Articles by Subject › Spirituality › A Visit from the Angel of Death

A Visit from the Angel of Death

I'm sitting next to my mother's hospital bed; it's not a good night. She's feverish and her cheeks are flushed and I think of the groundskeeper who had an angel chained to his wall om a story I once heard. She opens her eyes and they aren't the soft brown eyes I'm familiar with. They're clouded and gray and she appears to be looking through me. Am I seeing what she sees in the mirror of her eyes? Is this what the angel of death looks like, I ask myself? I know what it smells like because I've caught his scent as I walk through the corridors of this place and when I catch the scent in her room I tell myself that it's coming from the other bed.

I look at her hands, thin and veiny, holding the blankets close to her and I remember how the Toltec storyteller Koyote's hands looked in the Telling; sometimes rubbery and smooth, sometimes skeletal with the fingers elongated. At one point he looked at the hand of his human host as if seeing it for the first time or maybe admiring its beauty and usefulness.

She lifted her arm so that I could tuck the blanket around her and we both looked at the loose skin hanging from her arm, "choro," she said. I'd never heard that word before. I asked her what it meant and she said, "loose skin." I thought she said lose skin, and I remembered something someone told me the day before about dropping her skin like a robe and how surprised she was at what was revealed.

My mother told me that she wanted me to leave when the nurses came to change the lady in the bed next to her. I asked her why and she said, "I don't want you to hear her. She cries out and screams in pain."

"It's okay Mom, I'll be alright." But when the nurses came and the woman started to cry softly my mother was adamant about me leaving and I could see the fear in her eyes. I wanted to tell her that it was okay, that one day she'll be free of the body that is old and tired and has served her well; that the great adventure is still to come. I wanted to tell her the story of the god who became a pig and forgot that he'd ever been a god and how it was only after he died that his divine nature was revealed in all its glory. But I just sat next to her in silence and threw a bubble of Aka Dua over us until the fear left her eyes. When she fell asleep I kissed her and left. As I opened the doors to step out into the night I could hear the crickets and a dog barking in the distance and I swear I could hear footsteps fading away.

Our stories say that the angel of death is always with us right behind the left shoulder. He is the ultimate stalker, the supreme warrior, and in the end he always catches his prey. I thanked him for giving us more time with my mother. We have work to do to prepare before he comes calling again.

Pilar Gamboa

Pilar Gamboa is a Level 3 Aka Dua Master who specializes in working with those who are undergoing transition. She occasionally leads Labyrinth Readers Courses for those who wish to work with others in the area of conscious dying. She may be contacted by calling The Tequihua Foundation offices at (951) 686-3471 or by emailing pgamboa@tequihuafoundation.org

www.tequihuafoundation.org