As I take in the sounds and warmth of the little camp fire we burn on our tiny lot in the Pacific Northwest, I hold The Bright Hour by Nina Riggs, a memoir about dying and death. I begin it reverently. I begin it because I need to continue grieving. I wish I could just wear a black arm band or veil so I could continue the work of loss and memory. Our society doesn't embrace those traditions anymore, so I carve out time to read and let the feelings come.
The past six months reshaped my family and my psyche. Though the deaths that visited us followed the natural order, they leave me feeling untethered. In a completely irrational way, I feel homeless. I have a home. I have a family. We are all safe and healthy. I know my good fortune. Yet, I feel like a loose sail--flapping and clanging my grommets, hoping for the wind to calm so I can be properly cinched. My brother says I feel that way because everything is different now. I have fewer visits to make on my trips to Wisconsin. I have fewer calls to make. My life is a little smaller.
You'll giggle, as you should, when I explain that we lost my 98-year-old grandpa unexpectedly. His good health astounded his doctors. Perhaps his stellar lab results convinced him that the heart attacks he began suffering in early January had to be heartburn. If you find no other wisdom in my words, take this piece. Do not take Tums for a heart attack. Had Grandpa's minor heart attacks been caught, he wouldn't have suffered the pain of the massive attack from which he could not recover. Seeing him in pain was the hardest. He struggled for air; he thought if only he could get his legs over the hospital bed edge, he would find his breath. The only tonic for air starvation is anxiety medicine and morphine. Let your people have those balms.
Our family had braced for Grandma's passing because her heart was failing. Her doctor had given her a window of expectancy. We planned for how to care for Grandpa when Grandma was no longer there to be his eyes. He was strong and knew my parents' home, so he could live with them. The call from my mom stalled me. I didn't understand what she was explaining. I needed clear instructions--get on a plane as soon as you can. What she said was, Grandpa had a massive heart attack. He is talking and his pain is under control. The next morning, while the boys (my brother and cousin) spent the day at the hospital, and Grandpa enjoyed telling stores about cars and baseball, I booked a flight and a car to get there. Snow fell as I drove north from Minneapolis to the hospital. The street was blocked by the plow, so I took a couple of photos of the falling flakes that made halos of the street lights. I arrived too late for a last conversation. Seeing me confused Grandpa because I live too far away to be where he was. Seeing me confirmed his fear, and then sedation to keep him comfortable closed his eyes.
My mother, brother and I stayed with Grandpa. My Pop chauffeured Grandma to her room, went home to let the dog out, and do the farm chores. We held Grandpa's hands and watched as his breathing changed. And then it stopped. Bearing witness to suffering and passing is important. Being present in weakness is the only comforting thing a person can do. By the time my father returned with Grandma, Grandpa was gone. She was sweet with him and grateful he was peaceful. She kept repeating that they were always together. . . always together.
My cousin, brother, and I buoy one another by sharing a text chain. Whenever memory or nostalgia strikes, we share a photo or one of Grandpa's countless sayings. Today's volley was about a baseball game and a lawn mower. Grandpa would like that. We're sharing pictures we haven't seen in decades. If you lose someone you love, find a way to share them with others who love them. You'll be surprised by the joy it brings.
In late January, we learned that my uncle had terminal pancreatic cancer. He had known he was ill since at least October, but had no desire to spend time with more tests at the VA. He went home. He saw his children at Christmas. At least one of the boys noticed how weak his dad was, but he chalked it up to the time spent caring their mother and not working physically as he had all his years as a farmer.
My uncle went from the emergency room to the hospital for three days. His children, brothers and sister visited. My Pop spent time with is brother, his best friend, and thanked him for all his help over their lifetime together. Day four took him to hospice. His children visited. His brothers and sister visited. His grand children and nieces and nephews spent time with him. I sent a plant. What a stupid thing to send--a plant he wouldn't be around to see grow. Two weeks later he was gone, and I was on a plane back to attend his services.
Children deserve two parents who love and guide them. My brother and I had four. My Uncle and Aunt cared for us when our parents worked, and before and after school until we were old enough to ride the bus home. They fed us. They got us ready for kindergarten. They taught us lessons, and disciplined us just like they did their boys. Consequently, my brother and I had extra parents and have four extra brothers. Having extra people who love you is a gift.
I did my part this time. I helped my little brother write a proper tribute for our uncle and sat in the pew by the boys as my brother read the words we crafted. Someone needed to put a hand on the oldest during the worst of it for him. I write this time, because I didn't make the flight for my Aunt's service. She passed in December, but the services were in February. I decided I could write the boys letters about their mom, and their loss. I wouldn't fly back, the letters would suffice. I was wrong.
Oh, I'm sure they were fine--lost in their grief, but moving forward as the calendar forces us all along. I wasn't fine. I wrote to remember one of my last visits with her. Her memory was failing, but she remembered the girl I had been and she loved me all the same. On my next trip, I asked my father to take me to see my Aunt's stone. She would like the birds the boys and my uncle chose for her. I wasn't ready to see her name and dates carved in granite. I suppose no one ever is.
Leaving my parents' home, making the trip back to the airport after my uncle's service, I stopped to visit my Grandma. She was the grandmother of card games, hair braids and sleep-overs. She would swim the lake or take a hike with me. When I entered the nursing home, she was at the church service. Her failing heart and grief left her small and tired. I sat with her and sang the familiar songs. We made it back to her floor where she wanted to sit near the window in the common room. That was the last time I left her.
By April, she was in hospice care. Gauging the timing of the end is difficult. I booked a flight and my Auntie met me at the airport. I drove us north, and we were two hours too late. My Grandma died while I was exiting the plane. My mother was with her, but only other friendly old women at the nursing home were there to comfort my mother. I guessed wrong. More death wisdom--book the early flight, travel sooner. Having an extra day, or two hours is a blessing for you and for those who have done the lion's share of the vigil. They need you.
So now it is June and the bleeding hearts wilt, the lilacs fade and the roses should open soon. Time heeds no grief; it only knows the route of the sun and the tilt of the Earth. This season of death has brought me knowledge.
1. Tell those you hold dear how much you love them. Say it out loud. If you can't say it, write it down and give it to them.
2. Have a decent photo of yourself that you hand your children. Tell them this is the one for the alter or the program. Don't make them dig through boxes or agonize over which one you would like. You can make that part easy.
3. Find a way to pay tribute to the person you lost. If you're a writer and stalwart, you get the eulogy. It is a crap job, but people need you to help them remember and how to honor the person you all lost. If you're not a writer, find a tribute that would make your loved one smile. It will help you grieve.
4. Know that you will never be done grieving. We lost my Godfather 20 years ago and some days I swear he is in the car with me. Grief is both all at once and little by little--forever.
5. You're never ready.
6. Believe in something. My mother believes in God. My father believes in nature. It soothes them both to have a notion of their next journey.
7. As in all of life, the best advice I was ever given is: ask for help. People want to do something. Doing something makes everyone feel useful and better. Let a friend clean your refrigerator. Let a cousin help choose music and flowers.
8. People will bring food.
9. As time passes, continue to talk about your loved one. They live in your memories and in your heart. They always will.
10. Keep breathing until it is your turn to stop.
Oh, I'm sure they were fine--lost in their grief, but moving forward as the calendar forces us all along. I wasn't fine. I wrote to remember one of my last visits with her. Her memory was failing, but she remembered the girl I had been and she loved me all the same. On my next trip, I asked my father to take me to see my Aunt's stone. She would like the birds the boys and my uncle chose for her. I wasn't ready to see her name and dates carved in granite. I suppose no one ever is.
Leaving my parents' home, making the trip back to the airport after my uncle's service, I stopped to visit my Grandma. She was the grandmother of card games, hair braids and sleep-overs. She would swim the lake or take a hike with me. When I entered the nursing home, she was at the church service. Her failing heart and grief left her small and tired. I sat with her and sang the familiar songs. We made it back to her floor where she wanted to sit near the window in the common room. That was the last time I left her.
By April, she was in hospice care. Gauging the timing of the end is difficult. I booked a flight and my Auntie met me at the airport. I drove us north, and we were two hours too late. My Grandma died while I was exiting the plane. My mother was with her, but only other friendly old women at the nursing home were there to comfort my mother. I guessed wrong. More death wisdom--book the early flight, travel sooner. Having an extra day, or two hours is a blessing for you and for those who have done the lion's share of the vigil. They need you.
So now it is June and the bleeding hearts wilt, the lilacs fade and the roses should open soon. Time heeds no grief; it only knows the route of the sun and the tilt of the Earth. This season of death has brought me knowledge.
1. Tell those you hold dear how much you love them. Say it out loud. If you can't say it, write it down and give it to them.
2. Have a decent photo of yourself that you hand your children. Tell them this is the one for the alter or the program. Don't make them dig through boxes or agonize over which one you would like. You can make that part easy.
3. Find a way to pay tribute to the person you lost. If you're a writer and stalwart, you get the eulogy. It is a crap job, but people need you to help them remember and how to honor the person you all lost. If you're not a writer, find a tribute that would make your loved one smile. It will help you grieve.
4. Know that you will never be done grieving. We lost my Godfather 20 years ago and some days I swear he is in the car with me. Grief is both all at once and little by little--forever.
5. You're never ready.
6. Believe in something. My mother believes in God. My father believes in nature. It soothes them both to have a notion of their next journey.
7. As in all of life, the best advice I was ever given is: ask for help. People want to do something. Doing something makes everyone feel useful and better. Let a friend clean your refrigerator. Let a cousin help choose music and flowers.
8. People will bring food.
9. As time passes, continue to talk about your loved one. They live in your memories and in your heart. They always will.
10. Keep breathing until it is your turn to stop.
