I knew Terry Looper-Laska for only three days. She was introduced to me as a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche who was dying of lung cancer and had requested that some of Rinpoche’s students come to her home and pray during the final days of her life. My initial response was one of fear, and then came the doubt that with my limited spiritual practice I could actually help. But I went to her home with the aspiration to support her during her transition. I never imagined that she, through her example, would offer so much to me.
Her bedroom was light and airy. An oxygen machine hummed steadily. As curtains drifted in the partially opened windows, the afternoon sun angled in and touched the woman lying on the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath came in quick gasps. It was as if there was never enough air to quench her thirst for it. Over the next two days her relatives and close friends came and went, and then only her daughter, Larissa, her husband, Steve, and a few sangha members remained with her.
As I sat, prayed, and watched I felt my initial fear of becoming involved in the process begin to fall away. With death so close at hand, my prayers were more direct and focused. There was no time for distraction or delay. I could see how, in my life, I had repeatedly let fear limit my ability to help others. In watching Terry’s process, I glimpsed that as long as we have hope and fear we will remain bound but that in their resolution we will be liberated.
I have no idea whether Terry realized the extent of her generosity in opening her home and her death to us. But from what I saw in a video she had made for her friends about working with her illness and facing her death, that was just the way she was. Her faith in the dharma and her diligence in applying the teachings that she had received truly impressed me. Chagdud Rinpoche’s blessing was undeniably there, as Chenrezig, as Tara, and as Terry. The power of that blessing deeply affected me.
On the third day Terry’s breathing was more labored. She spoke less and the level of the morphine in the bottle at her bedside dropped steadily. She lay in her room surrounded by family photos, in a house full of things that were no longer of use to her, and we prayed that she could let go. As evening approached the smell of baking cookies filled the house almost too intensely, and her dog, who had been on edge all day, paced through the house barking sharply. Later that night, as was their routine, she and Steve did p’howa practice together.
A couple of hours later she died. By the time we arrived, Steve had said his good-byes and was sleeping deeply, for the first time in more than six weeks, in the next room. When I entered the room, what struck me most was the silence. Terry’s body was just a shell without any real presence. The oxygen machine had been turned off. Now there was only the breeze in the wide-open windows. As our prayers filled the room, each of us had the distinct impression that she had let go. At four-thirty a rooster started to crow and we finished our prayers. We left a note for Steve and walked out into the dawn.
Maile Wall
This article was written to encourage sangha members to become involved in similar situations if the opportunity arises.
I knew Terry Looper-Laska for only three days. She was introduced to me as a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche who was dying of lung cancer and had requested that some of Rinpoche’s students come to her home and pray during the final days of her life. My initial response was one of fear, and then came the doubt that with my limited spiritual practice I could actually help. But I went to her home with the aspiration to support her during her transition. I never imagined that she, through her example, would offer so much to me.
Her bedroom was light and airy. An oxygen machine hummed steadily. As curtains drifted in the partially opened windows, the afternoon sun angled in and touched the woman lying on the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath came in quick gasps. It was as if there was never enough air to quench her thirst for it. Over the next two days her relatives and close friends came and went, and then only her daughter, Larissa, her husband, Steve, and a few sangha members remained with her.
As I sat, prayed, and watched I felt my initial fear of becoming involved in the process begin to fall away. With death so close at hand, my prayers were more direct and focused. There was no time for distraction or delay. I could see how, in my life, I had repeatedly let fear limit my ability to help others. In watching Terry’s process, I glimpsed that as long as we have hope and fear we will remain bound but that in their resolution we will be liberated.
I have no idea whether Terry realized the extent of her generosity in opening her home and her death to us. But from what I saw in a video she had made for her friends about working with her illness and facing her death, that was just the way she was. Her faith in the dharma and her diligence in applying the teachings that she had received truly impressed me. Chagdud Rinpoche’s blessing was undeniably there, as Chenrezig, as Tara, and as Terry. The power of that blessing deeply affected me.
On the third day Terry’s breathing was more labored. She spoke less and the level of the morphine in the bottle at her bedside dropped steadily. She lay in her room surrounded by family photos, in a house full of things that were no longer of use to her, and we prayed that she could let go. As evening approached the smell of baking cookies filled the house almost too intensely, and her dog, who had been on edge all day, paced through the house barking sharply. Later that night, as was their routine, she and Steve did p’howa practice together.
A couple of hours later she died. By the time we arrived, Steve had said his good-byes and was sleeping deeply, for the first time in more than six weeks, in the next room. When I entered the room, what struck me most was the silence. Terry’s body was just a shell without any real presence. The oxygen machine had been turned off. Now there was only the breeze in the wide-open windows. As our prayers filled the room, each of us had the distinct impression that she had let go. At four-thirty a rooster started to crow and we finished our prayers. We left a note for Steve and walked out into the dawn.
Maile Wall
This article was written to encourage sangha members to become involved in similar situations if the opportunity arises.
I knew Terry Looper-Laska for only three days. She was introduced to me as a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche who was dying of lung cancer and had requested that some of Rinpoche’s students come to her home and pray during the final days of her life. My initial response was one of fear, and then came the doubt that with my limited spiritual practice I could actually help. But I went to her home with the aspiration to support her during her transition. I never imagined that she, through her example, would offer so much to me.
Her bedroom was light and airy. An oxygen machine hummed steadily. As curtains drifted in the partially opened windows, the afternoon sun angled in and touched the woman lying on the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath came in quick gasps. It was as if there was never enough air to quench her thirst for it. Over the next two days her relatives and close friends came and went, and then only her daughter, Larissa, her husband, Steve, and a few sangha members remained with her.
As I sat, prayed, and watched I felt my initial fear of becoming involved in the process begin to fall away. With death so close at hand, my prayers were more direct and focused. There was no time for distraction or delay. I could see how, in my life, I had repeatedly let fear limit my ability to help others. In watching Terry’s process, I glimpsed that as long as we have hope and fear we will remain bound but that in their resolution we will be liberated.
I have no idea whether Terry realized the extent of her generosity in opening her home and her death to us. But from what I saw in a video she had made for her friends about working with her illness and facing her death, that was just the way she was. Her faith in the dharma and her diligence in applying the teachings that she had received truly impressed me. Chagdud Rinpoche’s blessing was undeniably there, as Chenrezig, as Tara, and as Terry. The power of that blessing deeply affected me.
On the third day Terry’s breathing was more labored. She spoke less and the level of the morphine in the bottle at her bedside dropped steadily. She lay in her room surrounded by family photos, in a house full of things that were no longer of use to her, and we prayed that she could let go. As evening approached the smell of baking cookies filled the house almost too intensely, and her dog, who had been on edge all day, paced through the house barking sharply. Later that night, as was their routine, she and Steve did p’howa practice together.
A couple of hours later she died. By the time we arrived, Steve had said his good-byes and was sleeping deeply, for the first time in more than six weeks, in the next room. When I entered the room, what struck me most was the silence. Terry’s body was just a shell without any real presence. The oxygen machine had been turned off. Now there was only the breeze in the wide-open windows. As our prayers filled the room, each of us had the distinct impression that she had let go. At four-thirty a rooster started to crow and we finished our prayers. We left a note for Steve and walked out into the dawn.
Maile Wall
This article was written to encourage sangha members to become involved in similar situations if the opportunity arises.
I knew Terry Looper-Laska for only three days. She was introduced to me as a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche who was dying of lung cancer and had requested that some of Rinpoche’s students come to her home and pray during the final days of her life. My initial response was one of fear, and then came the doubt that with my limited spiritual practice I could actually help. But I went to her home with the aspiration to support her during her transition. I never imagined that she, through her example, would offer so much to me.
Her bedroom was light and airy. An oxygen machine hummed steadily. As curtains drifted in the partially opened windows, the afternoon sun angled in and touched the woman lying on the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath came in quick gasps. It was as if there was never enough air to quench her thirst for it. Over the next two days her relatives and close friends came and went, and then only her daughter, Larissa, her husband, Steve, and a few sangha members remained with her.
As I sat, prayed, and watched I felt my initial fear of becoming involved in the process begin to fall away. With death so close at hand, my prayers were more direct and focused. There was no time for distraction or delay. I could see how, in my life, I had repeatedly let fear limit my ability to help others. In watching Terry’s process, I glimpsed that as long as we have hope and fear we will remain bound but that in their resolution we will be liberated.
I have no idea whether Terry realized the extent of her generosity in opening her home and her death to us. But from what I saw in a video she had made for her friends about working with her illness and facing her death, that was just the way she was. Her faith in the dharma and her diligence in applying the teachings that she had received truly impressed me. Chagdud Rinpoche’s blessing was undeniably there, as Chenrezig, as Tara, and as Terry. The power of that blessing deeply affected me.
On the third day Terry’s breathing was more labored. She spoke less and the level of the morphine in the bottle at her bedside dropped steadily. She lay in her room surrounded by family photos, in a house full of things that were no longer of use to her, and we prayed that she could let go. As evening approached the smell of baking cookies filled the house almost too intensely, and her dog, who had been on edge all day, paced through the house barking sharply. Later that night, as was their routine, she and Steve did p’howa practice together.
A couple of hours later she died. By the time we arrived, Steve had said his good-byes and was sleeping deeply, for the first time in more than six weeks, in the next room. When I entered the room, what struck me most was the silence. Terry’s body was just a shell without any real presence. The oxygen machine had been turned off. Now there was only the breeze in the wide-open windows. As our prayers filled the room, each of us had the distinct impression that she had let go. At four-thirty a rooster started to crow and we finished our prayers. We left a note for Steve and walked out into the dawn.
Maile Wall
This article was written to encourage sangha members to become involved in similar situations if the opportunity arises.
I knew Terry Looper-Laska for only three days. She was introduced to me as a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche who was dying of lung cancer and had requested that some of Rinpoche’s students come to her home and pray during the final days of her life. My initial response was one of fear, and then came the doubt that with my limited spiritual practice I could actually help. But I went to her home with the aspiration to support her during her transition. I never imagined that she, through her example, would offer so much to me.
Her bedroom was light and airy. An oxygen machine hummed steadily. As curtains drifted in the partially opened windows, the afternoon sun angled in and touched the woman lying on the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath came in quick gasps. It was as if there was never enough air to quench her thirst for it. Over the next two days her relatives and close friends came and went, and then only her daughter, Larissa, her husband, Steve, and a few sangha members remained with her.
As I sat, prayed, and watched I felt my initial fear of becoming involved in the process begin to fall away. With death so close at hand, my prayers were more direct and focused. There was no time for distraction or delay. I could see how, in my life, I had repeatedly let fear limit my ability to help others. In watching Terry’s process, I glimpsed that as long as we have hope and fear we will remain bound but that in their resolution we will be liberated.
I have no idea whether Terry realized the extent of her generosity in opening her home and her death to us. But from what I saw in a video she had made for her friends about working with her illness and facing her death, that was just the way she was. Her faith in the dharma and her diligence in applying the teachings that she had received truly impressed me. Chagdud Rinpoche’s blessing was undeniably there, as Chenrezig, as Tara, and as Terry. The power of that blessing deeply affected me.
On the third day Terry’s breathing was more labored. She spoke less and the level of the morphine in the bottle at her bedside dropped steadily. She lay in her room surrounded by family photos, in a house full of things that were no longer of use to her, and we prayed that she could let go. As evening approached the smell of baking cookies filled the house almost too intensely, and her dog, who had been on edge all day, paced through the house barking sharply. Later that night, as was their routine, she and Steve did p’howa practice together.
A couple of hours later she died. By the time we arrived, Steve had said his good-byes and was sleeping deeply, for the first time in more than six weeks, in the next room. When I entered the room, what struck me most was the silence. Terry’s body was just a shell without any real presence. The oxygen machine had been turned off. Now there was only the breeze in the wide-open windows. As our prayers filled the room, each of us had the distinct impression that she had let go. At four-thirty a rooster started to crow and we finished our prayers. We left a note for Steve and walked out into the dawn.
Maile Wall
This article was written to encourage sangha members to become involved in similar situations if the opportunity arises.
