This morning, I went to sit with a dying man. As usual, I got ready for meditation. I usually sit, meditate and pray, engaging in breathing. I prayed, looking at him now and again. I often watch the breathing of the patient. After a while, it came to me I was not hearing any breathing. I watched, his chest did not move. “Don’t tell me…..”

I put one finger to feel for his breath. Nothing. I went to call the nurse. He had passed on. I asked the nurse if I could sit and pray for a bit. I sat looking at him and praying. I have always been afraid of dead bodies. Not just afraid, petrified. Don’t ask me why I volunteer with the dying. It is calling. Just that, a calling.

I wanted to train myself to be with with a dead body and not be afraid. I experienced no fear. It was so peaceful. I sat and meditated on death. I felt very moved and prayed for him as his soul transitioned on.

My extreme fear of dead bodies happened when I was a child. One classmate suggested, “Let’s go and see the dead body of the grandfather of LM who just died.” We went. I stood at the door looking in. In the far distance, I could see the silhouette of the dead body. That was enough, I froze in fear and for months afterward was not able to sleep at night. The same classmate told me if I wash my face immediately after, I would not be afraid. I ran home and washed my face repeatedly. It got so bad, I found myself reciting the rosary during break time and dread evening falling. I recited so many Hail Marys, at the end, I often found myself mumbling the prayer. I do not remember when the fear left me.
When my grandparents passed away, I made sure not to look at their dead bodies and tried to shield my younger siblings from seeing the dead bodies, remembering what I went through. Whenever I heard sounds of funeral procession, I would park my bicycle and ran into the shop, not exiting till the procession had safely passed.

Yet today, I am volunteering with the dying. And experience the grace stemming from that.