God Sightings: Through the Eyes of a Six Year Old

“Mom, we have home work to do.   Well, not real home work.  There is no writing or studying.”

Thinking that my daughter was referring to the thick packet of worksheets and reading lists sent home from school for summer vacation, the very same packet that I inadvertently threw away, I  asked her to explain her homework more to me.

“We need to be on the look out for God sightings” she answered.

Then it dawned on me that this was homework from her vacation bible school.  I felt a sense of relief and peacefulness come over me.  Statements like that were the exact reason I signed the twins up for it.  It was why I had to color code my calendar in order to figure out how to coordinate and keep track of all the  transportation, child care and work schedules, sometimes cursing myself for trying to juggle so many things at once, feeling slightly like a masochist who brings unnecessary discomfort on them-self.   There have been countless moments where I thought, “Forget it. Why bother. They’ll never notice if they don’t go.”  But that quiet part of me that listens to unspoken wisdom whispered softly “This is important. Make the sacrifice. Find a way to get them there. Things will work out.”

My daughter proceeded.

“Do you know what God sightings are?  We each have to share one tomorrow.”

I mindlessly rattled off a list of things I thought were indicative of God’s presence, from rainbows to the child birth, then rambling on about Noah and God flooding the earth.  She replied in such an adolescent tone, not uncharacteristically precocious for her 6 years,

“Mom!”  As in, Mom you need to be quiet now! “I ALREADY  have one.”

She said it with such assertiveness and confidence that I was instantly intrigued and completely dumbfounded by what she might say next.

“Oh sorry honey” I said. “Tell me what your God sighting is.”

She answered “It is getting to see my mom and dad.”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me by my own ignorance and lack of insight.  She knew right a way that a God sighting means love.  Her response and insight was far simpler and more pure than I could have fathomed.

Then she asked “Mom, can a God sighting be when there is something bad?”

“Well, what do you mean honey?” I asked.

“I told them that Aunt Bev has cancer.  Can she have a God sighting too?”

Tears filled my eyes and both pride and sadness filled my heart.  I don’t know if I will ever stop being surprised by her insight or that of her brothers.  I explained that yes, Aunt Bev could have a God sighting and that sometimes God brings comfort and peace, acceptance, to people who are dying in pain if they are willing and trying to look for it.

Then she quickly changed the subject and began to describe the songs that they sang at vacation bible school.   She showed me the dancing and hand gestures that accompanied the words.   She broke out in song, singing sweetly, imperfect, and beautiful for her confidence.  She swayed her arms over her head, dancing in rhythm as she sang the words

Stand firm when life changes.

Stand firm through the ups and downs.

Stand firm, for you know that God is in control.

The storms of life will push and pull, but we are standing on the rock that never rolls.

Again, tears filled my eyes.  Is she six or is she an angel?

I gently asked “Do you know what that song means?”

She innocently replied, “No Mommy, will you explain it to me.”

I paused for a moment and said. “Well, honey, it means that some times it seems like life is so awful we are just going to die because of it.  It seems like everything bad is happening around us and it hurts us so badly that we think we  aren’t strong or brave enough to get through it.  But, we need to remember that God never gives us more than we can handle and if we put our faith and trust in him, then we will some how find the strength to survive even, when we think we can’t.”

“Oh” she said thoughtfully “I should sing this to Aunt Bev.”

Her astute clarity clouded my own as I fumbled for words, trying to choke back my cries for fear that she would think she said something wrong if she heard them.  I replied with a simple “Yes you should” but wish instead I had said “Oh my precious, sweet little girl, you should sing it for the entire world.”

Lives are Interwoven

Thoracentesis.  That is what it is called, the procedure they’ve repeated several times on Aunt Bev.  The last time they removed over a gallon of fluid from her lungs.  At this point they’ve just left the tube in so they can drain it daily.   With a fever occurring every afternoon, the doctors say she’s not strong enough to tolerate the surgery needed to remove the cancer that is consuming her body, eating away at her from the inside out.  The cancer has spread to three separate places and her blood counts are bad.  Chemotherapy has worsened her already poor hearing, making it difficult for her to have conversations with those that she loves.  There is no denying that she is dying.

“I hate to ask and have  you go out of the way, but could you bring 2 quarts of 2% milk please?”  Grandma asked.  She married a farmer over 60 years ago, bearing six children, one died before he reached the age of two.  At a time when divorce was unheard of, she abandoned her family when she realized she could handle it no more.  All the children, still young in age, remained with their father.  The rift that was created by that decision turned into a ravine, that today is a canyon of hurt, remorse and regret as she realizes what she has missed.  The Christmas’s.  The birthday’s.  The births of great grandchildren.  She was so reserved and withheld so much emotion that she never even used to give hugs or kisses.  That knowledge is always in the forefront of my mind as she embraces my children and kisses their cheeks.

Born into a family with an alcoholic father, she once told me how cruel and frightening he was, trying to hide her emotional scars.  Perhaps that is why I have compassion for her.  Running from demons that are similar to mine, she chose the road of trying to escape.  But in seeking escape she created more damage, as her children and grandchildren bear the scars of rejection with pain that still echos today.  She is alone.   Her children help her as much as they can.  Not out of joy or desire, but out of a mix of obligation, resentment, and bittersweet love.  There is no pleasure or enjoyment in each others company, an experience I can understand.  But I like her and always have.  I suppose that in comparison to an alcoholic grandmother with schizophrenia who I hardly ever saw and a grandmother who beat me with a baseball bat, my opinion is jaded.

She is dying of old age, separated by hours from her daughter who is dying as well.  She knows she is not likely to go first.  She has no way to reach her, unable to drive and easily confused by the many of phone numbers provided to her.  With a stack of hand scribbled notes a half inch thick, written in print she struggles to see and only succeeds with a the help of a magnifying glass,  she is unable to remember which one to call; cell phones, home phones, hospital rooms.  That confusion is understandable for her age and considering she spent so much of her childhood with no phone at all.    I watched as she sat in her chair gazing off to the left, with a vacant stare that I know so well.  Grandma where did you go? I wondered.   “I can’t get a hold of Bev” she said.  “I don’t know if she is still in the hospital or not.”   Uncharacteristic tears filled her eyes and her voice crackled in a way that wasn’t caused just by old age.   My heart and chest burned for her.  I pulled out my cell phone and called Bev’s daughter, who true to her nature, was by her mother’s side.  I watched as grandma’s face lit up, a genuine smile and even a subtle warm glow emanated from her as she got to hear her daughter’s voice.  I wished the rest of the family could have seen this transformation, her authentic display of love.

“We always love you” they wrote on the card.  The one I received from my parents yesterday.  I read it just before I brought grandma her milk.  I’ve not spoken with them in about 6 months.  The guilt of the estrangement weighing heavily upon me, exacerbated by witnessing grandma’s distress.  It’s not that I hate them or that I don’t forgive them.  I just want to be able to be around them without feeling such anger, hurt, and grief.  Even their kindness angers me.  Being around them reminds me of the hurt they have caused and the poor decisions they continue to make.  A torrent of emotions bubble up and spill forth in a way that I can’t contain.  It is impossible for me to not  feel like a hypocrite as I offer compassion to Grandma, or June, or the grieving mothers at the support group, all while I can’t offer it to my own parents.  I think about the way it would hurt them to know that I can offer such kindness to others but not to them.   But I do it for others because I can’t for them, secretly hoping  that in this great big world, someone will show them compassion in a way that we all deserve.  Seeing the common thread of these family dynamics interwoven through generations and spanning across unrelated families,  I wonder if either of my parents ever sit in their chair, gazing off to the left, with an absent stare, wondering whether they’ll  ever see me again.

The Unspoken Bond that Death Creates

I was humbled by their pain and experienced what I had hoped, the exchange of honest, sincere, and genuine emotion.  The time that I spent listening to the bereavement of others was a sacred two hours.   They warmly greeted me and I was surprised to learn that instead of grieving widows, they were grieving mothers instead,  as every member had lost a child to death.  Straying from the natural order of death, loss of a child complicates the grieving process.   Each mother was at a different stage of bereavement.  Some struggled with a recent death while others were stuck in the a grieving stage  for a prolonged time, but each felt a degree of pain that I question whether  I could survive if I experienced it.  Selfishly, I was grateful that all their children had died as adults.  Not because it lessened the pain for that the mothers felt, but it made witnessing it more palatable for me.  The unspoken bond that connected this group of women was so visibly apparent that I thought I could reach out and touch the red ribbon that wound around them, tying one to the next.  Throughout the group meeting they shared their stories of their children’s death, all tragic, one prolonged, but most of them sudden and unexpected, with each of us asking questions about their thoughts, feelings, memories, and experiences. Two women chuckled as they described the way that they’d befriended each other due to the happen chance meetings at the cemetery because their children’s graves are near each other.  They spoke of grief exactly the way it is written in books, the guilt, regret, anger, sadness, sense that they just can never go on with their life while the rest of the world is ready for them just to hurry up and get over their loss.  They discussed the way they feel guilty when they have a moment of pleasure and their fear that feeling happy means they have forgotten the child that they’ve lost.  They grapple with the questions “why them and not me,” often perseverating on their self-inflicted survivor guilt.   For these women, moving on with their life feels as if it is a betrayal of their love, thus isolating them from those they love who are currently living and while not yet able to join those who’ve died.  Drowning in their solitude, they walk between two worlds, frightened and overwhelmed.

They spoke of the little things that trigger emotions and memories.  One described finding a hand written note and the way that it brought to her conscious awareness the knowledge that memory of her daughter’s once living and vibrant presence, quickly followed by a tidal wave of reality that she’ll never experience again culminating in the misery of her daughter’s death.  She spoke through the sobs that she tried to choke back, cries that were heart wrenching enough that it caused my own eyes to well.  They spoke of the things they did to cope, one turned to prayer asking for God’s Divine Mercy while another made a lists of things that could have been worse,  and while she was not yet able to identify them as things she’s grateful for, she was at least able to recognize that even this tragedy brought some graceful moments.

The part of me that contemplates, reflects and weighs my own choices with gravity, was watching their grief over the isolation and estrangement that death has created between them, their other children and  grandchildren has begun to mull things over and brought my self-induced estrangement between me and my parents to the forefront of my mind.   At one point during yesterday’s group  I found myself telling one of the mothers that  “children estrange themselves from their parents for lots of different reasons.  Just because a child chooses to estrange themselves doesn’t mean that they ever stop loving or wanting to be with their parent (even if they say otherwise.)  The estrangement simply means the child can’t manage the degree of emotion that being around their parent creates, but the child still misses their parent’s all the same.”  As the words spilled out of me I wondered if they suspected that it came from my heart and personal experience or whether it came from something I read, or something I knew from work experience, or perhaps they didn’t wonder about it as all because they were too busy noticing the smile emerge on the face of the woman I had been speaking too, as she realized that regardless of anger, love can still persist and that there is always hope.

As I drove home from work with my children in my car, my daughter began asking about our family, her cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents.  She began to talk about they way she misses my parents and wondered how my father’s health is, showing a degree of maturity and compassion that makes my decision to estrange myself from my parents all the more painful and difficult.  I feel as thick and gray as the Berlin Wall,  the barrier that divides families, built for the purpose of establishing safety, to keep two sides from warring with each other, when in fact I am the only one that has been hurt by my parents.   I’ve never thought they would hurt my own children but have no way to get them to be able to interact with each other without facilitating the visit myself.  Since interacting with them is so destructive for me, I have had to forgo any contact and am wracked with constant guilt of being that big gray and concrete wall.   I wish things could be different, that my children could visit with their grandparents without my parents becoming enmeshed in every thing.  I know that I am more emotionally stable and that I function better without the distraction and interference from my parent, but I have a constant desire to be able to have a relationship with them and the absence of parents, regardless of the cause, is an ache that haunts me every single day.  I listened to these women talk of the regret for words they never said, things they would have done differently if they could get their loved ones back, and I sat in silence knowing the hands of time are ticking far more slowly for my father and I have the sense to recognize that if he dies before our estrangement ends, I will forever regret the things I never said but yet I know that if I say them now, I risk jeopardizing the stability I’ve found…and I realize that I am stuck between two worlds as well. . .

A Great Big Plate of Empathy

About two months ago I volunteered to co-facilitate a grief support group for people suffering from loss.  The group is geared towards the elderly and is sponsored by my church, although it’s not necessary to be Catholic to attend.  Tomorrow is the first meeting that I am scheduled to attend.  I find the timing of it less than coincidental considering the fact that in the two months since I first volunteered  I’ve experienced grief from death myself.  My intention in volunteering was simple, I just want to become the type of person who carries a  reassuring presence, not because I have any magical answers or because I might find the right thing to say, but perhaps I can instead sit and with hold my words and be a quiet listener who doesn’t have to fix things, who simply sits and keeps them company while the journey through their pain.   We can not always join people when their hearts hurt, but a lot can be said for staying by their side, holding their hand a bit, and just not turning away.   So, naturally, just when I was worried that I  had nothing worthwhile to contribute to this group and just when I  thought myself naively arrogant for even considering to volunteer,  life handed me a great big plate of empathy and compassion through my experience of grief and bereavement through June’s death.

The sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that I experiences from exchanges of  pure and honest emotion make this seem a self-indulgent thing to do.  It is important that the group members receive the proper respect and dignity to honor their pain, I worry that I will fail.   It seems to me that if ever there were a subject that allowed people to publicly show their vulnerability and pain, it would be due to grief and loss.  Perhaps my volunteering is self-serving in that I hope to experience something genuine and sincere, yet something entirely unrelated to me.  I simply want to sit and watch and learn about the way people survive in spite of heart-break and pain.  Perhaps that makes me voyeuristic and yet I somehow hope that my presence and interest will lighten their burden of angst, even just a bit.

Yesterday’s Complextions: Reflextions of Complicated Emotions

My husband’s grandmother was waiting for us as we pulled up to the car port of her senior living community.  Still pretty spry for her 90+ year old body she is always elegantly adorned in sharp contrast with the family matriarch who quietly lies dying in her home twenty minutes to the south.  Dressed in a vibrant purple blouse with white capris, her matching purse hung over the front of her walker as she quickly made her way to the car, seeming chipper and thankful for company and the opportunity to go on an outing.  As we drove away my eyes turned back to towards the funeral home across the street, cars filled the parking lot and people filed out.  I found it eerily symbolic of the reason for our trip.

As we drove the same road I had traveled just last week after June’s funeral, grandma told us stories from her youth, explaining that before her family moved into town she had to trim the lantern wicks every single day to keep them from smoking and soiling the house.  She described the way that she ran from room to room turning switches on and off and flushing the toilet when they moved into their home in the town that had electricity and indoor plumbing.  She reminisced about the covered wagon rides that served as the school bus in the olden days and the way they were so bumpy from the rocks in the dirt roads.   She said that in the winter the bed of the wagon was lined with hay meant to insulate your feet from the frigid air while the wheels were replaced with  wooden skis allowing the wagon to glide along swiftly in the fallen snow.  She made meme giggle when she let out an uncharacteristic “God Damn It” as she  described the “school bus driver” and the way he’d swear at the kids and wen she told the story of how she and her siblings tipped over an outhouse one year as a Halloween prank, forfeiting their ability to celebrate it again for several years.  I enjoyed the drive, savoring each words of her stories, both for my children to hear, but also for the appreciation of the life and experiences she was willing to share.

We were headed to a family gathering for her daughter, my husband’s Aunt Bev who, several months ago was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer.  The cancer has already spread to several other spots and she is scheduled for a surgery this week.  As we drove I wondered what it was like for this woman, who is approaching a century of life to be traveling to a gathering of love and support that really was much more likely a final good bye for her child.

As we approached the town and crossed over a marsh like part of the mountain river, my mind retraced the many times I’d traveled this route as a child with my parents to visit my own grandmother.   Visiting this town is often a painful reminder of the absence of my parents and family in my own life and the reasons for that current void.   While most days I can busy myself with my current life and focus on the good things that I have, the aching echoes of the past were in the forefront of my conscience, creating a feeling of tension and anxiety to trickle through my veins.  Memories flooded into me and I struggled to keep from screaming out in rage before arriving at the fire hall that was our destination.

“BINGO!’  we all yelled, instead of “surprise” because Aunt Bev’s love of bingo made it the perfect decoy reason for her to enter hall where a crowd of several dozen people waited in eager anticipation for her arrival.   The moment she entered the room her face turned crimson and a wave of emotion and tears spilled out of her as she realized her closest family and friends had gathered here for her.  I watched as her daughters struggled not to cry as they embraced her and sat across from her husband, who in his own gruff way, was undoubtedly touched by that moment, struggling with the awkwardness of trying to be stoic but yet knowing his wife was dying.  I had to fight back my own swell of emotions as  I watched as her mother embrace he in a large and uncharacteristically genuine hug, smiling, sharing her affection.  I wondered what Grandma was thinking and feeling knowing that could be one of the last chances she got to touch and hold her daughter.   The moment was beautiful in its morbid poignancy.

I had never been at the fire hall before but I knew that some where on the walls hung some sort of reference to my own grandfather, Henry Smith.  Dying in the late 1950’s, I never got to meet him, but I’ve often heard stories that he was a kind and respectable man who perished while fighting a fire during the time he was the fire chief.  I struggle to explain why this felt so profound to me, except to say that my family heritage is so clouded by embarrassment and shame. Grandpa’s life and his death has always felt like the bright and shining bit of hope that I could some how rise above the shadows of the violence and madness that have been bequeathed to me.  I gradually made my way around the room scouring the plaques until I found the one that said “Past Fire Chiefs” and there it was.  Engraved upon a simple tag  it  read “Henry Smith: 1957-1959.”   A brief two years was all he had until his life had ended.  Then I made my way to a corner in the back of the room where there hung a 1957 photo with portraits of each fire man.   It was not long before I found him because I knew what I was looking for, as the same portrait hangs on the wall of my mother’s home.  I stood and stared at it for a few moments, trying to figure out what emotion I was feeling when I realized that I have his nose.   Perhaps the significance of the realization would be more apparent if I shared the fact that my husband has often said that the first thing he noticed about me when we met decades ago, was my “cute little nose that just barely stuck out beneath my ski goggles.”  My husband who spent the entire drive to the fire hall grimacing in pain, hardly speaking a word, and radiating his hurt and anger as he struggled to contain his emotions all present because of things I’ve done.

I felt  and feel so alone as my brain struggles to comprehend all the emotions that swirled around and in me yesterday.  I was reminded of my grief for June as I drove the same road that I had after her funeral the week before for the purpose of greeting an Aunt who is dying of cancer, while transporting her mother, knowing the woman may never see her child again, while desperately wanting my children to remember fondly their interactions with their Great Grandmother before she dies herself because I never had a chance like that because my childhood was traumatic and abusive , while watching as my husband struggle with some intense emotional pain that is entirely my fault, while driving to my mother’s home town, where I was reminded of the fact that I’ve been estranged from my family for several months because of their insanity and abuse which leaves me with a constant void that just simply always aches,  to enter a fire hall where a picture of my grandfather, who I never met, and who I’ve always thought was my only link to sanity, hung on the wall when I realize that I look like him.

I so badly wanted to reach out to my grandfather, to find some shred of hope and dignity to cherish, but grasping for it felt like I needed to reach across a blazing fire and that there was no way to reach it without getting burnt.   I feel so desperate for some sort of connection to fill the void within me for the days where the ache of absence of my family hurts more than the damage from their madness. I am just confused by all of this and am frozen in this moment because of the complexity of this.

I Greeted Death Today – Part 5 – The Funeral

Dear Heart.  That is what June used to call me.  My eyes swell with tears. My lip trembles.   Some large object protruding from the middle of my throat obstructs my air way as a large weight bears down upon my chest constricting my ability to breathe.  Tears gently journey down my face, flowing over my lips toward my chin.  Slowly. One by one, lightly tickling my cheek.  Dear Heart.  She really believed it.

I found myself retrieving the image of her dead and deflated corpse, agitated with myself because that image comes to mind more quickly than our last embrace.   I want to be angry and blame her family for having an open casket as I regret having seen her dead body because my memory of her from just three weeks prior was one in which she glowed and was so much more vibrant.  But yet I accept and understand that others who loved her needed the chance to view her “one last time.”

As I drove to her funeral, a week ago today, it was a warm and sunny morning with a light summer breeze. I was nervous because I have only attended a few funerals and never alone before.  The church was on the main street of a small village, in the middle of a steep and winding hill. I pulled my car to a parking spot towards the bottom of the hill, maneuvering it along the curb and making sure to engage the emergency brake due to the steep descent  just as several of June’s sons walk past, slowly ascending the hill preparing for their final good-bye.  They smiled and waved as they strode past, their friendly gesture soothing my agitated nerves.  As I walked up the hill myself, I cursed my stupid shoes.  They were the only sandal type summer  shoe that I could find to match my skirt and top.  Angry at my self for feeling vain and insecure about my appearance as I attended a funeral.  Why it mattered how I appeared is simply a reflection the degree of insecure anxiety that i felt that day, so I swore at myself as well. With each step up the steep hill, I felt the back strap shift down and to the right, requiring  me to crunch my toes, walking with an awkward gait in order to keep my shoe from flying off causing my insecurity kicked into high gear.  I wanted so badly to enter the church with a solemn reverence for June and the holiness of mass.  But instead, as I envisioned my shoe flying off my foot or my heel sticking into a crack throwing me off balance, I imagined myself falling in some unintentionally, yet all together familiar, dramatic scene.

Arriving at the church, June’s family was gathered outside.  I didn’t know why everyone was standing there instead of going in.  Nor did I realize that all of the “non-family” members were already inside.  Uncertain of what to do, and not knowing anyone well enough to walk up and start a conversation, I stood half panicked, afraid to make a fool of myself, frozen by my fear.   It was only a moment or two before a short stout woman, with cropped sandy brown hair and a face that reminded me of  bull-dog crossed with a cat-fish (I know that’s terrible to say, but she had a very large mouth and a flattened nose and it was instantly what I thought and I can think of no more gentle or kinder way to describe her) called for the family to follow her in.  As I watched the group gather and the pall bearers stand to the side,  I realized I was the only “non family” member there.   My mind raced “what do I do? What do I do?”   So I stood aside and waited for the family to enter in, and then I saw the girlfriends of the grandsons fumbling around, uncertain of whether they should enter with the rest as well.  As the family filtered pasted I slowly brought up the rear, entering the church, relieved to see a small crowd of others scattered throughout the pews.

To left  of the door way stood the priest in a plain white vestment.   It was the first time I had ever been to that church before, so I turned to look and see who the priest was and I felt a wave of disappointment and had to suppress an “Ugh,” although a groan still escaped.  I recognized him as a priest who has never found my favor.  I can’t say exactly why, except that he has this air about him that contradicts the holiness of priests, a bit of arrogance combined with eccentricity, not to mention rampant rumors that make you question the sincerity of his devotion to his faith. I’ve never found his sermons profound or inspiring and felt my heart sink that this is who June had to bless her spirit off to heaven.   It seemed so wrong that I felt a surge of anger as I walked into the church as he took his right hand and ran it through his somewhat long hair that flopped over the left side of his face, styled in a way that reminded me of spoiled rich kids who wore pink polo shirts with the collars up and snorted cocaine during the 1990’s while watching Miami Vice.  As he brushed his hair out of his eyes, he flicked his head in an unconscious way that appeared to me as if it were in slow motion, and I was reminded of a scene from the movie Shrek when Prince Charming flipped his golden hair.

The church is an old, rural country one, with antiquated carpeting, some brown and mustard blend with simple wooden pews the color of dark chocolate.  It was humble and modest from poverty as opposed to intentional piousness.  I made my way to the middle of the church and selected a seat along the aisle.  As I sat I turned around, looking at the small crowd.  My heart sank as I failed to recognize the faces.  None of my other co-workers were in attendance.  There were no members of the other volunteer boards that she was a member of.  I didn’t see a single one of her neighbors that I met the day I visited her.   A sadness burdened me.   All the lives that she touched, the time and love she gave, and so few people had shown up to thank and honor her.  I sat contemplating those thoughts, trying to make sense of my anger and my sadness, in silence that was only broken by the mechanical sound of an oxygen tank, with its steady “psssss” followed by a “shhhhh” as it kept the elderly woman sitting next to me alive.  The machine kept time throughout the mass like a metronome pacing the rhythm of life.  I couldn’t help but wonder what she thought attending a funeral as her own life slowly fades away.

As we rose for the opening hymn I found my voice and sang, a bit more loud and clearly then I normally do, because the pain and sadness of June’s death simply poured out of me.  I could feel the presence of the ensemble walking down the aisle before I could see them from my periphery.  I continued to sing, raspy, horse, out of tune, my voice cracking on occasion, until the casket reached.  My throat felt suddenly dry and ached and my breath was hard to find.   The sadness that had been surging from within my heart suddenly felt as if it were from outside of me, like a bucket of water  being poured over me, drenching me completely.  I began to cry, an endless, uncontrollable stream of tears, that re-emerge even as I write.  The flow of the mass felt disjointed and strained, perhaps because of the mixture of those in attendance, with few people familiar with the rituals of mass.  I observed June’s family and it was quickly evident that they were not church goers.  I found myself rising often before the rest of the crowd, standing alone until others realized it was what they should do as well, selfishly triggering my insecurity and robbing me from a sense of peace and comfort that mass usually brings.  I was thankful for the familiar pattern and structure to funeral mass, as the unconsciousness of forming the sign of the cross and repetition of the routine response “And with your spirit” cradled my sadness and carried me through the formal and final farewell to June.  Half way through the mass I understood that funerals are designed for those of us still living, not for the departed.  I had always thought that funerals were meant to bless the soul of the departed and never found the comfort in a funeral mass until that moment.   As the congregation sang the repetition of “Alleluia” while the priest carried the book that contains the Gospel just before it’s read, I felt an electrical moment where I realized that our voices joined in unison together rising to heaven, calling out to God, announcing June’s arrival at his glorious gates.

There was no eulogy for June, to which I was relieved yet disappointed.  I would have been saddened if it was not fitting of the woman I knew, yet still its absence was burdensome too.  The priest spoke of death the afterlife and attempted to revere her life with what I perceived to be a feigned dignity.  Grimacing in agitation, I had to firmly grab the pew to steady myself and suppress the urge to bull rush and tackle the priest  when he made the statement that she wasn’t “as active in the Church as perhaps we would have liked” made in a tone of t his feigned compassion that was really him passing judgement.   June was loving and compassionate, she volunteered for others, she was the type of person who inspired kindness.  It was already evident from the conglomeration of people attending the funeral that she did not attend mass regularly, there was no need to make statements that were critical of her.  I found him pompous and opportunistic as if he tried to evangelize in attempt to frighten others into attend mass themselves or forever risk their afterlife.  I  still felt a surge of outrage, why did he need to say it?  Cursed with demons of madness, terrorized by the aggression of an assaultive psychotic sister, a mother that died when she was only 9, an abusive grandmother… who was in her life to teach her of the love of Christ?  He dared to judge her without knowing a thing about the pain she endured.

I must pause and take a deep breath and remind myself that priests are only human, flawed and imperfect they do the best they can, but I still think June deserved better.   I declined the invitation to join the family after the funeral at the restaurant down the road.  Her son invited me to join them to “celebrate her life, eat and have a drink.”  I had no desire to wash away my pain.  I didn’t want to numb it with alcohol or food.  I simply wanted to feel and explore it.  I spent the day feeling disconnected and distant, sad and lonely at the time wondering what was wrong with me and not connecting the dots.  After the funeral I had joined my children and some family in the wooded mountains, by a scenic lake, which is normally my favorite type of place to be.  I felt no contentment, no familiar peace and it isn’t until now that I realize, I was simply grieving.  As I forgive myself for feeling sad last week, I can feel her presence looking over me, smiling and saying “Leigh…now you begin to understand.”

I Greeted Death Today – Part 4 – The Wake

The wake was delayed until her youngest son could return home.   Separated by the distance of several time zones, he has been unable to travel,  so June’s family held off on the wake, mass, and burial until now.  I left work some what early today in order to attend the calling hours because I figured there would be a smaller crowd at 4:00 than there would be later this evening.  Since I was nervous about how I was going to feel and react. Candidly, I’m a wake fledgling. Over the course of my life I’ve only been to about a half-dozen calling hours before,so  it seemed like a wise decision to go early on.  As I left my office and stepped into the elevator to descend to the parking lot, I felt the tears already forming and the knot in my throat tighten and expand.  I had an hour drive south before I reached the funeral home and I knew it would feel a much longer drive if my emotions completely let loose.  In order to comfort my spinning emotions and to sooth my skittish mind, I turned on some calming music, with the volume loud enough that I could feel the rhythm vibrate into my chest.  And I drove, trance like, tears streaming, music blaring, heart beating, and sadness falling.

As I drew closer to the funeral home I felt that familiar anxiety kick in.  It is the source of that self-deprecating voice that tells me to worry and be hyper-vigilant, that makes me self-conscious and easily embarrassed and convinces me to believe that my emotions are so important that it is okay to ignore the thoughts and feelings of anyone else in the room near me because what I feel is just that much of a crisis.  I think that this voice is anorexia’s first cousins, but I’m not certain because they are rather vague and evasive when I question either of them about it.  That anxious voice told me that I didn’t know any one, that I didn’t know proper wake etiquette or courteous behavior, that I was going to make a fool of myself or say the wrong thing, or be insensitive and that really everyone would just be better off if I avoided going all together.  None of her family knew I was coming, I could just not go and my absence would go unnoticed.  But then my rational thought and mind kicked in and I realized what a cowardly thing it would be if I didn’t go.  I reminded myself that I mattered enough to June that she asked that I be on the top of the list of people to call and be notified of her death, it would be a grievous dishonor if I failed to attend.   That realization was so foreign to me.  June believed in me.  I can not deny it.  She wanted me to know it and believe in myself.  And so it was for her that I pushed my anxiety and fear aside and mustered the strength to walk in the funeral home.

Upon entering there was a small group of people in the foyer whom I’ve never seen before, I smiled meekly and simply walked past, making sure to sign my name legibly in the registration book just in case I somehow decided to exit, tail between my legs before anyone noticed me.  I had purchased a sympathy and mass card but haven’t been to enough calling hours to know if I should have brought it in with me or not.   I had it, unsigned, in my attaché case in my car as I saw the basket of cards on the table containing many others just like it.  I started to panic, what should I do?  Should I quickly depart, get the card and return?  I hadn’t spoken to any one yet, I’d only met one of her four son’s many years ago, so no one would recognize me if I slipped out and came right back.   I froze as stiff with panic as June was with death. I decided I’d just send the card later and that being there in spite of my anxiety was accomplishment enough for the moment.  I began to look over the collage of pictures on the table next to the casket and felt my cheeks moisten with tears as I could not keep myself from crying.  Slowly at first, I naively thought I could suppress it. Wiping my tears discretely, I surveyed the room. No one else was crying…just simply me, adding to my sense of anxiety.  As I looked over the photos and saw images of her portraying her joyous energy,  I turned to my left and saw lying still in her coffin, grey and lifeless, dull and lacking her usual glow.  I didn’t want to look at her.  I didn’t want to remember her that way.  I closed my eyes and envisioned her as she was just three weeks ago as she smiled and embraced me, still so full of life.  My gaze returned to the photo collage and I saw the caption “Sit Down, Shut Up, and Do As You’re Told!”   Oh…sigh… the number of times she said that too me!  My tears turned to a sad and heart-broken laughter as I envisioned her finger-pointing and wagging at me.  The procession in front of the casket cleared so I slowly knelt in front of where she lay. Quietly observing her lifeless body, she lay flat, sunken.  Her stiffened and rigid fingers clasped a rosary, no blood pumping through their veins as I envisioned the similar scene as she described the death of her husband.  As I knelt before her  I noticed her floral jacket and the NY Yankees ball caps lying beside her.  I remembered fondly her baseball talk and smiled as I saw that her earrings were baseballs too.  I wondered if she had chosen the outfit or whether it was done posthumously.  I whispered a “Hail Mary,” followed by a rapid “Our Father” fighting to keep my emotions suppressed, but the effort was in vain.   With my tears streaming down my face I opened my eyes, fully prepared to whisper the dreaded goodbye.  I wanted to choose my words wisely and started out with a deep sigh and thought to myself  ” June…” and then I paused to make sure I could remember all the things I wanted to say, to thank her, to tell her how very much she meant to me, to tell her I wish her peace…but here’s what came out instead:

“June, this is ridiculous, I am not about to say good-by to your dead body.  Look at that, it doesn’t even look anything like you.  It’s as if your body is a deflated inner-tube now that your spirit isn’t in it. Why the heck would I say good-bye to your dead body when I know you still exist and are standing beside it.  Why would I tell your dead body all the things that I think and I feel when I can come visit you at your grave site and when I know you will be keeping an eye on me any way?”  Then I had a vision of the blue summer sky as I drove across the hill by the windmills the other day and I remembered awareness that she still exists in the air that I breathe.  So I stood up, wiped my tears and prepared myself to greet her family and offer my condolences.

The first person that I came to was a man in his fifties, tanned with short brown hair and one of those mustaches that looks like a fuzzy bear caterpillar.  He extended his hand to shake mine and gave me a quizzical look as he saw my tear streaked cheeks, glassy and reddened eyes.  I didn’t know what to say so I simply asked “Who are you?” and he replied “I am Peter.”  Oh I thought, the one I’ve been speaking to on the telephone, the one who called me to tell me she died.  I meekly said “Hello Peter, I am Leigh.”  His face softened and he extended his arms, grasping me in a firm hug, “Mom spoke so highly of you often, she thought the world of you.”   And the dikes broke and my tears started falling heavily enough that they cascaded off of my face and landed on the floor beneath me.  My head beaded with sweat and I felt the heat of my emotions rise as I fought to hold them in, but instead they began to seep out of my pores as the blood rushed to my skin and made me appear flushed.  I was silenced by the pain and awkwardness of the moment.  The awareness that I was sharing in heart-felt grief with a stranger, joined in some cosmic way by our shared love of an elderly woman.  He introduced me to his son and we spoke briefly about June and how quickly her death came.  I commented on the quote on the pictures and told them how it had brought a smile to my face and giggled as I reminisced of her affection for flipping the bird to people just to emphasize her point.  I moved on down the receiving line and introduced myself one by one to each of her three remaining sons, all who graciously introduced me to their family repeating the same words as Peter.  “It is a pleasure to meet you Leigh, Mom spoke so highly of you, she thought the world of you.”  They knew of  my jobs and the projects I’d headed, they knew of my tenacious spirit and seemed to value the opportunity to finally meet me.  Each time their kind words took me by surprise and caused another wave of tears to emerge. By the time I reached the end of the line the emotional fatigue had set in.  Here I was, in an intentional effort to pay my respect to a wonderful woman, to offer condolences and support to her family and instead they were giving and nurturing me.

As I write this I grieve so deeply for failing to realize most of this sooner.  I  am ashamed that I had never understood how much June had valued and respected me, and yet that was the very thing I loved so dearly about her.  I loved the way her face would always light up and her lips would form a wide and gracious smile, the way she’d tip her head back and look down her nose while squinting her eyes and pointing her finger then embracing me in a welcoming hug.  She had always managed to make me feel special when I was in her company.  As I drove home I thought about how much I will miss her greetings and how foolish I’ve been.  I always dismissed her favor and her compliments thinking that she really didn’t know me, that she just saw my facade and my superficial image and that she couldn’t truly value me.  But she had over come her own mental demons, fighting depression and psychosis at times.  She’d raised four boys, one they call doctor, and half a dozen grand children.  She’d gotten her college degree as an adult and watched her husband slowly die.  She’d dedicated her life to helping others and yet she truly valued me.  Instead of appreciating her loving kindness I arrogantly doubted and dismissed the value of it and now it’s too late and is gone forever.

If I accomplished any thing this evening I hope at the least I have honored her and  validated her generous spirit and  conveyed to her sons that she has touched my life and that I even if I didn’t know it at the time, I did learn to truly love her.

Sometimes Life Fades Slowly

As we drove over the river and past the woods, around some corners and down a hill to great grandma’s house I thought of the times, ten years ago, that I sat keeping company with her.   Widowed before I married into the family, she was lonely then and told me so.  She describe the way she missed her husband and how she knew he was still around, telling me of the signs he left for her, the way she sat with him in a chair in the living room and how he came to visit when she decorated her Christmas tree.  She was ready to join him a decade ago but has had to patiently wait to see him again.  Life has its reasons for its timing and perhaps I’ll never understand it, but there is no mistaking it, she’s ready now to journey home with him.

When we pulled into the driveway of the old family homestead I surveyed the scene.  Gardens once meticulously kept pruned and weeded, once spilling over with flowers and  herbs, are now overgrown and neglected, never again to be the way they used to be.  I wondered if it was sad for her to view them in that disarray, not as they were decades ago, but as it is today, battered worn and aged.  Such a proud and independent woman, it must be difficult for her. This home that raised six children, who’ve all since grown and multiplied granting her many great grand children, some grown and married while others still being conceived now reflects the time and storms it has weathered just like her  aged body.  We were greeted by my father in law who was chasing away the birds that have been violating the porch.  He shared a story of the way he feels his father’s presence, knowing why he’s come.  The thought of the love she has for her departed spouse brings a sense of comfort and peace knowing that he is here to greet  her and guide her passing,

Upon entering the house it appeared the same as it had the last time I was there, although the years of having large family gatherings have long since faded like her frail little body.  I did not know what to expect and thought I was prepared for it but still found my self startled and a little shocked when I saw her sitting in her rocking chair gazing out the window.  The vaporizer spewing moist ,warm, eucalyptus scented air into her face as  a large towel hung to the side placed in a  lovingly gesture in hope of bringing comfort to her, but in all likelihood doing very little for her.  Although the day was grey and clouds filled the air, the spot where she sat was bathed in white light as the dulled sunlight shone through the sheer curtains hang along the side of the window, the light still spilled in and reflected off the towel.   Her shrunken body, almost too small for her chair seemed unable to support her head as she sat gazing out the window unmistakenly waiting in silence for her death to come.  Perched on the window sill stood a  glass figurine of Holy Mary, it faced outward as if beckoning to God. When I asked great grandma about it she explained that long ago a priest had brought it back from Italy for her.  She spoke fondly of the priests she’s known and described a beautiful church an hour to the south, one that I’ve been hoping to visit someday because I hear the Sunday mass is filled with glorious music.  I told her that should some day I attend a mass there it there I’ll make sure to say a prayer for her, in a feeble attempt to let her know she will not be forgotten.

Sitting next to my husband, we silently observed her.  I thought to myself that this is death as I expect it.  Her skin is darkened with age, dry and cracked.  Her body long since lost its ability to heal itself is spotted with wounds that  ooze as her life fluid seeps out of her body.  Bones protrude from her shoulders where healthy meat once was, her fingers are bent and distorted by age and arthritis, shrunken now to children’s size.  Her eyes appeared both cloudy and glassy as life fades slowly out of them, most visible to me when she turned gazed out the window, silently asking Mary to guide her home.  I could hear death’s rattle in her lungs as she labored for her breath as coughing fits consumed her, leaving her weary and more fatigued.  Her attempts to laugh and smile seemed to require so much energy that I could not help but wonder if each time she did so it  exhausted more of her reserve.  Refusing help of comfort because nothing seems to work, she described the lack of taste she has for food, now refusing even drinks.  Yet she described with adoration the best lemon pie she’s had, fondly recalling  the taste of it.

My mind struggles to grasp the slow fade of her death and compares it to the abruptness of June’s departure, in sharp contrast with each other.  I want to find some meaning to make sense of it, but yet I know there is no need for anything more than the knowledge that this is simply life, or rather, death and how we die.   Sitting with a person who has lived a full and long life, someone who is ready to move on and join the loved ones that they’ve lost, who has waited patiently for their time to come felt so different from sitting beside June.  June who sat eagerly taking in as much as she could view, trying to fight against time in order to experience the everything one last time could not be any more different that great grandma who has said her goodbyes again and again for the last ten years.  As I replay the mental images of my time with them, I recognize that my days of longing for my own premature death were so ill-informed and absent of the knowledge of what living really is.  I wonder if I had the knowledge and the insight of watching these women die if I would have felt different about my longing for escape or whether the madness of depression would have still distorted my thoughts.  I wonder if there will ever be moments where my thinking bends and twists, entwining hurt and pain leading me to seek death’s comfort, or whether watching other’s die, now with my eyes wide open has inoculated me from it.  Only time will tell, but this I know for now, that as the sun rises and the day evolves, I am thankful for my health and the air I breath.

I Greeted Death Today – Part 3

June died two days ago.  Her death came swiftly, like a bird of prey, silently swooping down from the sky, carrying off its carnage, firmly grasped within its talons, forever  lost to the world. The cancer and trauma from her surgery were too taxing for her system.  I let out an audible, primal howl of grief as I received the news from her son.  My mind stretches, trying to expand and constrict simultaneously as emotions, images, and thoughts swirl fluidly in and out of my consciousness.  I vacillate through  shock, denial, grief, and sorrow, yet with anger strangely absent.  Death found her so quickly.  She felt very little pain, as peaceful as death can be, akin to the extinguishing of a single candle  flame, her last breath departing as her soul rose like smoke, ascending toward heaven.  She endured no marathon of suffering, no prolonged treatments of chemotherapy, no loss of hair or body weight.  There is comfort in knowing that.  She was such a nurturing woman, a care giver not a recipient. In our last conversation she spoke of the guilt she felt for burdening her children, believing she had troubled them enough during their lives because of her battle with depression.  No doubt her rapid de-compensation and abrupt death are what she would have chosen to spare her children from enduring the burden of watching her slowly fade away having to sacrifice their lives to tend to her.  I am grateful her end came the way she would have wanted, but that peace is intermingled with my own grief and  heart ache.  I have the sense to recognize that the tears spilling from my eyes are for my loss and for the loss of this world because she was someone worth knowing.

I read and re-read the famous eulogy that Jawaharlal Nehru wrote for Ghandi:

“A glory has departed and the sun that warmed and brightened our  lives has set, and we shiver in the cold and dark. Yet he would not have us feel this way. After all, that glory that we saw for all these years, that man with divine fire, changed us also–and such as we are, we have been molded by him during these years; and out of that divine fire many of us also took a small spark which strengthened and made us work to some extent on the lines that he fashioned”

What an honor and a noble gift to have known someone who inspires me to the extent that those words used to memorialize such a prolific yet compassionate and loving leader can be applied to her.  Nehru ended his eulogy with the statement “let us be worthy of him”  and my dear June most certainly was.

I reflect back on our last visit where she spoke with such candor and honesty.  While always candid there seemed to be a sense of uneasiness, a note of discord signaling a disharmony between the calm demeanor and the anguish that she really felt.  Yet in our last meeting that tension was not there, she seemed at peace and accepting that her life was drawing to an end, an unmistakable calm surrounded her.

I recall our final embrace as I now recognize that she held me, taking in my body, the feel of me, my soul for a final time, trying to remember me as much as I was trying to remember her. I grieve for the loss of her presence in this world and for all the conversations I had wanted that will never be.  I grieve the loss of wisdom and knowledge that I’ll never gain, there was so much more to learn from her.  I weep as I recognize that yet again I’ve discovered love when it was too late for June’s tomorrow will never come again.

Last evening while driving,  I crossed a large plateau that descended into a river valley.  There were white pillars with large blades rotating slowly, rhythmically,  harnessing the wind.   The green of the grass and trees was in sharp contrast with the blue from the sky, exactly as summer day should be, cushioned with billowy white clouds, buffering my view of heaven.  The windmills motion was hypnotic and I felt an opening within me as I understood that June is not gone, but simple can’t be seen.  She has moved into a different realm, where she will comfort, guide and greet me until my days are done. I felt the warmth of her hand placed gently on my shoulder and I understood that her essence will not shrivel and decay with her human body, but instead has been released from its entombment and has magnified and expanded becoming a part of the air i breath allowing me to feel her presence more strongly now than when she was alive.

Death does not go on holiday.

As I watched my daughter run barefoot into the garden wearing nothing but her bathing suit, dripping with water that cooled her skin on this hot day, I admired her innocence, her care free, fluid movements as she hummed and swayed to the tune playing in her mind.   Being careful to avoid any prickers, she gracefully guided her hand through the bramble of thorn filled branches to pluck a plump, sun warmed blackberry off of the vine, and smiled to herself as she placed the sweet fruit on her tongue with it’s dark juice dripping down her face and staining her fingers.

In a world full of violence, in a life where I’ve endured abuse, with a mind that I can not control some times, how do I possibly keep from ruining that quintessential innocence? I spent the morning reflecting on my natural propensity to sabotage pretty much everything I have.  I was never able to see it that way before.   I always had some external situation or other culprit to blame.  But lately I can’t do much more than look in the mirror and honestly see the person staring back at me.  It’s so hard to look and see the flaws and then try to see beyond to find the beauty that is trying to come out.  I realized today that I have been my own worst enemy and I have spent most of my life getting in my own way, tripping over myself in a vain attempt to protect myself from hurting.  All this time I have thought that I needed to gain independence from my family, independence from my past, independence from the emotional chains that hinder me, but what I really need is independence from the me I’ve always been so I can become the authentic, true, original me.

Then I began to wonder how other people were celebrating today.  Were they using it as an excuse to party, drink and indulge, were they patriotic and honoring the historical significance or were they doing nothing of significance ?  Perhaps there were some people who used the day to volunteer or donate time to others.  I couldn’t help but wonder how I could make the most of this day in a meaningful way.  I began to think about those who are grieving and/or dying.  I thought of June and the fact that she had surgery last Thursday to have her tumor removed and that I’ve not been able to get in touch with her or anyone in her family so I didn’t know how she is doing.  I’ve been worried not just for her physical health but wondered how she is doing mentally.  It has been distressing to be unable to connect with her because I have wanted to let her know I am still here, just wanting to support her.  I wonder how most people cope with the discomfort that occurs when you are concerned about a person but have no way to let them know.  It creates a such a sense of helplessness and can be difficult to sit with.  It’ s always easier to “do” something, to act in some way, then it is to sit and do “nothing.”  I was relieved when her son picked up the telephone today and  I received an update on how she was doing, but more importantly, she would know I care.  After I hung up the phone I couldn’t help but sit and think about how she was spending perhaps her very last Independence Day, in bed, strapped to oxygen, with difficulty speaking.  How can a person make the most of that?  I wondered how many other people lay in bed dying while so many others laugh carelessly, perhaps behaving rash or recklessly, taking life for granted.  And who is it that brings comfort to the dying while our country celebrates?  And who comforts those who bring comfort to the dying and their family? Death does not care that it is a holiday, so there must be people who do not care either.  Who are they?  What are they?  How are they? I wondered wishing I could meet one so I could learn from them.