I'm A Death Doula: How Death Makes Me View "Imperfections" Differently

When I'm called to a bedside, my clients and their families often believe that I know every single thing there is to know about death and dying. But despite the countless hours I have spent with people as they prepare for death, there are many things I will never understand.

Who could? Certainly not the scientists, philosophers, or sidewalk preachers among us. They are all still alive. The near-death-experience people? They got to the lobby of death and turned right back around. Death doulas like me? We're still alive too. I can read all the books and get close to death a thousand times over, but without experiencing it firsthand, I'm just as curious and clueless as the next living person.

Bodies tell our story. At the end of our lives, they give away clues about the type of life we lived. My clients' faces often reveal how they moved through the world.

For example, Jonathan's deep furrows in the middle of his brow suggested skepticism and inquisitiveness. He had been an astronomer, and the only bit of flooring visible in his home was the path from his living room to his bedroom. The rest was covered in stacks of glossy science magazines. He stubbornly refused his reading glasses to read them. His constant squinting was visible in his face, even when it was at rest. 

A former dancer named Elizabeth, bedbound for three years after multiple knee and hip replacements, had deep smile lines around her mouth with a matching pair around her eyes, stretching upward into her temples and toward the sun. They told of exuberant joy in her life. Even in her final weeks alive, she giggled like she was falling in love. 

Frowns, disapproval, and sadness sat in Ernst's jowls. At a diminutive 4 feet 8 inches in height, he was as crotchety as old men come, only allowing me to visit because his daughters insisted. He seemed to delight exclusively in his grandson's obsession with trains, which he also shared.

Ernst constantly looked like there was rotting fish in the room unless his grandson was around. Edward's upper arms, torso, and thighs were covered in tattoos. He was a big-time corporate lawyer who headed up a motorcycle club in the suburbs where he lived. He left his calves and forearms un-inked because of golf vacations with the associates at his firm. 

And then there's my body. I hope that when I die, my body says that I danced, enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face, and loved both squats and french fries.