Posts under ‘death’

This morning, I was walking our dog and noticed a line of cars in front of a neighbor’s house. All of the people walking up to the house were dressed in dark colors and the mood seemed very somber. Arriving home, I told Mary that I had the feeling that someone had died. We checked the local obituary and discovered right away that our neighbor—a man of 57 in the prime of his life—had indeed died twelve days ago of cardiac complications. Luckily, the memorial service was today, and we were able to attend and join the community of mourners.

The service was held in a local church, the altar still brimming with Easter flowers. The music of Van Morrison played in the background as people filed in and found their seats amongst the pews, and the service itself was a lovely event, replete with moving readings, poignant music and poetry, funny stories, and shared remembrances. The wife of the deceased spoke of their thirty years of marriage, and his adult children each took a turn to honor their beloved father whose absence will be all too keen as they themselves move toward their own parenthood.

Over the course of the service, I remarked to myself how this particular event was just what it should be. For those familiar with the person who had died, it was a reminder of cherished stories and of his particular idiosyncrasies which made him unique. With friends coming from near and far, I’m sure some new stories came to light and provided even more elucidation of his very singular mark upon the world.

For those of us less familiar with our neighbor, the service provided a very intimate snapshot of a life well lived, and the varied sharings left one with a very strong impression of a man, a family, a life, and a brilliant personal legacy.

Mary and I did not know this gentleman well, but we would cross paths with him and his wife while we walked our dogs over the years, and I recall that she even came to our house for a party once upon a time. Luckily for us, the last time we saw him was in the autumn. We were sitting by the pond near our house, and he sauntered over with his dog and sat himself down next to us, something quite uncharacteristic for a man who was generally much more socially reserved. I recall that we were at first feeling rather private, but he was very good company that day and we enjoyed our conversation with him very much, and never saw him again throughout the subsequent long and cold winter. What a blessing that we had that opportunity to be with him, and how glad I am that we have that memory of our last interaction.

Now, a new widow is in our midst, and within the privacy of her home, she will continue this process of grieving that is only weeks old. She and her children will go to the university to clean out his office, go through his papers, and will perhaps be at once perplexed and overjoyed by the things that they discover. How little thought most of us must give to the fact that, upon our untimely death, our loved ones will need to rifle through our things and settle the dust of our lives. There will be much to settle in that household after such a creative and productive life, and I do not envy that family the difficult task at hand.

With two dear friends so recently in surgery and now the death of our neighbor, I’m reminded quite starkly of the fleeting nature of life. As I struggle with chronic pain and some recently significant depression, I hold my own life up for close examination and wonder what conclusions would be drawn about me at my own funeral. I know I need to smile and laugh more. I also know I need to have more fun and take time to relax. While I struggle to earn enough money, I can say with certainty that no one at my funeral would begrudge my earning power or lack thereof. Still, life proffers many challenges, and we strive to honor our earthly responsibilities while also taking time to smell the roses.

Life is tenuous at best, and this week’s experiences in my own life demonstrate that it can be saved or snuffed out at any moment. I am aware of this tenuousness, and I only wish to make that awareness something that informs my every breath.

December 2nd is a sadly significant day for our family. It marks the anniversary of the murder (at the hands of the police) of Woody, our best family friend, whose untimely and unnecessarily voilent death occurred on this day in 2001, not three months after the events of 9/11. Interestingly, on the day Woody was killed, we were in New York City visiting my great-aunt Theresa, who at the time was around 112 years old. At her advanced age, straddling three centuries, she managed to outlive Woody by three months.

Our dear Woody—who was my wife’s former partner, my son’s best friend, mentor and honorary uncle, and my closest confidante—is as sorely missed now as he was five years ago. As much as I am able to embrace death as merely a continuation of life on another energetic and spiritual plane, his physical absence from our lives and home is still a palpable emptiness that has persisted over time.

The 2nd of each month also marks yet another month that our dear beloved dog Sparkey is gone. Sparkey and Woody were joined at the hip, twin flames who are inextricably linked in my mind due to their many adventures together over the years prior to Woody’s death. When Woody would walk through our door, he would always immediately drop to the floor and allow the dogs to lick him ceaselessly, covering his red beard, mustache, eyes, and cheeks with their kisses of greeting. He would giggle as he lay there, the dogs intent on their right (and responsibility) to slick him down with joy and gusto. Once he was done greeting the dogs, we were next, and his entry was almost always a source of upliftment for all. Rene would have his “uncle” and playmate, I would have my best male friend, and Mary would have her old friend for whom she functioned as confidante, maternal figure, and spiritual sister.

When Sparkey died in September of 2006, we carried his golden and red body to his freshly dug grave in our yard. His coat always reminded me of Woody’s hair and beard in its orange-red brilliance. It was like burying a part of Woody that day. Now a small dogwood (purchased and lovingly planted by our son Rene) sits on Sparkey’s grave, some of Woody’s and Tulane’s ashes and Rene’s baby teeth mixed with the rich soil of loss.

This first week in December carries with it a great deal of energy reflecting loss and grief. Yesterday, December 1st, used to be my parents’ wedding anniversary up until their divorce in 1976 when I was 12 years old. Tomorrow, December 3rd, will mark three months since my step-father’s death on September 3rd. Finally, the next day—December 4th—will mark what would have been my mother’s and step-father’s 30th wedding anniversary. Multiple blows of grief and loss billow through this week, and I/we just roll with the punches.

Still, I am grateful. These beings have fed me with their friendship and loyalty, adding immeasurable quality to my life’s trajectory. My step-father (80), Sparkey (14), and Theresa (112) each died from natural causes—pancreatic cancer, renal failure, and old age, respectively—and they were all considerably old (especially Theresa!) based upon their respective species’ life expectancy.

As for Woody, his demise was premature and tragic, although I give thanks in this moment for the wonderful times we shared together. Since we were both born in 1964, we had shared visions of our middle age and old age together, and had always looked forward to celebrating our 40th birthdays together. Sadly, we were robbed of that opportunity, and he left me to celebrate my birthdays without him—and there will doubtless be many, many more before I am ready to join him in the Great Beyond.

Woody’s loss helps me to more fully appreciate and understand the loss experienced daily by people the world over who lose their loved ones to violence. Granted, I did not watch him be killed—a fate suffered by many individuals in Rwanda, Darfur, Burma, L.A., The Congo, and elsewhere—but he was still robbed from us, wrenched from our lives, and he is sorely missed.

So, here it is 5am and I am awake again. Morning has broken, mourning has broken, and we stand on this troubled planet looking up at the stars, wondering how our dearly departed are faring in their new manifestations, in whatever form that may take. Sparkey, Tulane, Theresa, Woody, and the many others: your days here are not forgotten, your departure still hurts, but we bless you and send you on your way. You are released, and when our blessed release comes, we will also know the sweet surrender of leaving this mortal coil, and entering those realms unknown to those of us still embodied.

May all beings be free. May all beings be happy. May all beings be free of suffering.

Today we visited a former neighbor whose dog, Amos, was good pals with our dog Sparkey when we lived in their country neighborhood a few years ago. Sparkey died last September (see his blog, Latter Day Sparks), and now Amos has cancer in his front leg and is not long for this world. It was a sweet visit, and Amos was as loving as always, excitedly greeting us and our little dog Tina, Sparkey’s surviving “sister” who herself is nearly thirteen.

As my step-father enters the final stages of metastatic pancreatic cancer, grieving and death remain subjects which inform my every day life. Also, as a nurse, death is always in the wings and periodically pays a visit to our office, whether expected or not.

I am currently reading Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, the chronicle of Didion’s life as it was effected by the sudden death of her husband of forty years only several weeks after her daughter had lapsed into a coma from a sudden viral illness. Losing her daughter two years later, her entire immediate family had been claimed by death, and Didion used this book as a means to describe both her grieving, which she calls a passive process that simply happens to an individual, and her mourning, the act of dealing with grief.

Sparkey’s death last September 2nd, my best friend’s murder in 2001, my step-father’s cancer, the aging of Mary’s and my parents in general—-this all adds up to a fact of life: that death, and the grieving and mourning therein, are inescapable. Additionally, death and death-related processes only become more common as one grows older, facing the loss of family members, friends, colleagues, and other individuals in one’s general orbit.

Still, in the face of death, life goes on, and we forge ahead in spite of it all. Life and death are not mutually exclusive, and we must face death and grieving as courageously as we face life and living. Death is neither convenient nor welcome at any time, but we all must accept that it is as inescapable as the wind.

I recently paid a visit to an elderly woman for whom I served as a visiting nurse some years ago. We are still friendly and I check in on her from time to time.

Sitting on the side of her bed, I learned that her 74th birthday was only days away. I wished her well and I was somewhat surprised by her response.

“I hope that this will be my final birthday.”

“Your final birthday?” I placed my hand on hers.

“Yes. I hope Jesus will take me. I’m ready to go. It’s been a hard life.” She crossed herself and fingered her rosary that never leaves her thin and fragile neck.

Of course, I could have responded like many people would, especially those for whom death is a failure, a sign of weakness. But instead I chose to meet her where she was.

“If that’s what you truly want, I’ll hope that for you, as well. But I would really miss you.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me close to her. Then we sat in silence, looking at the shrine in her room: the Virgin Mary, several crucifixes, a incongruous plastic dog and toy car, and other Catholic items of worship and devotion.

“Do you feel you’ve had a good life?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “It has been a life of misery, suffering, and hard work. Now, I’m too sick to even enjoy my years of rest.” She folded her hands in her lap in resignation.

“Don’t you enjoy your children and grandchildren?”

“Not really,”she replied. “I’m just in too much pain. I’m ready to go. I’ve almost died a few times but He always sends me back. I’ve had enough.”

We hug goodbye. I kiss her on the cheek and playfully touch the end of her nose with my index finger. She smiles and girlishly wrinkles her nose and eyes. I note to myself that she will turn 74 this week, the same age as my vibrant and healthy mother. Oh, the ravages of poverty and deprivation on the human body and spirit!

Getting into my car and returning to the clinic, I’m glad that I didn’t try to talk her out of her feelings or deny her desire to “finish up” and move on. At her age, after all she has been through, she deserves to welcome death if she so desires. Is it geriatric depression? Likely so. Is it treatable with antidepressants? Possibly. Should she be treated? It is debatable on many levels, and she would probably decline treatment anyway. A tough sell, at best.

So, happy birthday to my little friend, even as she hopes for an end to the succession of the years. Perhaps her wish will come true, or perhaps her Jesus has other plans. At any rate, when she finally gets to meet her maker, I’ll rejoice for her and send her blessings on that joyous journey home. Until then, may her days be brightened by the small things which can mean so much: a smile, a kind word, a caring touch, a shoulder upon which to rest her weary head.

Today would have been the 43rd birthday of our dear friend Woody, unjustly killed in his prime by the police five years ago. He and I had always talked about celebrating our 40th together—we were both born in 1964. Sadly, he never made it to 40, so these subsequent birthdays and holidays can sometimes be like salt in a wound.

Today, his family came to Mary’s inner city senior center to celebrate the English as a Second Language (ESL) class which they have funded in his memory. The students demonstrated their learning, expressed their gratitude, and we all shared carrot cake (Woody’s favorite) together. His death has brought to life so much, and his memory fuels the dreams of many.

Time is an interesting agent in this human world of ours, and its passing can bring many things: healing, forgetfulness, faulty memory, nostalgia, forgiveness. I long ago forgave my friend for leaving us so soon. I am yet to fully forgive those who took his life. They apparently did so in full belief that they were carrying our their duties. For me—for us—their miscalculation and blindness towards human nature left us bereft of a loved one and family intimate. Forgiveness can come in many guises, yet I still do not know in what guise my ability to completely forgive will arrive.

For now, sweet memories flood my mind, and the special place in my heart where his memory lives is sweetly sad. His physical absence is palpable, and the desire for him to walk through the front door is tremendous. His friendship and kinship are irreplaceable, and his loss is undeniably harsh. This suffering is a meditation, a place from which to learn non-attachment and release.

This day is, for us, a holiday, and in recognizing its importance and sacred sweetness, we honor not only our departed friend, but ourselves.

Just this afternoon, Mary and I were at our local health food supermarket—Whole Foods—picking up an enormous carrot cake. Tomorrow is the birthday of a dear friend who was tragically killed by the police in the December of 2001. Every year, we buy this cake—his favorite—and share it with friends (and sometimes his family) on the anniversary of his birth.

This time, we took our half-sheet cake to the checkout counter and I gingerly lay it on the conveyor belt. Taped to the top was the original invoice with our specific requests for the wording and decorations, with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in large letters.

Being friendly and inquisitive, the young twenty-something gentleman at the register bantered with me as many cashiers will, especially at this particular store. Sliding the cake along the conveyor and ringing it up, he looked at me and said, “So, I see it says happy birthday on the cake. Who’s birthday is it?” He smiled widely.

At that moment, my world seemed to come to a grinding halt. Mary told me later that my face turned very red in that moment as she watched me from nearby. So many things can go through one’s mind in the split-seconds it can take to respond to an innocent question. I consciously wondered if I should just say, “Oh, it’s for a friend” and leave it at that, or choose to match his inquisitiveness with an authentic answer. I must have weighed the pros and cons of both in a nano-second and chose the latter.

“It’s for a friend who died five years ago,” I responded. “Tomorrow is his fifth birthday since he died.”

“Oh,” he responded blankly. ” I feel like such a jerk.”

“That’s OK,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

If he had left it at that, he would have been able to quit while he was (sort of) ahead. However, instead of removing his foot from his mouth, he chose to insert it even deeper into that most misguided but well-meaning of orifices by cheerfully adding, “At least you’ve had enough time to get over it.”

I don’t know what color I turned at that point, but I again found my mind racing, and my awareness of the hustle and bustle around me was nil. I considered mentioning that he had been murdered in cold blood by the police and that, no, I have not “gotten over it”, but chose instead to simply let it drop.

I thanked him, let Mary take the receipt (because I could not look the cashier in the eye), thanked the bagger, and picked up the heavy box with Woody’s memorial dessert safely inside.

Exiting the store, Mary and I processed the interaction, distractedly failing to locate our car for several minutes. Sitting in the passenger seat, my laughter bubbled up as I considered that the cashier may never dare to ask another customer whose birthday it is. I imagined the conversation he had about it with his coworker who bagged our groceries, and Mary said that Woody was probably having quite the cosmic chuckle about the whole scenario.

He left six months ago for his homeland of Puerto Rico, certain that he wanted to die there. Five years of a professional yet intimate relationship were behind us: AIDS, cancer, remission, diabetes, wasting, cancer relapse, colostomy, and a downhill slide from there on.

When hospice at home failed, and wet sheets, untaken meds, and benign neglect demonstrated that being alone in his own apartment was not working, his family whisked him away to Puerto Rico, where he could come to rest surrounded by the smells and sounds of his motherland. I was sad to see him go, but happy for his reception into the welcoming bosom of family, and honestly relieved that my years of urgent calls and emergencies were over.

I had considered going to Puerto Rico to say goodbye, to visit him in his native land, but our financial situation and my responsibilities here stayed my hand. I also was just not sure that my appearing at his bedside would be truly beneficial to him, or only painfully remind him of all that he left behind, perhaps giving rise to unnecessary remorse and regrets that would have otherwise have remained blessedly subterranean. If I had gone, it would surely have been for me, not him, and I just wasn’t convinced that it would be for the best. Instead, I erred on the side of caution, following the ages old adage, “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

We did have one telephone conversation about four weeks after his departure. I called the home where he was staying in Puerto Rico and we chatted for a while. I told him that I loved him, and that God would bless him and his family. He blessed me as well, and we hung up. Although I had planned to call again, the number on a sticky note by my desk, it just didn’t happen.

Another goodbye, another letting go, another opportunity to say “I did enough”. And I can say it truthfully. I did enough. No room for regrets. It’s simply goodbye.

We need to shake ourselves sometimes and really ask: “What if I were to die tonight? What then?” We do not know whether we will wake up tomorrow, or where. If you breathe out and you cannot breathe in again, you are dead. It’s as simple as that.

As a Tibetan saying goes: “Tomorrow or the next life—which comes first, we never know.”

—Sogyal Rinpoche

When you are strong and healthy,
You never think of sickness coming,
But it descends with sudden force
Like a stroke of lightning.

When involved in worldly things,
You never think of death’s approach;
Quick it comes like thunder
Crashing round your head.

—Sogyal Rinpoche