other, the young boy and the old moose. Then the moose blew his warm and soft breath through the boy’s hair, turned around and faded into the forest. The boy looked after him for a long time, as if in trance, and only after a while did he discover that his infinite sadness had transformed. It was still there but all of a sudden there was also a happiness and cheerfulness. And he somehow felt that this had something to do with the stars he had seen in the fathomless eyes of the old moose.

He turned around and walked back home. And whistling happily away he kicked at the stones that laid on his way.