Sweet Mary

My Aunt Mary died this week.  She was fighting Leukemia and had been told that the treatments were not working.  There were very few days between that bad news and her death.  I hope that she found some sense of comfort, some peace in these days before her death.

Mary chose not to let anyone in at the end.  She would not let anyone see her or speak on the phone.  I think I understand her decision, her choice to close the doors.  And yet, I still feel so sad about it.  I readily admit that this is the kind of people we are.  We have the isolation gene in that side of my family.  I have this in my blood as well.  We are rocks.  We are islands.  We do not reach out and rarely let other in.  And yet, I can only hope that in small ways I am overcoming this "thing".  This thing that allows this to happen.  I understand it and have compassion for those that suffer this "thing". 

I wish that I could have said goodbye to Mary.  Or that my father could have said goodbye to his sister.  Or that we could have at least played around that awfulness and just made vague conversation, something to connect in the end.  Instead we are left with nothing.  And no memorial or way to mark this passing.  Just icebergs bumping in dark and cold waters. 

When my father called to give the news, I cried a bit, and asked jbird to have tea with me to create some pause in the day.  We had tea in her memory, "for Mary".  And yet, nothing feels done.

I know from experience that death rarely feels "done".  I feel silly to even look for that closure.

And yet recently, I have been thinking about death and birth and how we travel those journeys.  After our homebirth experience with Sparrow, I have been obsessed with birth and how our culture processes that experience.  And also death - the other sacred event.  And then there was that link a few weeks back, the photos pre and post death.  All of this has been floating and bumping around in my head for a long time.  I don't have answers.  I just know that it is so sad, on a deep level, how we face these two most important moments in our lives.  Or how we don't face them, how we run away, hide, or otherwise sterilize and de-humanize them.

And here we are.  Another death, pushed under the rug, as we are asked to walk past, turn our heads forward, look ahead.  Knowing there should be another way , a better way, doesn't make it clear that there is one.

Comments

[brettdl]

I'm sorry to hear the bad news. As you know, my MIL died in August. After seeing what cancer does, I think I understand how your aunt must have felt.

[Yarrow]

Sorry for your loss. I hope that you and your father somehow find some peace and a sort of closure. Thank you for the link; I have been interested in the Death Midwifery field for awhile now, and that was just fascinating to me.

[Katherine]

So sorry to hear about your aunt. Just wanted to touch base because your ponderings about birth and death really resonated with me.

My reaction to the birth of my first child and the death of my father were similar in one important aspect: they both caught me off guard in totally unexpected ways.

For severals days after my daughter was born, I looked at every person I saw with new eyes: someone gave birth to every single one of them! And why, exactly, I found this surprising, I cannot say.

The same with my father's death. I am the only child of older parents; it seems I've been dreading their demise all my life. So, it's not as if I never thought about it before. But, yet, it still surprised me in a way that's hard to describe. And the fact that it surprised me so much made me feel stupid and naive.

Perhaps it was because I simply could not imagine what life would feel like without him -- totally uncharted territory.

Having crossed these watersheds, I look back at my previous, innocent, assured self on the other side and marvel. Parenting (and grieving) have opened up whole new worlds and thoughts to explore. There are unanswered questions around every corner (and not much spare time to ponder them!)

Thanks for sharing your thoughts. Makes me feel less alone in my own reactions.

Best to you and yours!

[Tava]

I'm sorry for your loss also. I have been fearing death in a weird new way since becoming a mom 9 months ago. I don't know what to think of it. I wish there was some sort of beautiful, clear answer. I am sure I will be thinking on this for some time.

[kate]

thanks everyone - and yes - the mysteries that lie behind every corner, and less time to ponder them - just when your eyes begin to acclimate and you "see" more. ah...

terrible how we stumble over these most important experiences in our lives. Perhaps it's the whole point.

[Korina]

Aunt Mary Cambria Aunt Mary? I am so sorry to hear this Kate. I saw her often over the years when I visited Cambria.

I recently took a class on death and dying. I don't think just those who isolate have a difficult time grappling with it. So many of us are uncomfortable with it. I was able to sit with my grandmother recently as she was passing, and it was such an honor. She had asked my uncle if she was dying, and he told her she had the flu! That made me so mad. Death is the only final truth, and warrants compassion and understanding. I hope Aunt Mary found some peace in her final moments.