by Shana Baxter

Created on: October 18, 2009   Last Updated: October 20, 2009

Death, a simple thought that evokes very complex emotions. Most fear it, some revel in it, yet many like me are curious about it.

As a small child I thought of death, I did not fear death until late elementary school. Religion brought the fear of death into my life. I spent many years looking for that "perfect path" to heaven through numerous churches and religions.

As a young adult I was excommunicated from a church because I asked the pastor why a church can judge if one goes to heaven yet the commandments state very clearly..."Thou Shalt not Judge, less thou be Judged."

Being "condemned" to hell I figured it was OK now to go out and "seek" the truth, not follow my pastor blindly into slaughter. Feeling abandoned by the church I turned to the education system for my religious education.

Human sciences became my "church". Through Psychology and Anatomy I learned that the human body develops metaphorically in accordance to a lot of the scriptures. Foot stones laid early on in the human growth process, with the corner stone being "trust vs mistrust", learned in early infancy according to modern psychology.

Death and Dying classes taught at my local college encouraged me to talk to people who have lost loved ones, or had near death experiences. This made me seek out the dying in many nursing homes I worked at. Looking, watching, and feeling how people reacted to death and the unknown beyond.

My first experience with the dying process came early in my education. The patient was an elderly woman, Jane Doe. found down in her yard by a neighbor she was brought to us to die, alone. Unable to contact any next of kin, we cleaned her up, medicated her and the staff went about their other work. Being a student I had the opportunity to sit with this lady, assisting her in her final step from life.

Unable to communicate with voice I watched her eyes, she was scared, alone, and did not know how to proceed. I just held her hand, talked soothingly to her, when I realized she had a ring on her finger. This ring slipped off easily and engraved inside was "forever your Dill Pickle". I asked her if her name was Mrs Dill.

I am guessing this was a pet name not her real name from the mischievous smile in her eyes. Knowing what history we had on her I figured she must be a widow. I began talking to her about death, taking that step. I told her I was not sure what was out there but I wanted to believe her husband was, holding out his hand waiting for her.

She closed her eyes and a

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