On death...
August...
Yesterday I visited my grandmother in the hospital. She is near the end of her life. All conversations about her are like a game of Taboo. We can't actually say the word "death", but that's the word on the card. Death is taking up residence in our lives again. You can feel him in the air. He's sitting in the empty chair in my grandmother's hospital room, waiting patiently but assuredly. We still talk about the future with her. Where will she live? Who will care for her? What will she do when _______ happens? It's a futile scramble to fight the natural way of things. Death sits quietly, whispering peace and stillness to the room.
He lives at my grandmother's house. Where her home was once thriving with plants and flowers in every room, it is now decaying, the flower pots full of crackly, dried up remains of what were once living. Some of them are hanging on, but they're yellowed, drooping, and weak. They're shadows of what they once were. Dust settles where it would have never dared when my grandmother was younger. Death brings sadness and a sense of inevitability, and somehow a conflicted peace. No one wants to die. Not really. No one wants to see someone they love die. I am selfish. I want her to live forever the way I remember her. She fights it in her own way. Not that she's afraid of death, but it's in our nature to fight. Even as we know that death is that proverbial doorway that we all must step through, it's hard to boldly walk into a darkened room, trusting that the light will come on once your foot crosses the threshold. What if it doesn't? What if it's nothing? What if we were wrong all those years believing in everlasting life. This feels real. I can see it. Smell it. Touch it. I can't see Heaven. I hope those people that I love that have gone before me are waiting, but what if they're not. What if they're simply gone? Like I will be one day. Like my grandmother will be soon.
I clean my house all the time. Well, okay. Not all the time. Enough of the time to not live in squalor. Sometimes when I go to my friend's house, I'll clean her kitchen or help with her laundry. If I'm at my mom's house, I might pick up a room or wash dishes. It's not something I think much about, I just do it. It's part of the life in the house. The house feels alive, and I am merely stepping in to do the thing that needs to be done to keep the rhythm going. Cleaning a house at the end of things is different. It's a little like cleaning your house as you move out. You can feel the soul of the house slip away as you empty and clean out room after room until you're left with the shell of what use to be a living thing that protected you for years.
Before I even stepped into my grandmother's house, as I walked through the backyard to the door, I could feel it. The soul of this house is slipping away. it's barely in the sitting room, most of it already crossed through that door while we closed our eyes and refused to see. My grandparents had this house built in the 40s. Can you imagine? As I stepped in the house yesterday, I was seeing two times at once. Technically I was looking at dirty floors, cobwebbed corners, and dusty surfaces, but what I really saw was a shining house full of simple joys and life. Have you ever seen two times at once? I don't think I can describe it any other way than that. In reality, the kitchen was dirty and dark, but I still saw the green cabinets, the vintage table in the kitchen, and my sister and I sitting at the table eating spaghetti. One of the bedrooms is now set up as a kind of living room with a TV and rocking chair, but I couldn't stop seeing the twin beds on either side of the room with the bluish green bedspreads. The dining room was the husk of what it had once been, but I can still see all of us sitting around the table for holidays. The last time we ate there, I had a feeling it would be the last time so I savored every bite. I'm so glad I was aware enough to realize I would never eat there again so that I could fix that moment in my mind.
And now. The cobwebs are swept out. The floors are scrubbed clean of years of neglect. The fan blades are free of dust. The dishes are washed. The house is ready. Death is there, waiting for his moment.
November...
And now March...
My grandmother went home on Saturday. Now it's time to deal with all those feelings of grief over the loss and relief that she is no longer bound to a broken body while also considering the joy that this is not really goodbye. It's merely an extended separation. Although my grandmother passed on Saturday afternoon, I wasn't able to allow myself to think about it too much until yesterday. As there was nothing for me to do about it for the first few days, I followed through with all the things we were already committed to. On Sunday, we went to church, then Tommy and I spent the day in downtown Charleston for his class protocol event. On Monday I sat in my son's class and watched their impromptu speeches on art. On Tuesday I tutored all day. I was beyond thankful that the storms forced all of our evening activities to be cancelled. That's not to say I was on my A game those days. Everyone got the C- version of me, but at least you can now understand why I was not quite myself the first half of the week.
Well, I guess that's it. I wrote this out a bit at time over the last seven months in the moments I was feeling ALL. THE. FEELS. That explains the over the top metaphors and similes. You're my friends so you should know this about me by now. Until next time...
Yesterday I visited my grandmother in the hospital. She is near the end of her life. All conversations about her are like a game of Taboo. We can't actually say the word "death", but that's the word on the card. Death is taking up residence in our lives again. You can feel him in the air. He's sitting in the empty chair in my grandmother's hospital room, waiting patiently but assuredly. We still talk about the future with her. Where will she live? Who will care for her? What will she do when _______ happens? It's a futile scramble to fight the natural way of things. Death sits quietly, whispering peace and stillness to the room.
He lives at my grandmother's house. Where her home was once thriving with plants and flowers in every room, it is now decaying, the flower pots full of crackly, dried up remains of what were once living. Some of them are hanging on, but they're yellowed, drooping, and weak. They're shadows of what they once were. Dust settles where it would have never dared when my grandmother was younger. Death brings sadness and a sense of inevitability, and somehow a conflicted peace. No one wants to die. Not really. No one wants to see someone they love die. I am selfish. I want her to live forever the way I remember her. She fights it in her own way. Not that she's afraid of death, but it's in our nature to fight. Even as we know that death is that proverbial doorway that we all must step through, it's hard to boldly walk into a darkened room, trusting that the light will come on once your foot crosses the threshold. What if it doesn't? What if it's nothing? What if we were wrong all those years believing in everlasting life. This feels real. I can see it. Smell it. Touch it. I can't see Heaven. I hope those people that I love that have gone before me are waiting, but what if they're not. What if they're simply gone? Like I will be one day. Like my grandmother will be soon.
I clean my house all the time. Well, okay. Not all the time. Enough of the time to not live in squalor. Sometimes when I go to my friend's house, I'll clean her kitchen or help with her laundry. If I'm at my mom's house, I might pick up a room or wash dishes. It's not something I think much about, I just do it. It's part of the life in the house. The house feels alive, and I am merely stepping in to do the thing that needs to be done to keep the rhythm going. Cleaning a house at the end of things is different. It's a little like cleaning your house as you move out. You can feel the soul of the house slip away as you empty and clean out room after room until you're left with the shell of what use to be a living thing that protected you for years.
Before I even stepped into my grandmother's house, as I walked through the backyard to the door, I could feel it. The soul of this house is slipping away. it's barely in the sitting room, most of it already crossed through that door while we closed our eyes and refused to see. My grandparents had this house built in the 40s. Can you imagine? As I stepped in the house yesterday, I was seeing two times at once. Technically I was looking at dirty floors, cobwebbed corners, and dusty surfaces, but what I really saw was a shining house full of simple joys and life. Have you ever seen two times at once? I don't think I can describe it any other way than that. In reality, the kitchen was dirty and dark, but I still saw the green cabinets, the vintage table in the kitchen, and my sister and I sitting at the table eating spaghetti. One of the bedrooms is now set up as a kind of living room with a TV and rocking chair, but I couldn't stop seeing the twin beds on either side of the room with the bluish green bedspreads. The dining room was the husk of what it had once been, but I can still see all of us sitting around the table for holidays. The last time we ate there, I had a feeling it would be the last time so I savored every bite. I'm so glad I was aware enough to realize I would never eat there again so that I could fix that moment in my mind.
And now. The cobwebs are swept out. The floors are scrubbed clean of years of neglect. The fan blades are free of dust. The dishes are washed. The house is ready. Death is there, waiting for his moment.
November...
I
went to visit my grandmother a few times this weekend, and it was
unsettling. Old age is shocking to see because no matter how much I
know that her body is failing, I can't keep that image in my head. I
see her as she was when I was growing up. Always busy, moving around
her kitchen, working in the garden, hanging laundry on the line in
the sunshine. To see her finally settled in a nursing home is
difficult. Seeing how frail her body has become simply doesn't
match the soul I know lives inside of her.
And
now we're dealing with hospice and in that awful waiting period
between life and death. She's more existing now, waiting until she
can go home where she will be free. It feels like holding your
breath.We try to enjoy the time we have left, but as I wrote before,
death is in the room. He waits patiently for his moment. He is
invisible, but palpable.
And now March...
My grandmother went home on Saturday. Now it's time to deal with all those feelings of grief over the loss and relief that she is no longer bound to a broken body while also considering the joy that this is not really goodbye. It's merely an extended separation. Although my grandmother passed on Saturday afternoon, I wasn't able to allow myself to think about it too much until yesterday. As there was nothing for me to do about it for the first few days, I followed through with all the things we were already committed to. On Sunday, we went to church, then Tommy and I spent the day in downtown Charleston for his class protocol event. On Monday I sat in my son's class and watched their impromptu speeches on art. On Tuesday I tutored all day. I was beyond thankful that the storms forced all of our evening activities to be cancelled. That's not to say I was on my A game those days. Everyone got the C- version of me, but at least you can now understand why I was not quite myself the first half of the week.
Well, I guess that's it. I wrote this out a bit at time over the last seven months in the moments I was feeling ALL. THE. FEELS. That explains the over the top metaphors and similes. You're my friends so you should know this about me by now. Until next time...
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