I broke my back and spinal cord in a mountaineering accident and, unfortunately, was paralysed as a result. Along with the kidney donation, I added to my will that I wish to bequeath my body to science; and there is just a hope that by examining the break in my back something might be learned which might mean that some time, some person might not have to spend the rest of their life in a wheelchair as I have to.
So far, so good. To me, my body is one of my belongings and as I shall be leaving it behind when I die, I hope that somebody else may be able to do something useful with it, as they surely will with some of my other possessions.
Then I became a Buddhist. After a few years of meeting and talking with other Buddhists, I found, to my surprise, that nobody I met carried a kidney donor card. “We don’t do that”. “It’s not allowed.” “Oh no, you mustn’t!” “Rinpoché doesn’t allow it!”
I found this attitude surprising and took the problem to my Lama. He answered with his usual economy of words, “Of course it is OK! It is a good thing but BE SURE you know what you are doing, otherwise possible problems.”
“You mean the possibility of anger after death at seeing strangers cutting up your body?”
“Yes!”
I started remembering. I remembered some hours after my accident seeing the nurse beside my bed; only I remembered the top of her head seen from above. I remembered looking down at the blood drip. I remembered seeing a sort of lump in the bed and reasoning, “That’s me. No, that can’t be me, because I am up here!”
It is easy and wonderful to recall the strength, the power, of my next memory. I was walking strongly and a deep chasm was behind me. There was no bridge but I had crossed over this chasm. In front of me there was a golden light, the colour of evening sunshine, bright, warm, glowing, but I could look into the centre and not be blinded by any glare. I knew this to be the fount, the source of all love. This was, is, where all love comes from and I, I was going there, bathed in the joy and fullness of it.
A wonderful face with golden hair and blue eyes penetrated my vision. An Angel? Were there really such beings after all? Another head came into my line of vision, covered in black hair. A devil? Then it spoke. “Bloody hell, Mags! Good to see you alive. We thought you were dead yesterday when we carried you down off the mountain”. I found this funny, because I knew that I was dead. I started to laugh and probably at that point, started to live.
That was way back in 1961 but the strength of the experience has never left me. It is now my understanding of Buddha-nature. I had been walking into the source from which all Buddha nature arises, from where it flows down into all beings. “Ground luminosity” does not convey this experience. No words can.
I had left my lump of a body behind, left it on the bed. I had not needed it on my short walk into the Buddha-light. But now, so many years on, I realise that when I left my body it was being well cared for, with gentleness and respect. How would I have reacted if I had looked down and seen a group of people stripping me naked and cutting me open? A real operating theatre does not have the dramatic silent tension as shown on TV. Real surgeons, nurses, medical students, and technicians, talk, chat, laugh and discuss the latest T.V. soap opera, etc. while they do their job. [1]
Could I have accepted this? Will I be able to accept this in the future when someone cashes in my donor card? Any organ donation must be done immediately while the body is fresh. The body cannot be left for three days as the teachings advise. Will I be able to accept the activity to my body or will I start screaming silently, “Leave me alone! I don’t care what I wrote. Leave me alone! How dare you pull my clothes off! Cover me up! Stop messing me about! Leave me alone!” The dead cannot speak, cannot be heard. I could enter the Bardo in a silent scream of helpless rage.
This is why “the boss” as we call our Lama, said, “Be sure you understand what you are doing”. I know why he said this and I can see why many Buddhists choose not to carry donor cards.
Despite this understanding, I still felt strongly that my original, pre-Buddhist decision to carry a donor card and to leave my body to science was correct and that being a Buddhist puts an even stronger obligation on me to do this. So I pondered on this problem.
During a teaching, when I should have been concentrating on the Lama’s words, but still pondering on this problem, the Chöd practice came into my mind. Ha! This practice is a symbolic offering of the ultimate gift, your own body. You imagine Vajrayogini – a female embodiment of decisive, active wisdom, descending upon you with her hooked knife. With great reverence she systematically dismembers you and you offer up the parts of your body to the Buddhas, to the Bodhisattvas, Wisdom Protectors and many others, for the sake of happiness for all sentient beings. The seriousness, the enormity of the offering is respected and appreciated.
Suppose, instead of her traditional form, I imagine Vajrayogini in a pale blue gown, with a pale blue hat, wearing rubber gloves. Instead of slicing my skull, she makes two sharp incisions in my back and pulls out my kidneys, another incision and she takes my eyes, another incision and perhaps my heart is taken. These are extracted and taken swiftly to another body, apparently lifeless but only anaesthetised. Slowly, slowly, this second body comes to life. O Joy! A real life! A free, natural life, free to move, free to see, free from pain, free from illness, free from disability.
This form of visualisation is to help me to prepare for the moment when I shall be in a position to help a real person, a fellow human being, to live again by the skill of the surgeons and my gift of organs from the body I shall no longer need. I intend to practise this giving of my body so that when the time comes, I shall not react with a feeling of anger at being molested, but with a feeling of joy at finally being able to give a much welcomed, much needed life-giving present.
I ask as an ignorant and novice practitioner, should not this be the path of the 21st century bodhisattva postulant?
Maggy Jones
August, 1994
[1] A friend who works as a theatre technician said strongly that although laughing and chatting was the scene for a normal operation, it had never happened in his experience during an organ transplant. The moment of death as the organs are removed causes such an impact of respect and awe on all present that this never becomes a routine affair.
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