Note: I wrote this some months ago and I posted it on my Facebook page. Since then, one of my friends has died of her cancers–brain and lung. Another of my dear friends has decided to forego anymore chemo and is working on her bucket list. I admire her for her grace and courage, among other things, that make her the truly remarkable woman she is. Our Baja buddy was cancer free for about a year, but is once again “dancing” with cancer (as he puts it), trying to put an end to it once and for all. Now it is my father-in-law who has been given the news of his liver cancer. He, too, is demonstrating grace and courage, mixed with a lot of pragmatism. Again, I am in awe. And my heart breaks.
I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about death, more importantly, what happens to those left behind. I am at an age now when people in my inner circle are sucking in their last breaths. By my current standards, these people are too young to die. Not too many years ago 65 was considered borrowed time. No more. Whatever the reasons, and there are many, we humans are living a lot longer.
My own mom is 98 with a strong heart and super low cholesterol. She says she’s ready to die, prays daily that this day will be her last, but for brunch every day, she eats her fresh fruit, yogurt and cottage cheese after swallowing a minimum of 10 vitamins and other supplements. When questioned about this irony, her reply is simple and sensible: “I’m ready to die, but I want to feel good while I’m still here.” This is the woman who taught me the importance of having and keeping a good sense of humor in order to keep things in perspective.
While cancer continues to ravage the bodies of so many of my friends, I find myself feeling blessed with my health one moment, and scared shitless the next. Will I become the next cancer victim? Will it be my husband who is besieged with a terminal illness? One of my children? What would life be like without them? How would I deal with the death of someone so close?
I shudder to think of it, and I try to push the fear and anxiety from my consciousness. I get better at doing this until I learn of another friend’s passing. How can you console those who have just lost a loved one? Their pain is raw. One widower I know explained that losing his wife of 42 years was surreal. Another man whose wife took care of all the business end of their lives for 44 years, must now learn to navigate in situations previously foreign AND deal with the loss of the woman who was his wife, his best friend and his lover. How can they find solace?
In our relationships we develop patterns and we adopt roles of responsibility. When our spouses die, we not only lose our partners in the business of living, but suffer the loss of companionship as well. No wonder we find ourselves living a surreal existence. The rug has been pulled from beneath our feet. The rules have changed.
And we must also take care of death certificates, wills, distributing property, and tending to the deceased’s wishes about cremation or burial, and to have a service, or not have a service. These things cost money and many times there have been no provisions made for these expenditures. If there were medical treatments, the bills will continue to arrive. There are people to contact, an obituary to write. The paperwork involved requires a clear head at a time when we are anything but clear headed. When my stepfather passed on the last day of May, we had to send his social security payment back to the government for the whole month of May. The cruel irony is that he died one day too soon to keep his last payment.
After a dear one dies, grief becomes our tormentor and no amount of slamming our fists, howling or crying can bring enough relief. Certainly some who survive their loved ones will have family and friends they can rely on. But sooner or later everyone goes home to carry on, and what you’re left with is a broken heart. I doubt anyone is prepared for what emotions come next, and certainly we have not been given a course in how to survive our loss. We must take one day at a time, and put one foot in front of the other.
For me I imagine the ache I would feel at reaching for my husband at night in bed and finding his side empty. Even that small gesture and feeling his warmth has given me comfort many nights when I’ve struggled to sleep. This makes me think of all the little things we share that I would miss. Sometimes it just boils down to appreciating the little things in life. I want to slow down and take them all in—to accept the small joys of being alive and share them with my husband. I want to learn to savor these moments, to be more loving and slower to anger. To taste life before it swallows him or me up.
There may be no discernible life after death. That debate is for others, not me. For now all I can do is hold those I have lost in my heart, and try to be there for others who have lost those they love. And it occurs to me that while we remain blessed to be alive, we have the ability, maybe even the duty, to be more appreciative, to take pleasure in a sunset, share a laugh, help others, take our vitamins, give compliments, forgive, and best of all to hold each other close. While we still can.
