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While this is admittedly a somewhat morbid post, it's not as dark or confessional (or as long) as my now-forgotten thousandth post, so have no fears of continuing reading on that account.

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And again I find myself posting a landmark in the evening hours (a Friday night no less!) so that it can fall to oblivion without being seen by half of Hatrack . . .

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If anybody's missed me over the last month or two, you probably guessed that my absence was caused by the annual end-of-year madness teachers go through. I otherwise find that I'm at my most prolific post-wise when I should be doing something else (as now, when I should be catching up on bills, paperwork related to my certification, and housecleaning), so I have learned in the past year or so to be very strict with myself when crunchtime comes around. When I make a resolution like "No Hatrack," I can pretty much stick to it, whereas "Not too much Hatrack" quickly becomes a meaningless promise.

This school year pretty much ended the way it began. In September or thereabout, Cor's grandmother in California passed away, and we had to take off several days that we could ill-afford to fly out to her funeral. Late this May (like a day or so before final exams began for underclassmen), Cor's grandmother in New Jersey passed away, and we had to fly suddenly to New Jersey to attend her funeral, taking an unpaid day off from work because all of my sick days were used up.

(Is there anything more crass and selfish than using deaths in your spouse's family to prompt your landmark post? :\ )

Both grandmothers were in their nineties. Cor comes from a long-lived bunch. Her father is pushing eighty and could probably beat the crap out of me. (Okay, that's an exaggeration, but only slightly.) We didn't have a lot of contact with the grandmother out in California, because of how far away she had always lived, but the one in New Jersey was a prominent figure throughout Cor's life, and I grew to have a great deal of fondness and respect for her. Her death was not unexpected--in fact, our itinerary on our trip to New Jersey to visit her this last Spring Break was turned on its ear when her health took a sudden (and ultimately, unreversed) downturn. But intellectual knowledge that death is imminent doesn't take away its sting, and the knowledge that somebody's life was full does not give comfort when she is gone.

Anyway, I don't have much experience with death. It's a mixed blessing, because it's due to the fact that I have so little family in this country. I have some distant cousins on my mother's side in Tampa, and some distant relatives on my father's side in southeast Florida, but most of my maternal family lives in Cuba, and most of my paternal family died before I was born, and my parents were never the type to keep in contact with distant relatives. So basically it's just my father, my grandmother, and me.

That's not to say I have never known anybody who died. I remember the grandfather of one of those distant cousins dying when I was very young, but he was very old and I never really knew him. I remember when my mother's father passed away, but again, he was largely absent from my childhood. Same for when his sister passed a few years earlier. A college friend of mine died a year or so after we both graduated. We had both gone on to graduate school in South Carolina, she in Charleston and me in Clemson, and we had talked on the phone of getting together some day, in our single communication since graduation. She was killed when a woman in a stolen car fleeing police ran a red light. A colleague of ours died a few years back, but he had only been with the school a year, and he was an elderly, grumpy loner who worked clear across campus. (He actually had the single classroom in the administration building, and it was on the second floor, to boot.) And that's about it. Death has always been at a remove, and I have never had anybody I would truly call a loved one taken from me.

In recent years, I've become--well, I don't know if obsessed is too strong a word or not--with death. Some of you know that the first decade and a half or so of my life were pretty unpleasant, and that I attempted suicide at fourteen. At around eighteen, my life started to take a giddy upturn (or perhaps an intensifying of the upturn that had begun years earlier), and I was possessed with this manic certainty that I was indestructible. Of course, all teenagers and young adults are supposed to feel this way, but I believed that God the Author would never cut down in his prime a character who had overcome so much. It seemed like poor storytelling to me, and thus it was impossible. After a few years of stupid-risk-taking, realization slammed into me: IDIOT! Have you observed NOTHING?!? If there is a God, then clearly His favorite literary technique is IRONY!!! Having overcome a lot and reached the reward of a good patch of life only makes you MORE likely to die!!! (Besides, I broke up with The Girl eventually anyway. ) Having once held the gift of life in so little regard that I attempted to throw it away, I now have this sense that there will be a karmic price to pay now that I want to stick around. I have this gut certainty that I will not last long, and I find myself always thinking in terms of keeping things in order in case I leave my family suddenly. (Better make sure this document's easy to find . . . better not leave anything lying around that could hurt anybody's feelings . . . et cetera)

I am not at peace with the idea of mortality. I read or hear people say they are not afraid of death and I believe to my bones that they are delusional or disengenuous. I don't mean to be insulting if I am describing you, just explaining how thoroughly my usually keen sense of empathy abandons me on this point. Not only do I not feel that way, I can't really imagine feeling that way. I am afraid of death. I want to live forever and see everything. I can't take comfort in religion, because in the last decade or so I seem to have lost my ability to believe. I sometimes wish I believed, but I find I cannot wrap my rational brain around some of the concepts I once held as articles of faith. Feel free to pray for me if you are a pray-er. I don't take comfort in the idea of a life after this one; this life is the only one I know, and the thought that what is can be snuffed out strikes me as an outrageous indignity. How can all that we struggle with, obsess over, and feel come to so little?

Unlike Cor, my line is not a long-lived one. Especially not on my father's side. Basically, he and I are the only living males in his line. I'm not aware of any that made it to sixty. He will turn 58 this month and doesn't look like he will make it too much further. About four years ago he had quadruple bypass surgery. Two or three years ago, he had angioplasty and retired on the advice of his doctor. He is also diabetic. In the last year or so, boredom (I suppose) has led to his once again taking up smoking. On a daily basis, we have a clear indicator of his current health just by looking at how swollen his ankles are due to fluid retention caused by his excessively weak heart. That and how quickly he gets winded. The past few weeks have been scary, as medicines he has had to take for a persistent cough (caused not by a cold but, again, by his weak heart) have interfered either with his blood pressure or his blood-sugar level.

My father was not a man who knew how to relate well with small children, but as I reached adulthood, we developed the closeness which was perhaps lacking when I was a child. I consider him my best friend. We don't speak of "mushy stuff," because that's just not how we ever learned to relate, but each of us knows how the other feels. He knows I don't approve of his smoking, but I don't want to spend the last years of his life nagging and fighting. Better, it seems, to appreciate him while he is here, and be thankful that he has lived long enough for my daughters to know and love him.

But what to do with my impotent anger at his cavalier attitude toward his own life, when his death will cause the rest of us so much heartbreak?

(Yeah, yeah, irony. Shaddup.)

(I don't really believe it's cavalierism so much as avoidance. Any attempt to live more healthily now will likely only extend his life by a relatively small amount, he probably thinks, at the cost of his little pleasures. Facing the impossibility of avoiding death would bring despair, and so instead he ignores it altogether where he can. At least, that's how I would feel. *shrug*)

I am not ready to lose him. I don't think I ever will be, but I at least want my daughters to have him for as long as I've had my grandmother. I want him to be there when they graduate from high school, when they graduate from college, when they get married, when they have children. My grandmother is in her early eighties, and in the space of four years or so has gone from an unbelievably spry woman who took care of herself and was active in her church and in ministering to those less fortunate, to living in a nursing room and not being able to remember which room is hers, and alleging that they do not feed her when they quite clearly do. I owe what childhood I did have to her, because she saw my parents' inadequacies and took it upon herself to compensate for them. I have never been as close to her as an adult as I was as a child, because she could never get used to seeing me any other way than as a child of four or so, but I owe her more than I can express. I am not ready to lose her either.

So what do I do? I am trying to make the best of the time that I have, particularly with my father. (He lives closer to me, he is closer to me, and, quite frankly, he might not last as long.) I speak to him at least once a day, I see him at least three or four times a week, and I have dragged him into my hobbies. Heck, I call him up when I need to go grocery shopping, and we go together. I have tried to share with him experiences he has not had before, or that we have not shared before. When we drove to New Jersey in the spring, we brought him along so that he could see that part of the country. Same for when we went to Biloxi right before the start of the school year. We just brought him with us on our cruise, the only cruise he has ever taken in his life. I hope one day I get the opportunity to return to California, and bring him with me. In the last year or so, he's had a few opportunities to hear me perform, which he had not had since I was a kid. I'm not trying to sound selfless here. I am not giving; I am taking. These are needs I have: to share as much of life as I can with him while I have him around.

-o-

My goodness. I knew I intended to write about death, but I didn't think this would come out quite so maudlin. It's not my intention to ask for advice or sympathy, but to share a slice of what's on my mind at this point in my life. I figured some people might find it interesting, and we might even have an interesting conversation about how we approach and deal with death. I always come to Hatrack, not to change opinions or to have my opinions changed, but to better understand other people and their different ways of seeing life. So I'm curious to understand those of you who are at peace with the notion of death.

So Geez, how can I lighten this up?

I know . . .

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Ol' Fred had been a faithful Christian and was in the hospital, near death. The family called their preacher to stand with them.

As the preacher stood next to the bed, Ol' Fred's condition appeared to deteriorate and he motioned frantically for something to write on.

The pastor lovingly handed him a pen and a piece of paper, and Ol' Fred used his last bit of energy to scribble a note, then he died.

The preacher thought it best not to look at the note at that time, so he placed it in his jacket pocket.

At the funeral, as he was finishing the message, he realized that he was wearing the same jacket that he was wearing when Ol' Fred died. He said, "You know, Ol' Fred handed me a note just before he died. I haven't looked at it, but knowing Fred, I'm sure there's a word of inspiration there for us all."

He opened the note, and read, "Hey, you're standing on my oxygen tube!"

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An old preacher was dying. He sent a message for his banker and his lawyer, both church members, to come to his home.

When they arrived, they were ushered up to his bedroom. As they entered the room, the preacher held out his hands and motioned for them to sit on each side of the bed. The preacher grasped their hands, sighed contentedly, smiled, and stared at the ceiling. For a time, no one said anything.

Both the banker and lawyer were touched and flattered that the preacher would ask them to be with him during his final moments. They were also puzzled; the preacher had never given them any indication that he particularly liked either of them. They both remembered his many long, uncomfortable sermons about greed, covetousness, and avaricious behaviour that made them squirm in their seats.

Finally, the banker said, "Preacher, why did you ask us to come?"

The old preacher mustered up his strength and then said weakly, "Jesus died between two thieves, and that's how I want to go."

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In some foreign country a priest, a lawyer and an engineer are about to be guillotined.

The priest puts his head on the block, they pull the rope and nothing happens -- he declares that he's been saved by divine intervention-- so he's let go .

The lawyer is put on the block, and again the rope doesn't release the blade, he claims he can't be executed twice for the same crime and he is set free too.

They grab the engineer and shove his head into the guillotine, he looks up at the release mechanism and says, "Wait a minute, I see your problem...."

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Unable to attend the funeral after his father died, a son who lived far away called his brother and told him, "Do something nice for Dad and send me the bill."

Later, he got a bill for $200.00, which he paid. The next month, he got another bill for $200.00, which he also paid, figuring it was some incidental expense.

Bills for $200.00 kept arriving every month, and finally the man called his brother again to find out what was going on.

"Well," said the other brother, "you said to do something nice for Dad. So I rented him a tuxedo."

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After dying in a car crash, three friends go to Heaven for orientation. They are all asked the same question: "When you are in your casket, friends and family are mourning over you, what would you like to hear them say about you?"

The first guy immediately responds, "I would like to hear them say that I was one of the great doctors of my time, and a great family man."

The second guy says, "I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and school teacher who made a huge difference in our children of tomorrow."

The last guy thinks a minute and replies, "I'd like to hear them say...... LOOK, HE'S MOVING!!!!!"

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OLD TEACHERS never die, they just lose their class.

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A blonde goes into work one morning crying her eyes out. Her boss, concerned about all his employees' well being, asked sympathetically, "What's the matter?" To which the blonde replies, "Early this morning I got a phone call saying that my mother had passed away."

The boss, feeling very sorry at this point, says to the young girl. "Why don't you go home for the day.....we aren't terribly busy. Just take the day off to relax and rest."

The blonde very calmly states, "No, I'd be better off here. I need to keep my mind off it and I have the best chance of doing that here."

The boss agrees and allows the blonde to work as usual...."if you need anything, just let me know."

Well, a few hours pass and the boss decides to check on the blonde. He looks out over his office and sees the blonde hysterically crying!! He rushes out to her, asking, "What's so bad now........are you gonna be ok??"

"No......" exclaims the blonde. "I just got a call from my sister. She told me that HER mom died too!!"

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Posts: 13680 | Registered: Mar 2002  |  IP: Logged | 

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How can all that we struggle with, obsess over, and feel come to so little?

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Posts: 1423 | Registered: Sep 2003  |  IP: Logged | 

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Anyway, I don't have much experience with death. It's a mixed blessing,

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Posts: 1870 | Registered: Mar 2003  |  IP: Logged | 

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Now, when the soul has gone to meet its doom,
And here the dust lies, like an empty pod,--
Now, my dear friends, we'll speak a word or two
About this dead man's pilgrimage on earth.
He was not wealthy, neither was he wise,
His voice was weak, his bearing was unmanly,
He spoke his mind abashed and faltering,
He scarce was master at his own fireside;
He sidled into church, as though appealing
For leave, like other men, to take his place.
It was from Gudbrandsdale, you know, he came.
When here he settled he was but a lad;--
And you remember how, to the very last,
He kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
That right hand in the pocket was the feature
That chiefly stamped his image on the mind,--
And therewithal his writhing, his abashed
Shrinking from notice wheresoe'er he went.
But, though he still pursued a path aloof,
And ever seemed a stranger in our midst,
You all know what he strove so hard to hide,--
The hand he muffled had four fingers only.--
I well remember, many years ago,
One morning; there were sessions held at Lundë.
'Twas war-time, and the talk in every mouth
Turned on the country's sufferings and its fate.
I stood there watching. At the table sat
The Captain, 'twixt the Bailiff and the sergeants;
Lad after lad was measured up and down,
Passed, and enrolled, and taken for a soldier.
The room was full, and from the green outside,
Where thronged the young folks, loud the laughter rang.
A name was called, and forth another stepped,
One pale as snow upon the glacier's edge.
They bade the youth advance; he reached the table;
We saw his right hand swaddled in a clout;--
He gasped, he swallowed, battling after words,--
But, though the Captain urged him, found no voice.
Ah yes, at last! Then with his cheek aflame,
His tongue now failing him, now stammering fast
He mumbled something of a scythe that slipped
By chance, and shore his finger to the skin.
Straightway a silence fell upon the room.
Men bandied meaning glances; they made mouths;
They stoned the boy with looks of silent scorn.
He felt the hail-storm, but he saw it not.
Then up the Captain stood, the grey old man;
He spat, and pointed forth, and thundered "Go!"
And the lad went. On both sides men fell back,
Till through their midst he had to run the gauntlet.
He reached the door; from there he took to flight;--
Up, up he went,--through wood and over hillside,
Up through the stone-screes, rough, precipitous.
He had his home up there among the mountains.--
It was some six months later he came here,
With mother, and betrothed, and little child.
He leased some ground upon the high hill-side,
There where the waste lands trend away towards Lomb.
He married the first moment that he could;
He built a house; he broke the stubborn soil;
He throve, as many a cultivated patch
Bore witness, bravely clad in waving gold.
At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,--
But sure I am at home his fingers nine
Toiled every whit as hard as others' ten.--
One spring the torrent washed it all away.
Their lives were spared. Ruined and stripped of all,
He set to work to make another clearing;
And, ere the autumn, smoke again arose
From a new, better-sheltered, mountain farmhouse.
Sheltered? From torrent--not from avalanche;
Two years, and all beneath the snow lay buried.
But still the avalanche could not daunt his spirit.
He dug, and raked, and carted--cleared the ground--
And the next winter, ere the snow-blasts came,
A third time was his little homestead reared.
Three sons he had, three bright and stirring boys;
They must to school, and school was far away;--
And they must clamber, where the hill-track failed,
By narrow ledges past the headlong scree.
What did he do? The eldest had to manage
As best he might, and, where the path was worst,
His father bound a rope round him to stay him;--
The others on his back and arms he bore.
Thus he toiled, year by year, till they were men.
Now might he well have looked for some return.
In the New World, three prosperous gentlemen
Their school-going and their father have forgotten.
He was short-sighted. Out beyond the circle
Of those most near to him he nothing saw.
To him seemed meaningless as cymbals' tinkling
Those words that to the heart should ring like steel.
His race, his fatherland, all things high and shining,
Stood ever, to his vision, veiled in mist.
But he was humble, humble, was this man;
And since that sessions-day his doom oppressed him,
As surely as his cheeks were flushed with shame,
And his four fingers hidden in his pocket--
Offender 'gainst his country's laws? Ay, true!
But there is one thing that the law outshineth
Sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind
Has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it.
No patriot was he. Both for church and state
A fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,
In the small circle where he saw his calling,
There he was great, because he was himself.
His inborn note rang true unto the end.
His days were as a lute with muted strings.
And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior,
That fought the peasant's little fight, and fell!
It is not ours to search the heart and reins;--
That is no task for dust, but for its ruler;--
Yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope:
He scarce stands crippled now before his God!

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