In the Shadow of Dying: Lessons from the Threshold

Time has fractured into a thousand unrecognizable pieces, scattered like shards of glass over these days, weeks, and months in the twilight of my sister’s dying. The hospice, this strange and sacred space, hums with the rhythms of life that cling to the edges of death. Outside, the world spins on, indifferent to the sorrow here. In stores, people hustle through their holiday errands, their carts clattering with cheer, while I feel like a ghost walking among the living.

Inside, in the shadow of her bed, time loses its meaning. Every hour feels stretched thin, yet somehow heavy, weighted with the enormity of what is happening. My sister lies there, her breaths uneven, her mouth slackening day by day. Her fleshly form is retreating, a slow surrender that is as agonizing to witness as it must be to endure. She stirs occasionally, mumbling words we strain to understand, grasping at the remnants of coherence as though they might anchor her.

And then there are moments of lucidity—fleeting, like a match struck in the dark—where her eyes widen, desperate for connection. In those moments, when we reflect her words back to her, she seems deeply comforted, satiated by the recognition. It’s as though the simple act of being understood holds the weight of all the love she can bear to receive.

But the receiving has always been her struggle. Her life’s work, I think, has been a quiet, unspoken refusal to let love in without condition. Now, as her body fails her, there is no room left for that old resistance, though it lingers stubbornly, as habits of the heart often do. She says she is too much for everyone, taking too long to die, asking too much of us all. I tell her this is the lie of a world that fears death, a world that whispers to us that our worth is measured by our utility.

I remind her that we, her family, are here not out of duty but because we love her. That our presence is not a transaction. That her dying, however long it takes, is teaching us what it means to stand unflinching in the face of suffering. That we are learning, through her, the courage it takes to surrender.

This space, this liminal purgatory, demands everything: patience, compassion, strength, and a willingness to witness the unravelling of someone you love. It is not passive waiting; it is active, gruelling work. We are not just waiting for her death; we are learning how to live alongside it, how to carry its weight, and how to let it transform us.

There are days when I feel resentment creeping in, a frustration born of exhaustion. She’s keeping us here, tied to this process, draining every last ounce of our reserves. But the truth is, it’s not her holding us here—it’s love. Love that binds, love that compels us to stay even when it hurts. Love that keeps us tethered to her as she wrestles with the ghosts of her own story—her worth, her guilt, her fear.

And in her dying, I see myself reflected. Her struggles are the sacred mirror, asking me to look at the parts of myself I’ve avoided. I see my own resistance to receiving, my own masks, my own fear of letting go. Her death is not just hers; it is ours. The parts of us that are tied to her will die with her, and we will be asked to live differently in their absence.

I’ve walked this path before—with my husband, my parents, and friends who have gone too soon but each journey is its own world, teaching its own lessons. This time, with my sister, the lesson now feels a tiny bit more clear: we must learn to bear our grief while it is still warm. To grieve before the body is cold, to loosen our grip on the living while they are still breathing. It’s a paradox, this grieving in advance, but it is the way we prepare ourselves to meet death with something resembling grace.

Surrender is her task now, and ours. She asks me, in her weak and wavering voice, “What do I do now?” I tell her she is close to God now, to let go, to surrender, to soften into the love that surrounds her. I tell her that we will guard her like great dragons, watching over her until the moment she decides to take that final step. I tell her she will always be my sister, no matter where her spirit goes, that she will live on in her children, her grandchildren, and the quiet echoes of the life she’s leaving behind.

This is the work of dying—not just for her but for all of us. 

To stand vigil, unflinching. 

To let the grief wash over us without drowning. 

To find meaning in the waiting, the watching, the surrender. 

To learn, through her journey, how to prepare for our own.

Death is the great teacher, and my sister’s dying is the lesson I am living now. 

May I learn well. 

May we all learn well.