Circle of Life

Over the course of five days, I experienced the full spectrum of emotions.  In one week, I attended two end-of-life celebrations, sat with a postpartum mama and supported a labor. It was quite a week.

It started on Monday.  I road tripped six-and-a-half hours south to magnificent Telluride, Colorado.  I drove through the red rocks of Moab, Arches and the Canyonlands.  I turned left at La Sal Junction twenty miles south of Moab.  I continued down through Paradox Valley driving along steep switchback turns crossing into Colorado.  For the last hour, I followed the San Juan River up to the magnificent canyon of Telluride.

I arrived at Telluride’s Mountain Village after dinner and met my parents, sister, cousins, aunts and uncles at the lodge.  The family reunion felt more like a wedding weekend than a funeral.  I wished it were different.  I sought out my deceased cousin’s parents, Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Stephanie to offer deep condolences.  Tears filled my eyes and my throat tightened.  They thanked me for coming. 

My thirty-seven-year-old cousin Abbott Smith’s life was short and impactful. He lived in Telluride for more than fifteen years, and was a well-known ski coach, entrepreneur, mentor, friend, volunteer, and community member.   His wife, Joanna was both his business and life partner.  She wrote and read a love letter to him at his service.  Abbott collected sunken ship coins.  He found a ship called Joanna and bought a coin.  He wore it around his neck keeping “Joanna” close to his heart.  Abbott’s four-month-old daughter, Reagan, nicknamed “Rae” will sadly be raised by family and community never having known her father.  She’ll only know the stories.

As Joanna read her letter, I gasped for air between tears.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the people gathered together.  Half of the town of Telluride showed up for Abbott’s service.  The grief was collective.  We hurt.  We cried for Abbott’s family.  We cried for ourselves.  I put myself in his widow’s shoes and cried harder.  I was reminded that everyone I love will die.

Life is fleeting.  Some die young and some die old.  After the service, I looked around at the beautiful mountain and felt Abbott’s spirit.  His spirit is in the green grass, the flowers, and the family he left behind.

Leaving the next day, I silently thanked Abbott for the reminder that life is precious.  The only thing I can do is enjoy the present moment and savor the sweetness of this impermanent life.

I arrived back in Park City on Wednesday afternoon just in time to attend the second celebration-of-life ceremony of my week.  A previous Backcountry.com coworker and friend Hud Knight died just a week before Abbott’s passing.  Hud’s body was worn out by years of hard partying and didn’t survive a bout of pneumonia and COVID.   Like Abbott, he died too soon leaving two beautiful daughters behind, along with many friends and family who all grieve their loss.

Hud’s father’s eulogy moved me back into tears. At the end of Hud’s life, the doctor told his dad that Hud’s organs were not going to make it. But his heart was strong.  Hud’s dad reminded us that Hud had a good heart.  Gulp.  Oh, poor dad, I thought.  You are burying your son.  It slayed me once again.

I went to bed on that night, happy to be home.  The next afternoon, I worked as a postpartum doula for a  mama with a one-month-old baby girl. I welcomed the freshness of the situation  after my back-to-back funerals.  For a few hours, I sat on the couch with the mama and held her baby, smelling her newborn skin.

The mama and I talked about her birth, her family and her new life. I gave her tips on breastfeeding.  We figured her new rental pump. I prepared her some food.  I love the serenity of postpartum work.   I know I helped this mama and she helped me recalibrate.

The next day, I woke up ready to prepare for a two week trip that my husband and I were taking up to the San Juan Islands in Washington.  The plan was to leave Saturday morning.   I met a girlfriend Friday morning for a hike.  When I arrived back to my car my phone rang.  It was Robynne, my doula mentor and good friend.  She asked me if my day was packed.

It struck me as a funny word choice considering that’s what I needed to do that day - pack.  I told Robynne,  “No,  My day is not too packed.  What’s up?”  She needed help.  She had two clients in labor. I checked my calendar double checking that I didn’t have any commitments and said, “Yes, no problem. I can help.”  She texted me her client’s detailed birth plan and I headed home for a  quick shower and drove the hospital.

Robynne’s client was 5 centimeters dilated which usually meant active labor.  That was not the case.  This mama did not feel her contractions until her water broke a few hours later.  With the support of her birth partner and me, she labored through the night.  She was nearly complete and ready to push but desperately needed a break.  She opted for an epidural. At dawn, she started pushing.

At 6am  I’d been with her for 14 hours. My husband and I were planning on leaving at 10am for our Northwest road trip.  Of course, I wanted to witness the birth, but I had no idea how much longer it’d be.  I called in another doula who arrived at 6:30am.

Together we coached her to push for  two more hours. The mama stayed incredible calm and courageous.   Her spirit and determination did not falter, despite exhaustion.  I had to leave at 8:30am. I gave the mama, her mother, her birth partner and the doula a hug and left the hospital.  The baby was still on his way down the birth canal.  Oh, sweet mama,  She was pushing effectively.  It was just very slow.   

I rushed home to Park City to pack. We pulled out an hour later and headed north.  I texted the back up doula see how it turned out.  She responded with the good news that a little baby boy was born at nearly 11am.

The mama pushed for nearly six hours.  That’s a marathon!  The doula reported that mama and baby were doing well.  Everyone was exhausted.  I felt honored to be a part of the birthing team.  Although I had hoped to see a new spirit enter the world, supporting her labor balanced out my week.

I reflected on the circle of life as we drove on Saturday.  Birth and death are bookends of life.  They both require help and support of family and friends.    Both are uncertain and scary. They are celebrated.   Yet, our culture prepares more often for birth. Probably because it joyous and we have ten months to prepare. 

I recently listened an interview with Alua Arthur, a death doula on Glennon Doyle’s podcast.  The title of the talk was “How to live so we can die peacefully.” Since hearing her message, I feel an itch to explore learning more about work of a death doula.  I am not sure where that string of curiosity will  lead. What I do I know is like the the conversation of birth, talking and thinking about death makes me feel alive.