By Susie Wallace
I met Linda Richmoon at a teaching on sangha that H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche gave in Berkeley in 1987, and after that, we became close friends. Linda’s health was never great, and for the past few years she used a motorized cart to get around, which she did in her inimitable style (imagine cut flowers in a vase). I would often see her miles from home, tooling around by herself, amazingly fearless and self-sufficient for someone so disabled.
When I tried to call Linda on her fifty-fifth birthday last March, I discovered that she had been hospitalized with breathing difficulties. When I visited her in intensive care later that night, I found her heavily sedated and hooked up to a machine to help her breathe. The mask over her mouth made it difficult for her to talk, and she was very uncomfortable.
The next morning, when I called the hospital, I was told that the hospital staff could only speak to reIatives, so I became her “cousin.” When I met with the doctor, I signed releases for various medical procedures. I confirmed Linda’s instructions not to be kept alive artificially and explained how important it was for her, as a practicing Buddhist, to be alert rather than heavily drugged, so that she could keep reciting her prayers as she died.
Over the next couple of days, Linda became agitated. She kept repeating, “Help me! Help me!” I told her that I would, and recited the Red Tara sadhana and mantra aloud to her. Once, after I said Om Tare Tam So Ha, she repeated it back to me. I also reminded Linda that she had received p’howa (transfer of consciousness) teachings and that she would need to rely on that practice as she died. I assured her that many lamas and sangha members were praying for her.
Finally, the doctor admitted that the procedures were not working. When Linda’s brother, Drew, arrived from New Mexico, they removed the mask, gave Linda pure oxygen through her nose, and put her on a morphine drip for her pain.
I learned that Lama Tsering was in San Francisco and could come to the hospital. As Linda was a longtime Tara practitioner, it seemed auspicious that Lama Tsering had come to the Bay Area at such a crucial time. Linda had become increasingly distressed, but as soon as Lama Tsering arrived— on Tara Day— something shifted. She became more relaxed and focused. Lama Tsering spoke to her for quite some time, giving her instructions, and then just sat and prayed.
Lama Tsering later commented, “It struck me how fortunate it is for us as practitioners to have the dharma as we die. These are truly marvelous methods. Linda was not a highly realized lama or practitioner; she was like us. She had maintained her Tara practice. I didn’t do anything other than show up at the right moment to remind her of her own practice and help her find strength in that.” By the time Lama Tsering left, Linda had calmed considerably.
Linda died a couple of hours later, with Drew and I at her bedside. As she took her final breath, I began to recite the p’howa practice. Late that night, when I finally left the hospital, I felt moved and exhausted— but also relieved that Linda had been released from the burden of her disabled body. I’m sure that she would have preferred to die at home, but I believe that she was nevertheless very fortunate in the way she died.
For me, the experience brought to life the importance of dharma practice and training. The phases of dying no longer seem remote, but real and inevitable. I know now that there are many details we must all address in planning for our deaths.
Lama Tsering said, “Because Linda had the dharma, it made all the difference in the way she died. I am certain that she really came into her practice at the end of her life. She was able to remember her refuge.”
By Susie Wallace
I met Linda Richmoon at a teaching on sangha that H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche gave in Berkeley in 1987, and after that, we became close friends. Linda’s health was never great, and for the past few years she used a motorized cart to get around, which she did in her inimitable style (imagine cut flowers in a vase). I would often see her miles from home, tooling around by herself, amazingly fearless and self-sufficient for someone so disabled.
When I tried to call Linda on her fifty-fifth birthday last March, I discovered that she had been hospitalized with breathing difficulties. When I visited her in intensive care later that night, I found her heavily sedated and hooked up to a machine to help her breathe. The mask over her mouth made it difficult for her to talk, and she was very uncomfortable.
The next morning, when I called the hospital, I was told that the hospital staff could only speak to reIatives, so I became her “cousin.” When I met with the doctor, I signed releases for various medical procedures. I confirmed Linda’s instructions not to be kept alive artificially and explained how important it was for her, as a practicing Buddhist, to be alert rather than heavily drugged, so that she could keep reciting her prayers as she died.
Over the next couple of days, Linda became agitated. She kept repeating, “Help me! Help me!” I told her that I would, and recited the Red Tara sadhana and mantra aloud to her. Once, after I said Om Tare Tam So Ha, she repeated it back to me. I also reminded Linda that she had received p’howa (transfer of consciousness) teachings and that she would need to rely on that practice as she died. I assured her that many lamas and sangha members were praying for her.
Finally, the doctor admitted that the procedures were not working. When Linda’s brother, Drew, arrived from New Mexico, they removed the mask, gave Linda pure oxygen through her nose, and put her on a morphine drip for her pain.
I learned that Lama Tsering was in San Francisco and could come to the hospital. As Linda was a longtime Tara practitioner, it seemed auspicious that Lama Tsering had come to the Bay Area at such a crucial time. Linda had become increasingly distressed, but as soon as Lama Tsering arrived— on Tara Day— something shifted. She became more relaxed and focused. Lama Tsering spoke to her for quite some time, giving her instructions, and then just sat and prayed.
Lama Tsering later commented, “It struck me how fortunate it is for us as practitioners to have the dharma as we die. These are truly marvelous methods. Linda was not a highly realized lama or practitioner; she was like us. She had maintained her Tara practice. I didn’t do anything other than show up at the right moment to remind her of her own practice and help her find strength in that.” By the time Lama Tsering left, Linda had calmed considerably.
Linda died a couple of hours later, with Drew and I at her bedside. As she took her final breath, I began to recite the p’howa practice. Late that night, when I finally left the hospital, I felt moved and exhausted— but also relieved that Linda had been released from the burden of her disabled body. I’m sure that she would have preferred to die at home, but I believe that she was nevertheless very fortunate in the way she died.
For me, the experience brought to life the importance of dharma practice and training. The phases of dying no longer seem remote, but real and inevitable. I know now that there are many details we must all address in planning for our deaths.
Lama Tsering said, “Because Linda had the dharma, it made all the difference in the way she died. I am certain that she really came into her practice at the end of her life. She was able to remember her refuge.”
By Susie Wallace
I met Linda Richmoon at a teaching on sangha that H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche gave in Berkeley in 1987, and after that, we became close friends. Linda’s health was never great, and for the past few years she used a motorized cart to get around, which she did in her inimitable style (imagine cut flowers in a vase). I would often see her miles from home, tooling around by herself, amazingly fearless and self-sufficient for someone so disabled.
When I tried to call Linda on her fifty-fifth birthday last March, I discovered that she had been hospitalized with breathing difficulties. When I visited her in intensive care later that night, I found her heavily sedated and hooked up to a machine to help her breathe. The mask over her mouth made it difficult for her to talk, and she was very uncomfortable.
The next morning, when I called the hospital, I was told that the hospital staff could only speak to reIatives, so I became her “cousin.” When I met with the doctor, I signed releases for various medical procedures. I confirmed Linda’s instructions not to be kept alive artificially and explained how important it was for her, as a practicing Buddhist, to be alert rather than heavily drugged, so that she could keep reciting her prayers as she died.
Over the next couple of days, Linda became agitated. She kept repeating, “Help me! Help me!” I told her that I would, and recited the Red Tara sadhana and mantra aloud to her. Once, after I said Om Tare Tam So Ha, she repeated it back to me. I also reminded Linda that she had received p’howa (transfer of consciousness) teachings and that she would need to rely on that practice as she died. I assured her that many lamas and sangha members were praying for her.
Finally, the doctor admitted that the procedures were not working. When Linda’s brother, Drew, arrived from New Mexico, they removed the mask, gave Linda pure oxygen through her nose, and put her on a morphine drip for her pain.
I learned that Lama Tsering was in San Francisco and could come to the hospital. As Linda was a longtime Tara practitioner, it seemed auspicious that Lama Tsering had come to the Bay Area at such a crucial time. Linda had become increasingly distressed, but as soon as Lama Tsering arrived— on Tara Day— something shifted. She became more relaxed and focused. Lama Tsering spoke to her for quite some time, giving her instructions, and then just sat and prayed.
Lama Tsering later commented, “It struck me how fortunate it is for us as practitioners to have the dharma as we die. These are truly marvelous methods. Linda was not a highly realized lama or practitioner; she was like us. She had maintained her Tara practice. I didn’t do anything other than show up at the right moment to remind her of her own practice and help her find strength in that.” By the time Lama Tsering left, Linda had calmed considerably.
Linda died a couple of hours later, with Drew and I at her bedside. As she took her final breath, I began to recite the p’howa practice. Late that night, when I finally left the hospital, I felt moved and exhausted— but also relieved that Linda had been released from the burden of her disabled body. I’m sure that she would have preferred to die at home, but I believe that she was nevertheless very fortunate in the way she died.
For me, the experience brought to life the importance of dharma practice and training. The phases of dying no longer seem remote, but real and inevitable. I know now that there are many details we must all address in planning for our deaths.
Lama Tsering said, “Because Linda had the dharma, it made all the difference in the way she died. I am certain that she really came into her practice at the end of her life. She was able to remember her refuge.”
By Susie Wallace
I met Linda Richmoon at a teaching on sangha that H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche gave in Berkeley in 1987, and after that, we became close friends. Linda’s health was never great, and for the past few years she used a motorized cart to get around, which she did in her inimitable style (imagine cut flowers in a vase). I would often see her miles from home, tooling around by herself, amazingly fearless and self-sufficient for someone so disabled.
When I tried to call Linda on her fifty-fifth birthday last March, I discovered that she had been hospitalized with breathing difficulties. When I visited her in intensive care later that night, I found her heavily sedated and hooked up to a machine to help her breathe. The mask over her mouth made it difficult for her to talk, and she was very uncomfortable.
The next morning, when I called the hospital, I was told that the hospital staff could only speak to reIatives, so I became her “cousin.” When I met with the doctor, I signed releases for various medical procedures. I confirmed Linda’s instructions not to be kept alive artificially and explained how important it was for her, as a practicing Buddhist, to be alert rather than heavily drugged, so that she could keep reciting her prayers as she died.
Over the next couple of days, Linda became agitated. She kept repeating, “Help me! Help me!” I told her that I would, and recited the Red Tara sadhana and mantra aloud to her. Once, after I said Om Tare Tam So Ha, she repeated it back to me. I also reminded Linda that she had received p’howa (transfer of consciousness) teachings and that she would need to rely on that practice as she died. I assured her that many lamas and sangha members were praying for her.
Finally, the doctor admitted that the procedures were not working. When Linda’s brother, Drew, arrived from New Mexico, they removed the mask, gave Linda pure oxygen through her nose, and put her on a morphine drip for her pain.
I learned that Lama Tsering was in San Francisco and could come to the hospital. As Linda was a longtime Tara practitioner, it seemed auspicious that Lama Tsering had come to the Bay Area at such a crucial time. Linda had become increasingly distressed, but as soon as Lama Tsering arrived— on Tara Day— something shifted. She became more relaxed and focused. Lama Tsering spoke to her for quite some time, giving her instructions, and then just sat and prayed.
Lama Tsering later commented, “It struck me how fortunate it is for us as practitioners to have the dharma as we die. These are truly marvelous methods. Linda was not a highly realized lama or practitioner; she was like us. She had maintained her Tara practice. I didn’t do anything other than show up at the right moment to remind her of her own practice and help her find strength in that.” By the time Lama Tsering left, Linda had calmed considerably.
Linda died a couple of hours later, with Drew and I at her bedside. As she took her final breath, I began to recite the p’howa practice. Late that night, when I finally left the hospital, I felt moved and exhausted— but also relieved that Linda had been released from the burden of her disabled body. I’m sure that she would have preferred to die at home, but I believe that she was nevertheless very fortunate in the way she died.
For me, the experience brought to life the importance of dharma practice and training. The phases of dying no longer seem remote, but real and inevitable. I know now that there are many details we must all address in planning for our deaths.
Lama Tsering said, “Because Linda had the dharma, it made all the difference in the way she died. I am certain that she really came into her practice at the end of her life. She was able to remember her refuge.”
By Susie Wallace
I met Linda Richmoon at a teaching on sangha that H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche gave in Berkeley in 1987, and after that, we became close friends. Linda’s health was never great, and for the past few years she used a motorized cart to get around, which she did in her inimitable style (imagine cut flowers in a vase). I would often see her miles from home, tooling around by herself, amazingly fearless and self-sufficient for someone so disabled.
When I tried to call Linda on her fifty-fifth birthday last March, I discovered that she had been hospitalized with breathing difficulties. When I visited her in intensive care later that night, I found her heavily sedated and hooked up to a machine to help her breathe. The mask over her mouth made it difficult for her to talk, and she was very uncomfortable.
The next morning, when I called the hospital, I was told that the hospital staff could only speak to reIatives, so I became her “cousin.” When I met with the doctor, I signed releases for various medical procedures. I confirmed Linda’s instructions not to be kept alive artificially and explained how important it was for her, as a practicing Buddhist, to be alert rather than heavily drugged, so that she could keep reciting her prayers as she died.
Over the next couple of days, Linda became agitated. She kept repeating, “Help me! Help me!” I told her that I would, and recited the Red Tara sadhana and mantra aloud to her. Once, after I said Om Tare Tam So Ha, she repeated it back to me. I also reminded Linda that she had received p’howa (transfer of consciousness) teachings and that she would need to rely on that practice as she died. I assured her that many lamas and sangha members were praying for her.
Finally, the doctor admitted that the procedures were not working. When Linda’s brother, Drew, arrived from New Mexico, they removed the mask, gave Linda pure oxygen through her nose, and put her on a morphine drip for her pain.
I learned that Lama Tsering was in San Francisco and could come to the hospital. As Linda was a longtime Tara practitioner, it seemed auspicious that Lama Tsering had come to the Bay Area at such a crucial time. Linda had become increasingly distressed, but as soon as Lama Tsering arrived— on Tara Day— something shifted. She became more relaxed and focused. Lama Tsering spoke to her for quite some time, giving her instructions, and then just sat and prayed.
Lama Tsering later commented, “It struck me how fortunate it is for us as practitioners to have the dharma as we die. These are truly marvelous methods. Linda was not a highly realized lama or practitioner; she was like us. She had maintained her Tara practice. I didn’t do anything other than show up at the right moment to remind her of her own practice and help her find strength in that.” By the time Lama Tsering left, Linda had calmed considerably.
Linda died a couple of hours later, with Drew and I at her bedside. As she took her final breath, I began to recite the p’howa practice. Late that night, when I finally left the hospital, I felt moved and exhausted— but also relieved that Linda had been released from the burden of her disabled body. I’m sure that she would have preferred to die at home, but I believe that she was nevertheless very fortunate in the way she died.
For me, the experience brought to life the importance of dharma practice and training. The phases of dying no longer seem remote, but real and inevitable. I know now that there are many details we must all address in planning for our deaths.
Lama Tsering said, “Because Linda had the dharma, it made all the difference in the way she died. I am certain that she really came into her practice at the end of her life. She was able to remember her refuge.”
