Reflection on the ebb and flow of life

Dust to dust. One life gone, another yet to be. And this is life, the continual thread that connects us and chains us to time and the context of history and place.

My mother 'let go of the grass' last year, to quote Patricia Polacco. The circumstances surrounding her passing were troubling and tumultuous, but the saving grace was that I was able to keep vigil by her bedside, to say goodbye, and to show the other bereaved-to-be how to do so. Each moment was heavy with impending doom, the knowledge that at some moment close at hand, our mother, always so alive and so funny and so frustrating, was to be no more. The breath would leave her body, and the remaining statue of flesh would turn yellow and cease to be her, cease to hold that bright spirit that will ever shine within us.

And so it came to pass. And then the rifts, the rips and tears in relationships of blood and a shared past, deepened and solidified like drying cement, and will never be mended. Perhaps it was this, too, that I grieved afterwards.

I don't believe in guardian angels and I haven't ever been one to toss the word 'blessing' into a casual sentence, but in my utter desolation an old friend appeared, last seen over thirty years ago. She was there when I was friendless and alone; she paid her respects and left; but the vapor trails of her presence remained, and I was comforted.

That was last year. A year of profound pain, fear, sorrow. Darkness.

And then, this spring, on a trip to visit green grass and dandelions and baby goats and fat hens, I got a call. A mention of a 'pre-natal' exam. Something amazing to look forward to. So here it comes again, so here life comes again, to celebrate and lift up and enjoy. My son-in-law, teasing, asked where my tears of joy were. They are here, my dear, on the inside where you can't see them, but as wet and salty as real ones.

A new life creates new ties that bind. A new life makes us people we'd never thought we'd be: stronger, wiser, sweeter, better, more open to the world, more aware of how much we share with others, more understanding of those who begat us.

A new life, to open our hearts and work miracles, including ones that cannot be seen. How can we not also call this a blessing?

Musings on Dad's passing, composed July 12, 2012

My father, with the two nurses who worked with Parkinson's patients.

Saturday.

Life events and national events and the state of the world.  Ancient Chinese curse:  "May you live in interesting times."  High anxiety, a feeling of perpetual angst that's never been so hard to shake.  And me without a nearby drink, or even better, a nearby friend.  It's hard sometimes to know what to hold onto, what it is that's worthwhile, worth keeping.  Also hard to decide what to let go, walk away from and when to do it. 

My father--whose insistence on driving I complained about earlier--died last fall, a demise brought about by Parkinson's and its accompanying dementia.  It took hours for him to eat and slowly he lost weight, so much so that his system just basically shut down.  The neurologist and her nurse knew that Dad was a goner when we brought him in for what would be his last appointment:  I could tell by the horrified look on the nurse's face; the serious, completely focused attention of the neurologist; the nurse's hug as we left.  My Dad knew it, too; he told them that he 'probably would never see them again' and expressed gratitude for their support, for the chance to know them.

He probably did not get all the care that he should have.  But he died at home in the presence of those he loved, and that was more important to him than the correct care and feeding offered by an institution.

Parents of Boomers

We Boomers are perhaps more fortunate than those of previous generations. For many, at least one of our parents is still with us. Our parents are trudging onward into their 80s and 90s. Wow. We are having to deal with worries about elderly parents that other generations perhaps dealt with at an earlier age--disease, the increasing inability of parents to look after themselves, the questions of what to do with the detritus of their history: books, letters, photographs, cherished mementos. The conflicts with other siblings also loom--disputes about control, inheritance, who Mom loves best, etc.

It's very hard. My parents continue to be two of the smartest, funniest people I know. Yet they are managing less and less to care for themselves. Their daily diet is a horror, medications are forgotten, personal hygiene seems to have gone by the wayside. And yet our carefully reasoned and loving suggestions for dealing with one phalanx of problems after another are dismissed, ignored, and at times resented. It is so hard for them to give up control. Try telling a senior he should not be driving or asking her why her checkbook is not balanced and the rent is late again.... The response to our perfectly wonderful solutions: "Don't micro-manage me!"

It seems to be the hardest to give up driving (especially for men). When one drives, one is in control. As a college student in Mexico City for a summer, it took me two weeks before I got over the feelings of bereavement and awkwardness at not being able to drive, at having to rely on taxis or public transportation to travel. My father should probably not be on the road, and yet he is. He has a driver's license, after all....

It is so hard to --and here my favorite Robert Frost poem pops up--"to go with the drift of things/To yield with a grace to reason/And bow and accept the end of a love or a season?" (entitled Reluctance). Both my parents realize, have been realizing for a long time, that their faculties are diminishing, that they can no longer care for themselves in ways they used to. But they will not take this lying down. They will resist. They will fight. They will "not go gentle into that good night." (Dylan Thomas). They will not let us run their lives. And do you know what? By refusing to let us do so, they are teaching us to tread with patience and respect, to be tolerant and kind, to wait, not to rush things.  Their resistance is exasperating in the extreme, but at the same time, one has to admire this resistance, this refusal to cede, to give up, give in.  I salute them for this stubbornness even as it drives me into a panic of worry about their well-being.  I salute these, my octogenarian heroes, and secretly hope that when my time comes, I will also, in my way, "rage against the dying of the light".  And I love them for being who they are, and for showing me the way.