What’s a Death Doula: An Anecdotal Answer In Honor of Yentl

People often ask me what an end-of-life doula is. More often, what they really wanna know is, “What exactly are you hired to do?”

And of course, there are things I could list that would allow you to sink your teeth into a tangible answer; As a doula, I’ve delivered flowers, prepared meals, swept floors, given massages, read books at bedside, advocated for better pain management, walked family members through the dying process, facilitated life-review and existential conversations, answered grief-stricken late-night texts, held vigil– to name some. 

Those types of support are valuable and meaningful, don’t get me wrong, but equally important is the intangible, abstract part. The piece of doulaship that must be experienced to be understood.

It’s this silent portion, the ‘being’ separate from ‘doing,’ which, in my opinion, generates the deepest layers of service, and results in words from the liminal like “Oh, Tess, you bring peace to my heart.”  

I’ve always known about this hard-to-name quality of doulaship, but it wasn’t until I really needed a doula that I experienced first-hand the depth of what I’m trying to describe to you now.

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A few months ago, on a “normal” day just like any other, my twin Mel’s beloved dog, Yentl, woke up vomiting. Within 48 hours, Yentl was gone. She was only four years old, healthy and vibrant until this day, when she began dying from kidney failure. 

When the Vet first described how serious things were, Mel went into shock. I went into doula mode and found myself doing what I’ve done for others facing loss— asking questions, tending to logistics, staying steady so someone else could fall apart. 

But this time was different, not only because I love both Mel and Yentl beyond measure, but also because I hadn’t yet experienced a close personal loss since I started my professional doulaship.

I’m biased, but I know Yentl was special. I think everyone knew, in fact. When Mel left town, Yentl stayed with me. I’d parade her around my neighborhood like she was mine, soaking in the way people constantly stopped us with adoration for Yentl’s scruffy, unique beauty, her disarming gentleness, her eyes that always seemed to know something about love the rest of us were still learning… 

More than that, I loved how much Yentl and Mel loved each other. Originating in Tijuana, Mexico, Yentl had a traumatic early life. Mel became devoted to Yentl’s well-being, and over time, Yentl timidly yet triumphantly blossomed.

For four beautiful years, Mel and Yentl were inseparable, happy anywhere as long as they were together. As a twin, there was something deeply stabilizing about knowing my sibling was in love like this. 

To imagine that Mel would lose that– at least in physical form– was indescribable.

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Those final days with Yentl were a blur of visits to the vet hospital where she was admitted, anguishing conversations, and rolling waves of shock that broke our hearts until we begrudgingly found ourselves on the shore of truth: Yentl was dying, and there was nothing we could do to prevent this.

For all my beliefs about death–for all my trust in its naturalness–I did not want this to be happening. It was too soon, Yentl was too innocent, too important. On that final sleepless night, I questioned if I was cut out for death-work at all. Every part of me was screaming in protest to this death, but I couldn’t admit that. I felt like a fraud.

The morning we brought Yentl home from the hospital, she still managed to wag her tail and walk to the car. If Mel had a tail, theirs would’ve been wagging, too. They were together again. 

And for a moment, everything felt normal. For a moment, I was convinced that Mel and Yentl would never part again.

That’s when something in me cracked, and I realized– even a doula needs a doula (though honestly it was more like holy shit I really need a f*cking doula).

But surely it was too late, I thought.

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Back at Mel’s house, the floor was converted into a comfortable bed so that Mel, and her best friend, Ari, could curl around Yentl there. Meanwhile, Mel’s chosen-family neighbor, Henry, and I scrambled to find a veterinarian who could euthanize Yentl that afternoon.

Henry had to put his beloved dog, Hans (Yentl’s best friend), down 8 months prior– a huge loss we were all still coping with. Despite Henry having an extensive list of our resources, securing same-day services was difficult; about a dozen veterinarians told us “no”.

I remember feeling like time was collapsing. Yentl was declining fast. I’ll spare you the details of the rapid changes to her body, but we needed a vet ASAP. 

It dawned on me that I had none of my usual tools- candles, ritual items, anything to adorn the space as sacred. I asked Mel what flowers she wanted, told her I’d run to get some, but she wasn’t able to answer, and it didn’t feel right to leave. Everything in me was avoiding the mental spiral– this is all wrong.

Then my phone lit up.

“Do you need me?” –Trish.

When I called Trish, she told me that Ziggy– a dog she had supported through death the year before– had been strongly in her awareness that morning, urging her to reach out.

As a former NICU nurse, Trish is now a doula peer, a friend, and an outright angel in my life, continually reminding me of the omnipresence of magic because of moments like this one. She was one of the only people that I would have allowed into this space, too. And I didn’t even have to ask…(from the bottom of my heart, thank you, Ziggy and Trish).

When Trish walked into the room, everything seemed to reorganize and progress instantaneously. Henry had finally, amazingly secured a vet who’d be arriving in an hour or two. The timeline is cloudy now, but I remember this: Trish arrived at the exact time when I could no longer hold myself together, at all. It was also the exact time when Yentl could no longer tolerate being distracted from her dying process by our tears and kisses. 

We all needed to let go.

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Trish set up an altar of candles, incense, roses, pine needles, selenite, and black tourmaline. She brought tissues, which we really needed, and a CBD balm that Mel rubbed on Yentl’s bloated belly while we awaited the doctor. We sat in a circle, sharing memories of our baby girl, professing our gratitude, and everything we’d miss about having her physically here. From the depths of our souls, we cried. 

It wasn’t the things Trish brought, or what she “did” that made the most difference. All of that was deeply appreciated, and it did contribute in many ways, but it’s…how do I say this…

It was in the way she sat, breathed, radiated.

A doula in presence is like an anchor, a tuning fork, and a container; the anchor grounds us so that we’re safe enough to feel big, the tuning fork resonates with a truth that merges the duality of life & death back into an interdependent, interwoven thread, and the container holds it all, reminding us that everything is allowed, just as it is, yes, even this.

Trish’s presence was like a sacred puzzle piece falling into place that we desperately needed and almost missed. But you don’t know what you don’t know. And I’m grateful I got to find out. 

Every time my eyes met Trish’s, I remembered: This is safe, I’m safe, Mel’s safe, Yentl’s safe, nothing to do, everything to feel, be here, honestly, just as you are... 

In that safety, I felt my tension unwind, and my heart melt. I leaned into grief and detached from the conviction that I had to do it all on my own, do it all right, and do anything at all. 

What had threatened to be a singularly traumatic experience transformed into one of profound tenderness and multidimensional wonder.

I accepted that, to sustainably support others, I’d have to be honest when I needed this support myself. I now know we can doula our loved ones, and ourselves, but only to a certain point. That’s the moment the doula in us needs to succumb to our own grief, and that’s when another doula really holds us down with this ineffable trait.

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When the Vet arrived, everyone was ready, especially Yentl. One by one, Mel, Ari, Henry, and I held her and said a final thank you and goodbye. We played Mel’s and Yentl’s favorite Grateful Dead songs. 

The bittersweetness of it all is beyond language, but here goes…

Being present with Yentl’s death was like watching the sunset: the arc of cooling that radiated from the curve of time, each moment seeing the sky as it was, as it never would be again, now slipping into now, a crescendo of beauty, love, ache, until she met the lowest point of the horizon and “still here, still here” disappeared peacefully into eternity. 

When you’re truly centered within the finitude of time, you don’t want to miss a moment. 

Yentl took her last breath with her eyes lovingly, trustingly, locked on Mel’s.

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When it was all over, I walked Trish to her car. In awe of everything, we embraced, and Trish let me know that the veterinarian with us today was the same woman who’d facilitated Ziggy’s transition last year. Among other distinguishing features, this doctor had blue hair and was easy to remember.

Ziggy, the same beautiful soul who’d encouraged Trish to reach out to me. The same vet that Henry had contacted last-minute by way of Hans, Yentl’s best friend.

We live in LA, mind you, a “dog city” where there’s a plethora of veterinarians and services of this kind. The likelihood that the same doctor would have been with Ziggy (in Long Beach) and Yentl (in West Hollywood) was astonishing. 

When Trish shared this, I felt like I’d been struck by gnostic lightning- a sudden, unexpected revelation of a perfection so encompassing that it still gives me chills.

It initiated me into this truth: although it can feel like both, death is not a punishment, nor a mistake. And when we receive enough support, we can expand beyond this dread and open to the opportunities death provides, including: an awareness of the irreplaceable now, the illusory nature of control, the indestructible nature of love, the didactic function of grief, and the interconnectedness of everything. I pray we all get to experience this level of doula support in our lifetime- it matters.

Many more layers of synchronicity and magic were, and continue to be, interwoven through Yentl’s death. So much so that, albeit tragically, it seems the whole universe was in alignment with the events of this day and this death. I’m choosing not to share all these examples with you now. 

Some things you have to experience firsthand.