What people do is to begin looking into their own hearts and into the eyes of those with whom they share their lives. And all too often they find that these aren't places they've looked very deeply before.

Fred
We just spend some time with Fred, a 54-year old bus driver for Greyhound. After Fred's diagnosis of terminal cancer, he and his family decided that he would prefer to die at home.

Because of his work, Fred had spent most of his married life away from home. He'd never had a very close relationship with his children. He and his wife had dealt with most major family difficulties -- including some severe sexual problems -- by totally ignoring them. Fred had always felt he needed to keep up a macho image, and his wife felt trapped in her role as wife and mother. His children only used the house as a place to eat and sleep.

But as his disease progressed, Fred reached the point where he could no longer play his accustomed roles. He couldn't be a tough guy any more. He had a lot of pain, and all the members of his family has to work like hell to take care of him. His teenage son -- whom he formerly hardly spoke to -- was now giving him baths and rubbing his back. His daughter would read to him when he had trouble sleeping.

As Fred's cancer progressed, he and his family broke through one barrier after another. It wasn't easy, but through it all the family members drew closer and closer. Everyone in the house learned to trust and confide in each other. Neighbors who came to visit would tell us, "I expected to find a house of death. Instead I find a house of life and love. This family has never been as close as they are now."

In observing the changes in Fred's family, we were reminded of the thousands of Brahma bulls that wander around India. They're considered sacred. If two men are trying to kill each other with knives, and a Brahma bull walks between them, they'll pull their knives away, because they mustn't scratch the bull.

Dying people are like Brahma bulls. In their presence, so many of our petty hassles are simply forgotten. We realize what's impermanent, and what's of permanent value.

For most of the people we've worked with, the diagnosis of a fatal disease comes as a frightening experience. One of their most frequent comments is: "I feel like I've wasted my life." So much of who they are has been held back. So much of their precious time was spent running away from their fears, waiting for the future, or remembering the past.

So little of their lives was spent actually living. Although they've been alive 40, 60 or 80 years, it suddenly feels to them as if they've hardly lived at all. They've been so buy striving for security and trying to live up to one ideal or another that they forgot to taste and savor the texture of their lives. They were so busy making a home, building their career, becoming solid citizens, that they forgot to live.

Daren
We shared some time recently with Daren, a 38-year-old Los Angeles man dying from a degenerative nerve disease. Two years ago Daren was handsome, successful, and vibrantly health. He had reached the pinnacle of professional success. he was a singer, dancer, and virtuoso guitarist, and was greatly sought after by many for the major Hollywood studios. He had a wife and two children, a lovely home, and ran five miles a day.