The Wisdom of Dying

                                                 

i carry your heart with me (I carry it in

my heart) i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

"I can't believe how much food she used to cook in this little oven..." I let the yellow even door close with a snap and stood there for a moment, lost.  Then a sob came from deep in my chest and my hands immediately covered face.  I stood in the kitchen feeling the weight of the last few months and the tears and thoughts kept coming... nursing homes, Ruth, my cousin and his mother walking away from the grave, my niece's face with tears streaming staring at me from the pews while I told the memory, the baptism sweater, my cat slowing getting up from the grass and his labored walk as he went around the garage and out of sight, and the swan.

My husband sighed and wrapped his arms around me.  I'm thankful to be short to his 6 feet when I'm upset because his chest makes an easy crying spot. We were standing my grandmother's kitchen, my favorite kitchen in the whole world.  It was cold without her and yet her smell was everywhere.  On the kitchen table the local newspaper had sent a subscription reminder.  In big print it said, "Where have you gone?". "Yes, where have you gone?" I wondered, walking around the small cape cod. I kept breathing deeply through my nose trying to hang on desperately to the memories that her smell brought... desperately to her.

***

I met Ruth on a Sunday afternoon.  The grey winter light filtered through the window blinds illuminating her profile.  She talked mostly facing forward in her wheel-chair, very rarely turning to look at me but I still felt her easy familiarity. Listening to her talk made holding the thin hand in my own easier. When she did turn to make eye contact, it was fleeting, almost with a shyness to it.

Ruth talked a lot about her deceased husband and granddaughter.  Maybe it's interesting who people don't talk about, I don't know, but you could tell Ruth was proud of her husband and adored her granddaughter who was probably about my age.
"She comes here and does my laundry and brings me things every week." Ruth shared. "We have a little arrangement my granddaughter and I." Ruth looked at me briefly to share her grin. You could see that she enjoyed a little bit of intrigue in her life.
"Oh yeah?" I encouraged her.
"Yes, I pay her a little bit of money every week but we can't let her father know." 
"That's a nice arrangement for you two..." a groan distracted me and I looked down and rubbed the hand I was holding.  When I looked back up at Ruth new tears were welled in my eyes. Ruth noticed and looked away again to continue the story.
"Once, she and I had lunch together, and she told me that my great-grandson wanted to play ball but she couldn't pay the fee, so I gave her the money.  When her father found out he was mad and made her give it back. So, now we have to be careful."

My two little ones stood half in the room, uncomfortable, unsure. My husband stood leaning against the wall in his easy way except that his face wore worry. Warren stood the closest to Ruth and his gaze shifted between the floor and groans from the bed.  He was solemn and I knew he would remember this day forever.  I was determined not to be afraid for him. I wanted him to learn not be afraid of holding a hand almost a century old, not to be afraid of someone's pain, not to be afraid of age or death, not to be afraid of being human and mortal.

So, I held her hand as Ruth talked. Ruth told me that her husband was a WWII war hero buried in Arlington Cemetery and she was allowed to be buried with him (an extra honor).  Every now and then as the groaning interrupted, or there was the erratic shifting and movements, Ruth would stop talking while my attention fell back to the bed and sometimes she would tell me about it.
"She does that a lot in her sleep."
"Does she sleep a lot?"
"Yes. Lately. But, just a few days ago she was angry and sat up on the side of her bed and threw that chair you're sitting in.  God, I didn't know she was that strong."
A small smile played on my lips.  Yes, she's that strong.

Suddenly, in the middle of her shifting, her eyes opened.
"Look at her." Ruth said. "Look in her eyes, try and talk to her now."
I looked in her face and softly spoke, "Grammy, It's me, Leah."
Her eyes locked into mine briefly and as intense as the look was, it was as if I was looking at her through a veil. In my memory of that moment, her eyes shine golden, though I know her eyes were green. I don't know why the golden... is it my memory playing tricks? Do eyes change in those moments?  I'm almost certain she truly saw me and knew my face, but the veil kept her from me, somehow still here and somehow not.

Her eyes closed again and she muttered some unintelligible things and then went quiet.  Her breathing was slow and labored. She was very thin and Ruth told me that she had stopped eating a few days ago. I had followed her through 3 nursing homes in the last 2 months since she fell in her kitchen, and she had never looked this way.  Soon, my brother and my parents came and I gave up my seat by her bed to them. 

We drove home feeling heavy. My two little boys chattered and teased each other like normal, too young to feel the impending finality. Warren quietly gazed out the window at the grey sky.

The next morning the phone rang.
"Leah?" My mother's pain came through the phone and stabbed me like knife.
 "Grammy's dead.  She died a few minutes ago."
I heard someone sob in the background.
"Mom? Mom?!?"
The phone went dead and so did I inside.

***

There were two other deaths this late winter season.  One a few weeks before and the other a few weeks after my Grandmother.  The other two deaths were solemn and lonely.  They were an Aunt on my Dad's side and an Uncle on my Mother's and both left behind single only children.  I went to visit my Aunt in the hospital a week before she died.  She didn't know then.  She was sitting up in bed and talked about going home and playing cards with her friend.  My cousin tended to her, knowing.
When I went to her funeral, and saw my cousin standing alone there beside the casket... alone,sentinel and poised, I cried.

My Uncle left behind my mother's sister, and her son. This death was a slow creep away from life.  My Uncle was brilliant and accomplished but his beautiful mind became crippled with early onset dementia. At first he would come to family gatherings and be himself but didn't know who most people were.  Then he didn't know where he was or why, but was still his smart and funny self.  Then he started to not make sense and his personality was changing. Finally, he couldn't do basic things, and then he fell.  He was in a nursing home for a week or two before my Aunt wanted to bring him home.

Every one was worried for her when she did that.  How would she manage? In fact she couldn't get him to come out of the car in her driveway and had to call my dad and another Uncle to come help. It was as if he had forgotten how to walk.  They physically carried him into the house and laid him in the bed.  He slept for a long time.  A few nights later, after over 45 years of marriage, my Aunt climbed into their bed beside him for the last time.

All through the funeral, My Aunt leaned heavily into my cousin. The weight of my Uncle's death was heavy on her.  He was buried just several yards away from my Grandmother.  My hand lingered on her tombstone as we passed and new tears joined the ones I had cried for my Uncle.  Monsignor Murphy recited the normal burial prayers over the casket as we all stood circled around it.  My Aunt and cousin sat closely together staring at my Uncle's casket.  I felt somewhat like an intruder into a private moment... the three of them together for the last time.

Monsignor closed his book and went right into a poem from his memory, his gentle voice carried in the quiet cemetery.  I imagined all the dead were listening;

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

I stood their dumbstruck at the beautiful simplicity of the words and wiped my tear stained face again.  But suddenly and abruptly, things were over and my Aunt and cousin were walking back to the car leaving us quickly.  My cousin looked back at his father; worried, unsure.  Helping his mother walk, yet needing his Father.  He looked like a small child looking back out of a car window. My heart jumped into my throat and I was off after them. Imogen bounced in her carrier as I weaved my through people and past tombstones to get to them.  "They just can't leave like that.", I thought. Something just didn't feel right. They were already at the limo and had closed the door but the dead encouraged me on... "Hurry!", they whispered wisely.

I made it to the door and knocked on the black tinted window. If I was an intruder now, I didn't care. My Aunt opened the door and I immediately fell on her in a hug. Finally, she cried hard and my cousin joined the hug.  "Oh Leah", she sobbed, "We all loved him so much."

***

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

***

  

The kids had been fighting about what to name the swan for months.  Everyone else's name was stupid and I was so fed up with it, I started to avoid driving past the pond where the swan was.  It was big pond in our town with a lone swan that had taken up residence among the geese. Today I had to drive past and the boys started up again.  I got angry and yelled at everyone.  Warren sat thoughtful for a moment gazing out the window at the grey sky just like he had that other day. 
Then I said, "I think we should name the swan Helen." 
"Helen?!? Noooooo!" I don't like that name!" said little David on cue with Brody backing him up.  Warren locked his eyes into mine in my rear view mirror; always tuned into me, always perceptive. He said, "Shush David. I like that name.  We'll name the swan Helen."
David continued to protest while Warren studied my face for any sign of pain.
"David," he said, "It's Grammy's name."
David quieted down, considering that fact and then said, "Ok, we'll name the swan Helen... but what if it's a boy?"
I smiled and Warren grinned back.

In the middle of everything, my cat died.  He had been getting sick and skinny and his 16 years of life was wearing very thin on him.  I remember the day I last saw him.  He was outside with us in the back yard laying down near the kids on the swing set.  I watched him slowly heave his body up to standing and moved in his labored walk to the garage and then disappear around the corner.  I never saw him again. 

I cried a lot about that cat.  I don't if it was just too much death in such a short period of time, or the guilt of not seeing him die or finding his body, or just that I was a silly human who loved a cat.  But I decided if there is ever a wise creature in death, it's a cat.  And if there is ever a stupid creature, it's a human witnessing it.

That same day my mom came and dropped off a box from my grandmother's house.  I knew what was in it.  It was a knitted Christening outfit that no one could figure out.  Who had she knitted it for? She hadn't mentioned it to anyone, but everyone decided that I could have it for Imogen.  She, at 6 months old, still hadn't been baptized and it was one more thing to beat myself up about because I had missed my chance to have my Grandmother there. I also wondered if the outfit would even fit.  We tend to Baptize pretty tiny babies and I couldn't imagine that my Grandmother had planned on a six month old wearing it.

I took the box upstairs and sat it on my bed.  I opened it and folded back the tissue paper and lifted up a perfect little knitted white coat/gown and cap.  I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply.  It was her... her smell again.  I put it back in the box quickly.  I wanted to keep her smell as long as possible.  When Imogen woke up from her nap, I got it out again and tried it on her.  It fit perfectly.

When Imogen was baptized and she was wrapped warmly in my Grandmother's smell, warmly in her memory.

***

here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

***

The night before my Grandmother died, I googled what death looks like.  What I mean is, I wanted to know the signs of impending death in the elderly.  What does it look like when someone is at the end of a long life and a natural death is imminent?  I came across a hospice website out of Hawaii and the language used had a metaphysical tone.  I came to a part regarding food, and how hard it is for loved ones to see food not given in the final stages of life.  This is because we equate food with comfort.  I thought about how Ruth had told me that my Grandmother had stopped eating a few days ago. But the hospice said this, "It is important to remember that as the physical body is dying, the vital organs are shutting down, and nourishment is no longer required to keep them functioning. This is the wisdom of dying, and the body knows exactly what to do."

The wisdom of dying.  The wisdom of dying... those words hung in my brain. And also, "the body knows exactly what to do.". Funny to find that the same words that are used in birth, would be used in death.  Wisdom in the body.  That we are innately wise. 

My mother called to ask if I wanted to say anything at the funeral. I said, yes, though I didn't know why.  I felt close to my grandmother, but I knew we all we did.  She meant so much to me, but she meant so much to all of us.  I knew that I really wasn't any more special to my Grandmother than anyone else in the family, but yet... I felt special.  Maybe that was the point.  If the roles were reversed, and it had been Ruth dying in her bed with her Granddaughter by her side, there wouldn't have been a single person in my family that my Grandmother wouldn't have talked about.

I knew the memory I wanted to speak about.  It was one that so much of my family was in but when I twisted the memory around to their eyes, I knew they didn't see as much as I did from where they were sitting around the table in that favorite kitchen with that little yellow oven. I could see them all there looking at me.  My strong yet sensitive uncles with tears in their eyes.  My Grandmother's smell everywhere, blessedly taken for granted.  Her eyes green, not golden, and full of life and wisdom looking at me through the memory as I walked towards her with my heart beating a million beats per minute. 

But as easily as I could slip into that memory, it easily disappeared and instead I was walking towards her pearly-grey casket and up onto the Alter to follow my brother's eulogy.  There were quite a few priests there, waiting.  One was Monsignor Murphy, who in just two weeks would be reciting that beautiful poem over my Uncle's grave. And there were very many people in the Church including, all the way in the back, my cousin sitting alone with her golden hair against the black and without her mother.

And so I unfolded my paper and dipped myself back into the pensieve and continued with the memory...

I was pregnant with James that day and had just been called into the house by my mother from where I was waiting on the back porch.  I was anxious and full of impending doom waiting to be called in after my mom told my Aunts and Uncles and my Grandmother that I was pregnant.  You don't think about these things until you're in one of these tough situations, but your Grandmother always turns out to be the hardest person to tell. 

But the creaky storm door eventually opened and my mom's face appeared.  I could tell she had been crying and I wanted to throw up. But into the house I went and stood in my Grandmother's kitchen facing them all with their teary eyes and kind, worried smiles... except for one person.  My Grandmother stood by her little yellow oven, not a tear in her green eyes, and her head held high and facing me. "Come here" She said. I made that walk towards her and into her arms for a brief embrace.  She pulled me away and firmly took my face into her hands and looked deeply into my eyes, "It's okay. These things happen."

I could suddenly breath again. My grandmother had taken the weight off of my shoulders and given it up to the world.  No more tears because these things happen. No more gray days because these things happen.  Keep your head high because these things happen. Everything was going to work out because although I was a pregnant teenager, I was her granddaughter first and these things happen.

It's powerful to be loved so well; it's a perfect love. To my Grandmother, before anyone in my family was anything else, they were hers.  Before anything good or bad, or any hurdle or achievement, they were hers... deeply and ultimately hers.  Perhaps that last day, when her eyes opened golden, they were golden with beautiful memories from the deepest recesses of her brain. We lived deep in her heart and her mind, and she in ours.

***

When the memories are vivid and great, the death seems equally as vivid and great.  It's interesting that deep inside our brain, physically near the center, is where our memories are stored and also where our ability to make new memories lies.  On the outside of the brain, in the more vulnerable positions are our sight and speech, motor skills and spatial abilities and even higher cognitive orders.  How interesting that memory is chosen as one of our most valuable human assets to tuck away and protect.

Perhaps the wisdom of dying is in the memories.  That it evokes in us a sense of awareness of them. That they are valuable and worth protecting and yet... we need continue to make new ones, because our shared experiences as humans is our world's greatest asset big and small.  And when our loved ones are dying or losing their memories, we keep vigil for them through our own.  We carry them deep our hearts and deep in our memories through our shared experiences.  Deep in the most protected spot in in the human mind.

Cry, laugh, be angry, be in love, feel the feelings, make the memories, be timeless and yet embrace your transience... for this is the wisdom of dying and being human and mortal is a beautiful thing to be.