THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T do when someone is dying:

Don’t talk about when your aunt or your grandmother or your dog died. This isn’t about you, and the sick person shouldn’t have to comfort you; it should be the other way around. There are concentric circles of grief: the patient is at the center, the next layer is the caregiver, then their kids, then close friends, and so on. Figure out what circle you’re in. If you are looking into the concentric circles, you give comfort. If you’re looking out, you receive it.

Don’t say things that aren’t true: You’re going to beat this cancer! It’s all about a positive outlook! You look stronger! You aren’t fooling anyone.

Don’t overact your happiness. It’s okay to be sad with someone who is dying. They’ve invited you close at a very tender time, and that’s a moment of grace you can share.

Don’t think you have to discuss the illness. Sometimes, a sick person needs a break. And if you ask up front if he wants to talk about how he feels—or doesn’t—you’re giving him control at a time when he doesn’t have a lot of choices.

Don’t be afraid of the silence. It’s okay to say nothing.

Don’t forget: No one knows what to say to someone who’s dying. Everyone is afraid of saying the wrong thing. It’s more important to be there than to be right.

Win and I have reached the stage where we can sit in quiet, without a background noise of NPR on the radio or the television murmuring. That’s an important part of the process. I know that Win is turning over memories as if they are treasured jewels. I am going over everything Meret told me the night before, and trying to pick a path forward through comfort and courage.

Win is figuring out how to die; I am figuring out how to live.

She is having a bad day. She hasn’t eaten. For the first time, she didn’t try to get out of bed. There’s a point in the process of dying when it really hits you. You have the diagnosis, you know that your body isn’t acting the way you want—but one morning you wake up and realize that you really weren’t sure that you would wake up. You understand that there’s a curtain you cannot see behind, and your toes are brushing the edge of it, and you aren’t able to reverse course.

Win clears her throat, and I immediately offer her a glass of water with a straw in it. She sips, wets her lips. “What’s the strangest request you’ve ever had?”

“To make someone’s ashes into a diamond. There’s a company called LifeGem that does it.”

“Of course there is,” Win murmurs.

“My client’s widow wore it until she died, too, and then she was buried wearing the necklace.” I glance at her. “Why? Do you want to make Felix a piece of jewelry?”

“Weave me into a hair shirt instead,” she says. She is listless, tired.

“Maybe you should close your eyes for a bit,” I suggest.

“I’m afraid if I do, I may not open them again.”

“And that makes you anxious?”

“Shouldn’t it?” She raises her brows. “I just wish I could get a peek at what’s coming. Other than a whole mess of fear served up with a side of who the hell knows.”

“People fear different things about death,” I tell her. “Pain. Not finishing something you’re working on. Leaving someone you love. There’s even real FOMO, fear of missing out, of the world going on and you not being here to see it.”

“I can’t decide if missing the 2020 election is terrible timing, or excellent timing.”

“It probably depends on who wins,” I say, smiling a little.

“The not knowing. That’s what’s killing me,” Win murmurs. “Well. That, and cancer.” She glances at me. “I’m okay with dying. I really am. But I don’t want to do it wrong, you know? Does that sound ridiculous? I just wish I could know what’s going to happen. How I’ll know it’s time.”

I have not thought about my failed doctorate in a long time—at least not until I was reading Win those hieroglyphics. But I remember that what fascinated me most about the Book of Two Ways was how comforting it would be to have a map to reach the afterlife. Even the Ancient Egyptians recognized that knowledge was the difference between a good death and a bad one.

“I don’t know how long you have,” I say carefully, “and I don’t know what the process is going to feel like. But I can help you understand what happens to your body.”

Guided death meditation is something I usually do with healthy people who want to understand how to help those who are terminally ill. But I think it might help Win a little; bring her some peace. The meditation was developed by Joan Halifax and Larry Rosenberg, based on the nine contemplations of dying—written by Atisha, a highly revered Tibetan monk, in the eleventh century.

Win says she’d like to try it, so I help her out of bed and have her lie on the floor in corpse pose. I sit next to her, legs crossed. “If anything I say starts to stress you out,” I tell Win, “raise a finger.”

She looks at me and nods.

“Just listen to my voice,” I say, and I begin, pitching my tone even and soft. “All of us will die sooner or later. No one can prevent death; it’s the outcome of birth. It’s inevitable. Not a single sentient being—no matter how spiritually evolved, or powerful, or wealthy, or motivated—has escaped death. Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed did not escape death, and neither will you or I. All the gifts of your life—education and money and status and fame and family and friends—will make no difference at the moment of death. In fact, they can make it harder, because we hold on to them. What are you doing right now that will help you die? Hold your answer in your head. On the inbreath, think: Death is inevitable. On the outbreath, think: I, too, will die.”

I move on to the second contemplation, rising up on my knees to dim the light beside the bed. “Your life span shortens every second you live. There is the moment of your birth, and the moment of your death, and your movement toward death never stops. Every breath you take in and release brings you closer. Appreciate what you have now, because there may be no tomorrow. If your life span is decreasing every day, what are you doing now to appreciate what you have left? What gives your life meaning?”

Win’s finger twitches and I wait, but she relaxes.

“Every word you speak, every breath you take, moves you closer to the end of your life. On the inbreath, inhale gratitude for the additional seconds you have been given. On the outbreath, think of the seconds that have passed in your life.”

I watch her chest rise and fall. “Death will come whether or not we are prepared. Of the one million three hundred thousand thoughts we have each day, precious few are about how to meet the challenge of death. Can you listen to me, now, as if there is no tomorrow? Are you ready to die?”

I work through the other contemplations: that death has many causes; that the body is fragile and vulnerable; that loved ones can’t keep you from dying. I ask her to imagine herself on her deathbed, growing weaker, picturing her house and her clothing and jewelry, her paintings and her bank account and her wine collection—all the comforts she has worked hard for, now useless. “Dying means letting go of everything,” I tell her. “Picture everything you have being given away to friends and to relatives. Some of it may wind up in a thrift store or a dumpster. You can take nothing with you. On the inbreath, think about this. On the outbreath, let go of everything that is yours.”