16th final orbit.

"How long does she have left?"

"We're not sure."

"But she'll die tonight?"

"Most likely, yes"

"And you’ll stay with her?"

"It will mean everything to her family."

"I will. Please tell them."

I sat on a crash mat on the floor next to her bed. A virtual aqua blue butterfly floating in slow motion on a TV mounted on the opposite wall. It was peaceful. There is often peace at the end. People want to know this more than anything else.

I volunteer in aged care, sitting vigil with people in their final hours. It’s not sexy. It’s not cool. It’s not for ego. And it’s not for most people. But being with someone as their life ends is a profound privilege. One not to be feared. And no two deaths are ever the same.

We receive training and ongoing support to professionally and respectfully fulfill our role but there is no 101 manual on “how to help a stranger die.” Being present, using intuition and gut instinct is often the only thing left to rely on.

She slept with a teddy bear under her arm and a stack of well-worn novels on the shelf. Unaware of her story, instinctively I knew to read. To her. So, I did, the final six pages of Orbital, the book I'd brought to read myself. As if perfectly orchestrated, these pages no longer focused on the protagonists’ stories, but on the story of Earth itself, and the magic and wonder of their final orbit around it.

I read slowly, savouring each word. I witnessed her breathing ease. Her shoulders soften and her agitation slip away. On the final page, nine words stopped me cold: "metallic pulsing hum of a tuning fork." Anyone who knows me intimately, knows the power, meaning and symbology of the tuning fork (H2BH 005/365).

And as their 16th and final orbit came into view, so did hers. She took one last breath.

I watched as the gravity that kept her grounded her entire life silently released its grip. And I witnessed something ineffable lift and leave. Her life on this earth was complete.

I checked her pulse, held her hand briefly, touched her forehead gently, and called the nurse. I packed up my somewhat now pointless possessions and I went home.

I've had the privilege of sitting with many people close to death. But this experience has stayed with me.

Maybe it was the tuning fork reference. Maybe it was reading about orbits ending as hers did. Maybe it was the butterfly on the screen, suspended between somewhere and nowhere. Maybe it was witnessing her final sacred breath.

It's way simpler than that. In those 90 minutes, I experienced something in real time and life that was previously theoretical. Although important and preferred, we don't need a history to hold space for another. We don't need words to communicate trust, worth or care. That it's not death that stops us from living. It's fear.

And, that it’s possible, although incredibly rare, for two strangers to share what most people never will - the greatest of all human truths and acts – that we're all just walking each other home.

H2BH 012/365