Breaking Bad: A Soul Searching Series

Of the five seasons, I watched three of the critically acclaimed Breaking Bad crime drama.  As is my habit with addictive television series, it took me less than a week to do so.

Almost at the end of season three, I gave up. It was just too much for me. Too dark, too many memories of others that I knew who had followed a similar path.

What does one of television's most successful series have to do with soul searching?

Everything. It was about chemistry, the hallucinating methadone and the heights and depth of the human soul. It was about the path that some of us take in our search for meaning.

Years ago, sometime in 2006, as a chaplain in residence at one of Alberta's leading hospitals I advised my supervisors that I wanted to observe a surgery. Up to that point, no other chaplain in training had done this, even though some of the best surgeons in the land operated in this hospital.

An integral component of our training programme was reflection and we were expected to undertake an exercise that would pull us into the deepest level of contemplation possible. At the end of the chosen exercise, each Resident-Chaplain (and there was only three in the programme at any given time) was to write then present a reflection paper. This was the "Summa" of our journey has trainee chaplains - in my case a full two year journey from internship to residency.

It was a two year search for my soul and I hoped to pinpoint its location in that surgical theatre.

The chief surgeon must have been one of my divinely appointed guides as within minutes of my entering the theatre after extensive prepping, he positioned me on a stool right over the patient's head. My vantage point allowed me to see every incision, movement, grip and stitch each and every member of the team made.

I missed nothing except seeing the patient's soul. For eight long hours I stood there; not peeing, not eating yet not feeling queasy, hungry or faint. The instruments opening the chest cavity did not phase me. I did not pass out seeing the heart tenderly removed and placed to the side while ice cubes were packed into where it would later be returned.

My eyes were peeled looking to catch a glimpse of the soul.

Two days it would take me to physically recover from the excitement and exhaustion of that fateful day. Another week for me to process my feelings with my supervisors and fellow chaplains in our fish bowl.

I cried. I was somewhat bewildered after the fact. I felt honoured by what I was given the privilege to witness (the patient's consent was required for me to have participated) and I was humbled.

My search for the soul came to an end with that experience. Finally I knew without a doubt that the innermost part of me and every human being is not to be seen with the naked eyes.

I went looking for the soul but instead felt it.

Walter White, the main character of Breaking Bad had that experience as well. He thought it was all chemistry, all physical, malleable in a lab (theatre) and all about the money. Having not seen the final episode, I am not sure whether he came to the same understanding as I did, whether what was feeding on his body eventually quenched his thirst for meaning.

With the last stitch and watching as "life" returned to the patient's body, as the blood circulated through his veins again without any mechanical assistance, I knew that my soul and your soul are connected to and flow from a Source well beyond our bodies.

Our heights and our depths are dependent on that unbreakable, invisible yet ever present connection. You do not have to believe in any specific religious or spiritual path or practice to experience the best frequency.

All that is required is to know that you are connected.

Do you?

Share your feelings with me here or on my coaching page and continue to gave a beautifully connected day!

Claudette is the Founder of Daughters of Sheba Foundation and offers practical spiritual support through her coaching services, social media including Twitter and this blog. She lives in Edmonton, Alberta and is a proud Member of www.TheWellnessUniverse.com  

Photo source: pinterest.com  

Do You Have An Exit Strategy For Your Life?

There comes a time in all of our lives when a certain invitation is delivered.

You have three choices when that happens:

1. Decline the invitation
2. Postpone your decision
3. Accept the invitation

Whatever you do, your life will change. Not making a decision does not delay the change. Declining the invitation does not cancel it either. When you accept the invitation, the change will not surprise you.

This post is delayed by a day, not owing to my not accepting the invitation. I did that many years ago. The piece is a day 'late' in coming as I was taken on an adventure yesterday, one that provided me a glimpse into what life can be when we decline or delay a decision re its invitation.

We are given this life to live, not exist but live fully, consciously and holistically. There comes a point when each of us are invited to make a decision how we will live.

Yesterday, I took a ride through parts of Kingston, Jamaica with sirens blaring. No, I had not committed a crime or was the target of one. The police were not my escorts.

 It was my day of giving back, having celebrated my 50th birthday the previous day. Some very dear friends had actually gathered on Valentine's night and partied with me to ring in my half century. On Sunday, my actual birthday, I attended a church service which would normally lift me but for some reasons, ones I will not bother to detail them, it did not.

Maybe I was 'high' enough for the moment. Life felt wonderful and I with it. No additional affirmation of my path necessary.

My hostess, friend and mentor heads a local not-for-profit and each time I am here,  at least one day of my stay is dedicated to serving her organization in whatever way she needed. Yesterday, that service took the form of moral support more than anything else.

What was not anticipated was the lesson in store for me.

Without disclosing any detail of the situation, due to privacy concerns, I supported my friend as she provided services to a palliative client. As a trained chaplain, that was a very familiar environment for me, granted my training and service provision were not in Jamaica. So, the physical differences in the hospital wing as well as hospice were striking to me.

Admittedly, when I entered the hospice my heart sank at the darkness of the place and I wondered whether this was a metaphor of what awaits the clients it serves. The charm, simplicity and homeliness of the surroundings soon rose up to greet me and distracted me from taking the gloomy detour.

Sitting on the wide, wraparound verandah, a cool and gentle breeze lulled me into a doze as I sat waiting in a most comfortable wooden recliner. I thought to myself, "I could spend my last days like this."

Morbid as that might sound, transitioning is something that have been on my mind since turning 50. In my own view, I have lived a different yet very full life. Many dreams I had were shelved either because they were made from a place of "lack" or they simply were not mine.

For months now, my close friends have heard me say that should my number be called, I will answer without regrets. My last longing was to see my daughter on her own two feet. She has done that and more.

Listening to the story of the journey of the individual we accompanied to this "last point before exit" - not my description but that of the young administrator - I wondered whether she had delayed a decision or declined the invitation.

Without judgment, this was clearly not a situation where the invitation was accepted and embraced. My coming to that conclusion was based not on the humble nature of the hospice that the last days would be spent in but rather the resistance of the individual to being there.

There was an uneasiness, fear and an resigned look in the eyes that briefly met mine.

Again, without judgment, I thought to myself, "whatever time I have left will be spent stepping into life, doing only what brings me joy and loving wastefully." That is not the look, those were not the eyes that I want to adorn my face when my time comes.

Have you given thought to your life and your exit strategy? It really is nothing to be scared of nor will doing so invite the inevitable to come a minute sooner. For all the time that I have spent with end of life patients, I have never heard any expressing a desire for the stuff they had or had not acquired. Every single one wanted to have their 'dance' partners - family and loved ones - comforted and if possible by their bedside to wish them farewell.

There were those who also had tons of regrets for not living fully and intentionally and for not loving more.

Do not let that be you.

Namaste

Claudette is the Founder of DOS Foundation and main author of this blog. You may send her an email with your more private questions or request for support. You may also leave a comment here or on her personal coaching page.

Giving My Way!

It feels as if it has been weeks since my last article and in fact it has!

Bright and beautiful it is here in Kingston, Jamaica where we, my daughter, granddaughter and I, arrived last week. We are here to celebrate life - the soon 50th year of mine and the several months of Mahalia's arrival - with family, relatives, extended family and friends who are family.

This morning as I got my bearings opening my eyes, for a few seconds it was unclear to me where I was. The thought "it does not matter as wherever you are, all is well," came to me.

Fifty years it took for a life, my life to be at this place of acceptance and peace.

As my countryman and reggae artiste Buju Banton sings, "it's not an easy road." It certainly has not been for me, however, it is one that I would not trade.

On Saturday past, I attended the funeral service of a former colleague, most certainly a mentor and friend. The service flowed well. I am not a funeral-attending kind of person. Actually, I have told my daughter and closest friends that I want none to be held in my honour.

Trying to distract myself from the fact of where I was physically sitting, my mind roamed the memories shared with the departed, few as they were in comparison to that of many others who were gathered. Once that relatively brief stroll was done, I did what I love to do best - people observe. Not watching but observing, body languages and something that have been gifted to me and expands the more I allow it to - energy/vibe reading.

Most who I could see or sense were there for the same reason that I chose to go - respect and remembering the "road travelled" by one of their own.  The family was well ahead of me so I could not see them but could imagine their grief as it was expressed by the children of the deceased from the podium.

The energy changed remarkably with the second song in tribute to the departed. Tears flowed copiously all around me as the tenor belted the words of "I Did It My Way."

My recollection of the man whose life we were remembering was that he most certainly lived it his way. 

Not only that, he "gave" to Life fully. I was one of the recipients. 

This is not a memorial piece but a testimony to giving to life what you want. Mr. Smith, yes that was his name, was a communication consultant extraordinaire. More than that, he was a teacher who shared and gave his knowledge in public relations and communications to any young upcoming communications professional.

His giving returned to him a thousand fold and in myriads of forms I am sure. If the words spoken by the many remembering him was anything to go by, Mr. Smith milked life by giving what he had and knew. He gave not to receive but in service to the young ones and country.

"Generosity is not giving me that which I need that you do, but it is giving me that which you need more that I do." Kahlil Gibran

However my own transition is marked and I do hope my wishes are respected, as with Mr. Smith's my desire is for that song to be belted out as vigorously as possible, with the following adjustments:

"And now, the end is [here];
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I'll say it clear,
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full.
I've traveled each and ev'ry highway;
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets, I've had [none]
........
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried.
I've had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
"Oh no, oh no not me,
I did it my way".

For what is [life if not to live]
To say the things [one] truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!

Yes, it was my way."

Ralston Smith, thank you for giving to me and everyone of us who had the honour of learning at your feet. Rest In Peace

Claudette

Pregnancy, Prenatal Care and Parenting - The Test of Mettle

Claudette Esterine

On April 26, 1986, the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant catastrophe occurred. Although we were living only 100 kilometres away, in Kiev, we only had official confirmation about two weeks after the incident.  

Fellow students, who were in medical school and interns in various hospitals across Kiev, reported seeing badly burned people being quietly whisked into their facilities. The minimal access some had to international media broadcasts were either totally blacked out or could only be heard sporadically. The news was too big, however, and too many students were travelling outside of the country for information of the disaster to be kept on the “down low,” for much longer.

I was pregnant with my first child and was one of the first to get out of the country. Months later, when my child – a boy – was born, dead, a still birth, I blamed the Soviet Government for my loss. The stress of being in the country for months after the accident and eating and drinking polluted food and water, if not the actual effects of the nuclear substances (??) that wafted across Kiev, were thought to be in some measure responsible for my loss.

Twenty eight years later, I am wondering how true that really was as I sat in the waiting room of the Royal Alexandria Hospital in Edmonton, Canada.

On July 1, 2014 at 1:40 in the morning, my first grandchild, a girl, was born. Her arrival was unexpected by the medical professionals but something told me she was going to get here earlier than her August 4 due date. When my daughter sent me the picture from her first ultrasound I was still in Jamaica on an extended visit. After offering congratulations and the usual questions such as when, what the sex, etc., I remarked to her “Your baby is going to get here by mid-July." I just knew.

Returning to Canada in April was not my first choice. I really wanted to remain in Jamaica, the land of my birth, but the actualities on the ground were not what I had hoped they would be and something was telling me it was time to leave. News of a grandchild determined where my destination in Canada would be.

Abigail

Looking at my daughter, doing my own assessment of her pregnancy and her physical movement, I repeated to her, possibly more often than she cared to hear, that the baby was going to be here early. Approaching the end of June, I noticed bodily changes in her that took me straight back to Kiev, 1986. They also took me back to October 1987 - when she was born and I was experiencing exactly what she was.

That was when it slowly dawned on me that the stillbirth of my first child was not necessarily due to the Chernobyl accident but my own health deficiencies and the poor medical care that I was receiving as a severely anemic woman. My daughter is too.

On June 30, Abi, my daughter called me at work around 5:00 p.m. to say she was still feeling poorly and suffering severe leg and lower back pain. Without a second thought I told her to get dressed, we are going to the hospital. We arrived around 6:00 p.m. and an Intern examined her around 8:30. His diagnosis was that back pain was “a regular occurrence in pregnant women" and he was going to send her home with some Tylenol!

Those who know me, and my daughter does, know that I can and will become dangerously annoyed when my loved ones are threatened. My looks will kill when my intelligence is questioned. The Intern found out as well.

After schooling him on the shared condition between my daughter and I; how it presents itself and what her medical professional since the pregnancy has not done, he ordered a battery of tests and requested a specialist, senior obstetrician/surgeon consult.

Said Senior Doctor confirmed what my Spirit was telling me and what Mahalia, my Kitten and granddaughter, was desperately trying to communicate all day. It was time to get her out.

Mahalia on the NICU a week ago

Slumped on the floor outside of the Operating Room, weeping after seeing my granddaughter – all 4lbs 1 ounce of her for the first time – all I wanted was to go see my daughter in recovery. She was wheeled out almost an hour later and her first words to me were “Did you see the baby?”

This morning as I changed her diaper as she fussed (she hates being changed), my heart sang. The cycle has broken.

Death is not something I fear. Not anymore. The death of my first child and the many transitions that I have had the honour of being present for in two hospitals in Alberta have taught me that this is a circle – the circle of Life.

Mahalia at almost two weeks old

She is not completely out of the woods but our Mahalia is a fighter, surpassing every target set for her as a preemie and was released from the hospital one week and a day after her birth. The prayers but more the Love that has encircled her has been more than I could have imagined. Mahalia has brought healing to many relationships in my and her mother’s life.

Funny side story: My daughter did not know about her baby’s namesake – Mahalia Jackson – when she chose the name. When I told her she said, “Well you will have to teach her about her!”I most certainly will tell her about the Queen of Gospel but also that her name means “tenderness,” and that is what she is – tender and precious.

Do you have a story to share about your child’s or grandchild’s birth? We want to hear so leave a comment here or visit our Facebook page and share it with us.

Namaste

Should I Die Tonight...

If my belief system was other than it is, the turn of events today would have me spooked.

What gets written as our daily topic is more often than not decided in the early morning hours when my eyes open. I check in with my inner self, figuratively feel my pulse and ask for guidance.

This morning around 4:30, the response was bucket list.

Do you have a one?

About 20 years ago I wrote mine. There were about 70+ activities, things to get, places to see, etc on my first writing. Over the years, up to about six or so years ago, I would pull it out and cross out what was accomplished or note the progress on a particular activity.

My bucket list has not seen the light of day in years. Written in one of those multi-subject notebooks, my list has been in a box that has now been in storage for about three years. I actually do not recall now more than half of what is left on my list. And I do not care!

Life is not about lists.

When I first thought of this topic today and did the first few posts on our Facebook page, I imagined that this piece would be focussed on some of the things left to do on my list before I kick the bucket.

Then I went to work with every intention to write on those my outstanding listed items over my supper break. As always the case with me, Life happened and my bucket list will remain closeted.

A member of my team passed away in his sleep last night. He was about eight years older than me. Only yesterday evening he and I exchanged pleasantries, chit chatted and said goodbye as I left the office. That was to be our last conversation but neither of us knew.

His wife called today to share the news of his passing. She noted that they spent a lovely day together earlier yesterday for which she was most grateful.

Death is not something I fear anymore but I was stunned this afternoon when my boss asked me into her office, closed the door and gave me the news.

My team was given the news when they arrived to start their shift this evening. I quickly slipped into my chaplain persona and hugged a couple as their tears flowed copiously on my shoulder. The team was given the evening off with full pay, in honour of our colleague's memory. (I do work for one of the most generous and caring organizations anyone could dream of!)

Before leaving the office myself (my boss texted me "You are to go home as well Missy"), I texted a friend to hang out but then changed my mind.

Instead, I searched online for a movie then called my daughter and invited her out on a date.

No more meaningless 'hang outs', conversations or relationships (not that I have any) for me.

Should I die in my sleep tonight or any night for that matter, I want the last person with me to be like my late staff member's wife and say, "Claudette and I had such a lovely time yesterday, then she returned to Source."

That is my revised bucket list. What is on yours?

Rest In Peace Don.

How Do You Cope With The Death of A Spouse?

Claudette Esterine

The ‘closest’ person to me to have died was my father. However, ‘close’ is a relative word as, up to his death in the early 1980’s, I had seen the man fewer times than the number of fingers on my hand.

Harry Mac, as we affectionately called him, was my ex’s father and was more of a Dad to me than my own. He made his transition in the 1990’s. Publicly, I was stoic and the backbone of the family, alongside my ex, as we planned and hosted the celebration of his life memorial. Privately, I mourned with a passion so deep it was unspeakable. 

The death of a spouse I have never experienced.

As Mrs. Mac mourned the loss of her husband for a very long time, I became somewhat impatient with her demands. Not yet trained in chaplaincy, having not witnessed and stood in the gap with persons mourning the passing of their loved ones, my thought was “Enough already!”

She was reaching out to fill a void – 30 years of togetherness with one man – but it was one that truly no other person can step into, not completely. Although they could not, she tried to get her children, particularly the younger one – my ex – to try. That was what made me impatient and even angry.

My relationship with death has changed very much over the years. I have moved from fear, bordering on major panic attack should a hearse drive by, to impatience for those needing ‘a long’ time to mourn. Today, thankfully, I have learned the lessons of grief and comfort. My training in inter-faith chaplaincy, particularly my experience observing a multiple heart bypass surgery and not seeing ‘the soul’, preparing bodies in the morgue of the hospital for family viewing and private farewells, along with my very personal spiritual journey has taught me compassion and patience with others’ experience of grieving.

Death is no longer something that I am afraid of yet I understand the meaning of loss of a loved one, albeit not a spouse. Yet I continue to struggle with the word “loss” and much prefer “transition” as death to me is not a loss but a movement.

This is all “simple” for me to say, having not had a spouse transition. So I turn the question over to you, our readers, who have had this intimate experience of the “movement” of a spouse into the other realm – might we say? How did you cope? What is the most important suggestion you would give to someone having this experience right now?

Share you journey with us here or on our Facebook page. I really do look forward to hearing from you.

Namaste. 

Life After Death?

Claudette Esterine 

Standing on a footstool, I looked into his chest cavity for close to eight hours.

Those eight hours taught me that there is no death.

As far back as I can recall, death terrified me. In preschool, throughout my primary school and high school years the mere mention of the word "death," would cause my body to spasm.

My first acquaintance with death was in my 10th or so year when two people who were fairly well known to me met their "untimely" death. One was a boy of my age, and with whom I would romp the school grounds and the streets of our neighborhood - Pembroke Hall. He was crushed to death one evening by a truck going too fast through the community.

The second was a quite popular Rastafarian man, who was something of a jock and who loved to "dally" on his motorbike. Think we called him 'Bull' and one day, he zipped once too often between vehicles on the same drive where my school mate was killed.

Both 'men' died swiftly and their blood splattered and smeared Pembroke Hall Drive for weeks. Every day that I had to walk pass the spots, although revolted by the sight of the blood, I was nonetheless curious about their souls. My feet would linger long enough for my eyes to search for them in the shadows of the nearby trees. Folklore had it that they both had been seen there but I dared not go by at night.

I never saw them. Neither did I see the soul of the patient who had been wheeled in for a triple bypass.

My fear of death was being challenged by my residency as a hospital chaplain. If you know me, then you would understand that backing down from a 'challenge' is not what I do. When our supervisor instructed us to choose a topic to write a major reflection paper on - I decided to go in search of the soul.

It was the first time a resident-chaplain had elected to observe a surgery in this hospital. Maybe that explains the surgeon's decision to test my mettle. Little did he know that I would not back down or run out of the operating theatre screaming.

Had I known beforehand that my "observation" point was not from an enclosed glass viewing room overlooking the surgery, maybe I would have. When I arrived at the hospital's surgical ward just before 4:00a.m. and was led directly to the theatre area and was told to scrub in, my knees buckled.

Image: hollywoodanesthesia.com

"Scrub in? Why?"

The news that I was to actually be right beside the surgeon, his instruction, shocked but provoked my sense of adventure. The scrubbing in process in itself was exhilarating and quite technical, particularly for someone like me who eats over her computer - my operating table.

Patient X was wheeled in for what should have been a triple bypass, duration of which was anticipated to be between five to six hours. My guest supervisor, the surgeon, wanted to ensure that I had the full experience.  He must have been amused about my quest.

For eight hours, I watched as Patient X was anaesthetized, blood vessel removed from his leg, his chest opened, his heart removed and placed on ice while some was packed into his chest cavity. The surgeon and his assistants got to work repairing Patient X's heart, declaring that it was worse than they thought.

Image: news.discovery.com

I was moved from the foot of the surgical table to the side then my guest supervisor invited me to come stand on the footstool above Patient X's head, looking straight into his chest cavity. I did not back down.

Neither did I see his soul.

Eight hours later, heart returned to his body and the machinery that was pumping his blood switched off, my search for the soul ended as Patient X's heart took over its job.

Unable to sleep, I stayed awake for 24 more hours and wrote my reflection paper. Crying, no weeping, as I wrote, my conclusion was that there must be life after death OR that there really is no death.

Eight years, one failed marriage, career change, unemployment, near homelessness and one high risk relationship later and I now am convinced that Life and Death, Beginning and End are one.

I love what Meg Rosoff wrote about death, endings and beginnings:

"I am almost a hundred years old; waiting for the end, and thinking about the beginning. 

There are things I need to tell you, but would you listen if I told you how quickly time passes?
I know you are unable to imagine this.

Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved."

Do enjoy the rest of the day. Leave a comment here, or on our Facebook page sharing with us your thoughts on this topic. You may also follow us on Twitter.

Namaste


Claudette Esterine is the Founder of Daughters of Sheba Foundation and Editor of our blog. She is a Jamaican-Canadian and a Free Spirit.