Today I Went to Church - on Death and Dying Nov 20 '02    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet Popular Products in Books Irene Hunt - The Lottery Rose: A Novel From $6 John Steinbeck - East Of Eden From $7 The Bottom Line Sorry, there is no bottom line here. Today I went to church. Not an extraordinary activity for many people, but as I am completely unaffiliated with any organized religion, it has been a long time since I went to church for anything other than a wedding or a funeral. But I went today. Today was a Hospice service to help people who have lost a loved one in the past year cope during the holidays. For the first time in my life, that’s me. The service itself was nothing particularly moving or special, they gave some practical suggestions, but since there were many people there, they were all vague and general. The occasion, however, sent up waves of thought and memory that I thought might be best purged onto the page. On Death and Dying On March 6, 2002, my mother died. Lots of people died this year, but I was only there for one. For nine years she had been in, euphemistically, ill health. Two hip replacements, a diagnosis of Parkinson’s Disease, and the last straw, in 1997, cancer. We all watched her cope with the various ups and downs of chronic illness, and life went on. She and my father kept my siblings and myself at a distance, in regards to her health, because this was their way. They handled things on their own, and seemed to feel that this experience was intensely private. I certainly had no alternative but to accept their choice, as no one has the right to tell another how to live, never mind die, so I wasn’t privy to a lot of details. What I do know is that three surgeries didn’t do it, and a final recurrence last year was met with resignation rather than action. My father took care of my mother until the very end, in their home. When he finally did call us, the end was very near and we all came, finally brought into the hell that my parent’s lives had become. During that long last day, I saw a suffering so unimaginable that it took away my breath, my hope, and any faith I might have harbored about mercy in this world. When my kids asked me later where Grandma was, all I could manage was “a better place”. When they asked how I knew this, I could only say that there could not be a place worse than the one she was in. My M.D. husband tells me that this is how cancer kills people, robbing them of their strength, their will, their dignity, all before robbing them of their lives. This cruel death haunts me, and to this day, I struggle to find within me the image of the woman who raised me, my mind giving only the image of those final surreal hours. On Guilt and Survival One of the seemingly inevitable outcomes of death seems to be the elevation to sainthood of the deceased. Glowing memorials to the strength of their character, the endless love and support they offered, the magnificent person we have lost. I understand the need for these tributes, for the good memories are what we are supposed to hold on to as we grieve. Unfortunately, not every memory is good, no one is perfect, and acknowledging that fact is perhaps the most guilt ridden experience I have ever had. I wish we could mourn the death of a person, not an image. All those memories, all those traits, good and bad, go into making people who they are, and we love them because they are whole people, not just a conglomeration of what are supposedly the aspects most admired by those around us. The world would be a better place if we stopped pretending that when people die, we should remember only the “good things”. It’s all the things that make us love some one, and we shouldn’t feel guilty for remembering them. Much easier said than done, but worth saying anyway. On Hospice The event that brought on this onslaught of gut spilling was a Hospice sponsored event. These remarkable people spend every day with those who are dying, and their families, doing everything they can to make a difference. They are the ones who made it possible for Mom to die at home, surrounded by her family, which, I believe, is what she wanted. It would have broken Dad’s heart to have had to put her in a special care facility, and Hospice is the only thing that kept that from happening. They put themselves on the line, emotionally, every day, in what they know is ultimately a losing battle, yet they continue, and without them we would have faltered. Knowing that they were involved in Mom’s care was both heart wrenching, as it meant that her death was imminent, and comforting, as I knew they could provide the care and help to Dad that he needed but could not ask from us. Hospice as an organization, and the volunteers and employees specifically, have my most humble admiration and gratitude. Final Thoughts So many people there today. Yet they represent just a tiny percentage of those who have been where I am this year, this month, this day. It’s somehow comforting to share this common bond, yet uncomfortable as well. I know that each person in that room had their own personal horror and this makes me feel selfish in indulging my own grief. We all lose people we love, it’s part of being human, and yet it’s so difficult to see that from the microscopic view we have of our own traumas. People say the time heals all wounds, and I’m sure there’s truth in that. Individually and collectively, we go on. Unfortunately, part of healing is the fading of memory. We don’t choose this, it just happens. For my own sense of completeness, I need to remember the person who bore and raised me. With this comes pain at the memory of her suffering, and pain with the feelings of loss. When all is said and done, I hope I can move to a place where I can remember without (much) pain, both the good and bad, and know that this is the only true tribute I can give. I began writing this on Sunday, November17; apparently I purge slowly. Thanks to any and all who had the stamina to make it through my ramble. sfe

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