The Book of Two Ways

by Jodi Picoult

Death is scary and confusing and painful, and facing it alone shouldn’t be the norm. I realized I could do something about that.

Doula is Greek for “woman who serves”—and just as birth doulas know that there’s discomfort and pain that can be managed during labor, death doulas do the same at the other end of the life spectrum.

There is a sense of completion in coming into the arms of the person who has held you for fifteen years, like rolling into the softest spot of the mattress or answering the last clue of the Sunday crossword. It’s heat from the fireplace filling the room. It’s the homing pigeon, spying its roost.

“Everyone’s surprised by death, which is kind of ridiculous, when you think about it. It’s not exactly a spoiler. But I think that what really shocked me is how many people can’t see the shape of the life they’ve lived until they get to the very end of it.

I know it feels crass to talk about death in such mercenary terms, but that’s the very problem with death in the first place. We don’t know how to talk about it. We use euphemisms and discuss pearly gates and angels while glossing over the fact that we have to die to get there. We treat it like a mystery, when in fact, it’s the one experience all of us are guaranteed to share.

Things you shouldn’t do when someone is dying:

Don’t talk about when your aunt or your grandmother or your dog died. This isn’t about you,

Don’t say things that aren’t true: You’re going to beat this cancer! It’s all about a positive outlook! You look stronger! You aren’t fooling anyone.

Don’t think you have to discuss the illness.

Don’t be afraid of the silence.

Everyone is afraid of saying the wrong thing. It’s more important to be there than to be right.

Appreciate what you have now, because there may be no tomorrow. If your life span is decreasing every day, what are you doing now to appreciate what you have left? What gives your life meaning?”

What’s the point of life, if not to accumulate knowledge?” I glance at him, surprised. “That’s absolutely not the point of life. It’s who your existence snags on. Who changes, because they knew you. There’s not a single tomb without art that represents a relationship—a father and his children, a man and his wives, even a noble and his citizens. What you know isn’t nearly as important as who you know. Who will miss you. Who you will miss.”

I know this much: morality is meant to be a clear line, but it’s not really. Things change. Shit happens. Who we are is about not what we do, but why we tell ourselves we do it.

“I don’t need a husband who brings me flowers or chocolate. I need one who watches the news with me and complains about how many ads there are. I need the guy who thinks the second verse in ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ is Oh bring us some friggin’ pudding.”

Once upon a time, there is nothing but darkness. You stumble around blindly, so close to the edge that you are sure you’ll tumble over it, and if you are going to be honest, you must admit you are so low already you don’t necessarily think that would be a bad thing. Then one day, you meet someone. He finds you kneeling right at the precipice and instead of telling you to get back up, he kneels next to you. He tries to see what you are seeing. He doesn’t ask anything of you, or beg you to snap out of it, or remind you that there are people who need you. He just waits until you turn and squint and think to yourself: Oh, yes, I remember. This is what light looks like.