"My Mother's Death in Dhamma" -S.N. Goenka.

(In 1985 Goenkaji was asked by a student whether it is possible to feel sensations at the time of death. In reply, he related the following story about his adoptive mother’s death.)

I was one of six sons. I was adopted at a young age by my uncle and aunt, Mr. Dwarkadas and Mrs. Ramidevi Goenka, who at the time had six daughters but no son.

My adoptive mother was a devoted student of my teacher Sayagyi U Ba Khin. She had made great progress in her seven years of practicing Vipassana under Sayagyi’s guidance, and Sayagyi was quite fond of her. She was the only student of Sayagyi's to die in his presence as far as it is known.

In 1967 when my mother was about 70 years old, she was diagnosed as having an advanced stage of liver cancer. We in the family did not know how long she had suffered because she had never complained. It was only one week before her death that she spoke mildly about some pain she was having in the liver. 

When her daughter-in-law (my wife, Mrs. Goenka) asked her to describe the pain, she replied, “Well, the pain is similar to that which a mother suffers when she gives birth—except that this has no break.”

She had been meditating very seriously for seven years before her death. She went to the meditation center every time there was a course; whether it was for ten days, one month or any other period, her bag was always packed. 

She also did self-courses at home. 

Although she came from a devotional background, she was no longer interested in rites and rituals. She had left these behind.

From the time she was diagnosed as having cancer until she died seven days later, she would not allow anyone to talk to her about her disease. She gave strict orders that only Vipassana meditators could come into her room, and then, only to meditate. They could meditate for half an hour, an hour or many hours; and then they were to quietly leave.

In our Hindu community, it was customary for the friends of a dying person to come to the house to pay respects. My mother was very popular in the community and she had many people wishing to visit her in her final illness. For those who were not meditators, she gave instructions that they could visit but that they could not come into her room.

They were simply to sit quietly outside a door of netting. My mother was not interested in receiving treatment, but as her son, it was my duty to arrange it for her. Every day our family doctor and a specialist visited her. When they questioned her about her pain she said, “Yes, there is pain. So what? Anissa, anissa (the Burmese way to pronounce anicca-impermanence).” She attached no importance to it.

One morning the specialist was concerned that the pain of the cancer might be interfering with her sleep. When he asked, “Did you sleep soundly last night?” 

she answered, “No, I had no sleep.” 

He wrote a prescription for some sleeping pills which she took that night. The next day, again the doctor came and asked if she had slept, and she replied, “No.” 

Again on the third day he asked, and again she responded, “No.” 

Even though she did not complain, the doctor worried that she was not sleeping because she was suffering so much. Because of drug shortages, he wrote prescriptions for three different strong sleeping pills with the intention that only one be purchased. However, all three could be purchased and by mistake she was given a triple dosage. The next morning all she reported was that, although her eyelids had become heavy, she had not slept all night.

Then it occured to me that the doctor did not understand. 

To a Vipassana meditator sleep is unimportant, especially on the deathbed. Despite sedation my mother’s strong determination had kept her alert. She had been practicing Vipassana every moment. I explained to the doctor that sleeping pills would not help but he did not understand. 

He said, “I have given her this medicine and even this does not help her sleep. That means she is in great pain.” 

I said, “It’s not the pain, it

is Vipassana which is keeping her awake, aware of her sensations.”

As we came out of the room he said, “There is something special about your mother. There is a woman of the same age in a neighboring house who also has liver cancer. She is in great misery and cries out in pain, but we cannot console her. We feel so sorry to see her in this wretched condition. And here is your mother who, when we come, just smiles.”

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The night she died some of the family members were meditating with her. 

At 11:00 pm she said to us “It is so late. All of you go to sleep now.” 

About midnight the nurse who was on duty noticed that there was no pulse in her wrists. She became frightened and, thinking death was near, asked, “May I awaken your children?” 

My mother said, “No, no, my time has not yet come. When my time comes I will tell you.” 

At 3:00 am she told the nurse, “Now is the time.Awaken all the family members. I have to go now.” 

And so we were all awakened. We came and discovered there was no pulse in many parts of her body. 

We telephoned Sayagyi and the family doctor who both came quickly. When the doctor arrived he said she had only a few minutes left.

Sayagyi arrived shortly thereafter. My mother was lying on her back. Even though there was no pulse left in her wrists (it was as if they were dead), as soon as she saw her teacher, she found the strength to raise her hands and fold them together, paying respect to him.

About five minutes before she died she looked at me and said, “I want to sit.” 

I looked at the doctor who said, “No, in a few minutes she is going to die. Let her die peacefully. If you move her it will be a painful death. Already she is suffering great pain. Leave her.” 

She heard what he said but again told me, “No, let me sit.” 

I thought, “This is her last wish. She doesn’t care about pain. What the doctor says is unimportant. I must help her to sit.” 

So I placed some pillows at her back. With a jerk she sat up in the meditation position with folded legs and looked at all of us. I asked her “Do you feel sensations? Do you feel anissa?” 

She touched the top of her head and said, “Yes, yes, anissa.”

She smiled and in half a minute she died. In life her face had a glow. Now in death also, there was a glow on her face.

(Vipassana International Newsletter. April'92)