Aging, Death, and Winning

Over the past few years I've found myself with ample opportunities to spend time with people who were in the last years of living. I've observed; I've asked; I've listened;  It's been quite an education.

We're a funny bunch, us humans. The one sure thing in our lives is that we will die. Most of us don't know when or how we will end but -- pretty much as soon as we can fathom -- we learn that our earthly, physical life is temporary. And yet when we learn of someone's passing, we are shocked -- often followed with "why?". "He was so young". "She was such a good person..." Our denial runs deep.

People of all ages fall off every day -- some instantly, accidentally, intentionally, and others stalked by illness and disease. And if we are really lucky, and dodge the aforementioned, we have the privilege of growing old. If we get to be old, it means we've depleted and squeezed the maximum usage out of our bodies and completed this race we call life. We're winners.

And what is the prize for being a winner? Mmmm - tough question. Old people have suffered a lifetime of accumulated losses: parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, spouses, colleagues and friends. Imagine being the sole survivor of your generation in your family; not having anyone alive who remembers you as a child or at your youthful peak. Imagine that the people in your life have only known your wrinkles and ailments - and not the energy and accomplishments of your younger self. No wonder old people get cranky! I'm getting cranky just writing about it!

When we see an older person it's easy to forget that behind that crusty mask of age is someone with a lifetime of experiences; who flirted and courted and fell in love; who had dreams and hardships and triumphs; and who never imagined that they too would be old some day. And to add to the frustration, old people have a lifetime of wisdom to share - and a small audience who seek it.

In many cultures around the world and in our own aboriginal communities, old people are revered as "elders" -  mentors and living examples of deeply ingrained principles, values and teachings. I am fortunate that in my family -- my tribe -- there is a shared respect, responsibility and appreciation for our elders. We smother them with love and affection and take every opportunity to  express our feelings as not to leave anything unsaid. Come to think of it, not too much of anything is left unsaid in our family -- and that's a good thing!

So if I haven't depressed the hell out of you about growing older and old -- I suppose I am suggesting that you focus on that which you can affect -- your attitude towards aging and the aged. I for one have my eye on the prize and if I get the chance to grow old and a little crusty - I will be grateful for a lifetime full of all that I created for myself. And in the meantime, I'm going to make it my mission that the elders in our tribe are happy to still be in the race!

Rituals

Within the space of one week I have been to two funerals and two birthday celebrations - milestones from opposite ends of the spectrum. But it has me thinking about our rituals.

Although both funerals were held in churches, they couldn't have been more different - one was filled with music and soaring voices, expressed grief, and jubilation for a life well lived; the other was somber and restrained, consisting mainly of biblical inspired comfort and congregational hymn singing. Both, I suspect, offered the grieving families the solace they needed.

There seems to be a growing trend of people choosing not to have funeral services or commemorative services. I can think of at least three incidences in which the families did not do anything other than have the body cremated.There was no public invitation to say final goodbyes; no chance for far away family to gather to collectively remember. And the saddest part, no opportunity for the family to learn what their loved ones meant to others; to the world. I think without rituals and traditions we lose important opportunities to come together as community and family for sharing, grieving and healing.

Doesn't each and every life lived deserved to be celebrated and honoured? And so it is with our famjam birthday celebrations. Some have said that we make too big a deal out of birthdays but I couldn't disagree more. These milestones are building blocks of family memories and opportunities to celebrate, visit, feel loved and cherished... and heaven knows that in these hectic times, it is a challenge to pull everyone together.

Doesn't each and every life lived deserved to be celebrated and honoured? For one thing is for certain, in some way - big or small -  the world is changed because they walked the earth.

Celebrations

We said our final goodbye in a church packed to the rafters with family, chosen family and church family. We celebrated the life and sung the praises of this tough lady, and sung our hearts out to her favourite sacred music. It was a rousing, inspirational, spiritually uplifting home-going. Words were said; tears were shed. As the pastor (her son) so wisely articulated, he was not sorry (for his loss) - he was sad. And so it was on a sunny Saturday in November, after 91 years of hardships and triumphs, that this fine lady was put to rest, and her beloved sons and their families gathered on the curb to watch the hearse roll slowly out of sight. Another chapter closed.

And later that same day, the tribe congregated to eat cake! Family came from far and near to fulfill my eldest daughter's birthday wish to be immersed in the love of her family to commemorate her thirty-year milestone. I tried in vain to get a female superhero (she likes that stuff) put on her cake but they were fresh out. So she played the starring role as superhero on her own cake, and in the end, it was far more fitting. Her party was a team effort, decorated with sisterly love, and served up in true famjam style. Words were said; tears were shed, and we celebrated the woman she has become. She glowed - and her happiness showed.

And so it goes... celebrating life.

Preparations

Life is circular - no straight lines here!  It indiscriminately serves up doses of pain and delight, devastation and celebration,  laughter and tears - often at the same sitting. And so it is today as I cook, clean, and wrap in readiness for the birthday party I am hosting for my daughter's 30th birthday that we are holding on the very same day we put a cherished elder in the family to rest. It feels like I have a foot in two worlds... grief and jubilation; an ending and a milestone of life.

And even though it seems somehow awkward or out of order, it really is just a testament to life. The pendulum of emotion swings rich at either end of the spectrum. It does not pause, but rather, is in constant dynamic motion while we do our best to handle whatever it dishes up. But it does not stop.

So while we celebrate a life well lived and say our final goodbyes, so too must we celebrate a life being well-lived. The common denominator for me is the presence of family. Through the hardships and euphoria, sickness and health, births and deaths as well as the mundane daily occurrences. it is the support and presence of family - the precious circle of loved ones - that add colour and purpose to my life.

There is so much to celebrate. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Witness

We accept that which we cannot
control, understand, or change.
Life is a course we must navigate - wrought with both
uncharted perils and incredible vistas.

And if by chance, or the grace of our Creator
we live every moment allotted us;
squeeze every molecule of life out of our earthly body,
the end may not be glorious.

For a body that, for more than ninety years,
has served as trusty vessel for spirit that has
soared across abyss and weathered swells and storms
finally wearies, and bears the scars of every voyage.

The end, like the beginning, is a process.
Death - like birth - is not to be hurried or coaxed.
And sometimes, bearing witness to suffering and unspeakable pain,
Bears unspeakable pain and suffering for the beholder.

And sometimes, the remedy for the soul departing
and the onlooker is the same:
love expressed; tender whispers, and hand held close,
And for we who escort their loved ones to the precipice of their eternity
it is nothing less than a privilege -  for which I am truly grateful.

Sitting Vigil

Hubby's grandmother is a fighter - all four feet ten inches of her. She has spent the past four days with her willpower tightly clenched around life, defying medical reason, going out just as she lived - on her own terms. No use leading her to the light... she'll let go when she is good and ready.

We tried to offer MIH some respite - she has been holding a one woman vigil, unwilling to leave her mother's side just in case she would pass away alone. When we arrived, MIH was dressed in a flamboyant turquoise outfit of blouse and capri pants. Apparently they let her shower at the residence and the only clean clothes at her disposal were her mother's. Hilarious when you realize that my MIH is at least five foot nine or ten and her mother is under five feet tall - hence the "capris". Yes, there is still humour to be found in the hallowed halls of nursing homes and bedside at deathbeds.

Nana was no longer resting peacefully - but rather, waking up after only short naps bewildered and distressed. Her squeals of terror were jarring and it took MIH's constant reassuring and kisses to convince her that she was safe. Not our idea of "making her comfortable".

And so the cycle continues. The end of our lives is very similar to the beginning. Helping someone die is reminiscent of child birth with its excruciating pain and unpredictability. And it's something you have to go through to get through. At the other end: bitter-sweetness. In death there will be no baby, but there will be a life to celebrate.

The Long Goodbye

Hands of love from MIH

The room is dimly lit. And by your side, in a soft chair fit for your diminutive height, is your devoted daughter.

The journey has been long – at ninety-nine years - longer than most. We’ve watched as bits of you slowly fell away, and you fell into yourself. Alzheimer’s is cruel that way; it robs the family of the familiar and imposes a long, painful, reluctant goodbye.

And painful it has been; your rage against your aging and loss of independence ever-present, simmering barely beneath the surface; your daughter braving smiles and brandishing hugs as you ask her where your daughter is…

Pound for pound you are the strongest and feistiest woman I’ve known. You like things done your way, and you have always been a lady who knows exactly what she wants. And you have been fighting to live.

And now, as the time for final farewells draws nearer, you surrender to peace. The rigid line of your jaw relaxes, and your eyes finally close and your body relaxes into deep slumber.

And in a soft chair, fit for your diminutive height, sits your devoted daughter, by your side, to usher you lovingly to your eternity.

Much love to my dear MIH.

EmOTi0nAL MaSh-UP

You think you have it all worked out -- how to integrate the mounting losses into your daily life; how to choose to be grateful for the people you still have around you - loving you, supporting you, and reminding you why it's great to be alive. You choose to see the glass half full and count blessings, and not that which, or whom, you do not have.

And that is what I do, that is, until I get ambushed while running on the treadmill and "Back Home Again" starts playing on my mp3 player, triggering the slideshow of past performances of that song, morphing my joyful bout of singing-with-wild-abandonment-like-no-one-can-hear-you to sobs. It comes from nowhere, this overwhelming, gut-wrenching grief for everyone who cradled my childhood in love and cocooned me with the security and unconditional acceptance that is my big, remarkable family.

Scenes of my after dinner family sing-songs, Uncle Arlen playing his faithful guitar, taking requests or surprising us with, "I have a tune I think you'll like"; my mom (alto) and her sister Mugs (soprano) singing harmony with their brother and the rest of us providing choral support as we sat at their feet. Inevitably, we  got around to the family anthem, Back Home Again by John Denver, and inevitably, Uncle Arlen would get a twinkle in his eye, wink and smile as he sang "it's the sweetest thing I know of, just spending time with you".

Those moments, shared by us all, were cohesive strips binding us together. Back then, it never occurred to me that these moments were rare gifts made from a recipe of seasonal ingredients.

And so today was an emotional mash-up. I still see the faces and smiles of those who have gone before me, and more importantly, I still feel their love. And my heart still yearns to hold them. But wherever their unearthly spirits landed after their heavy earthly armor released them, I hope they found one another, and that they know they mattered and are missed. Love is eternal, and does not die.
-----------------------

And yes that was my egg that exploded in the microwave, and yes, my sobbing made me lose track of time thereby resulting in me exceeding my exercise goals. Whatever works ... thanks Mom.

Passages

He had a place at our table for holidays, famjams and even not so special occasions. He was not married; he didn't have children of his own; and if he had someone special in his life, we never met them. And apart from his beloved dog and cats, and his lovely little mother, we were his adopted family - one of several. His friends were his chosen family.

He tagged along on family vacations. He had a way of being there without taking up space. He blended seamlessly  into the tapestry of our family life, celebrating milestones and sharing the painful times. He was a listening ear for my mother, a loyal friend to my father and a kind and generous person to everyone he met. He was the first to volunteer - for anything - and filled in the gaps with his quiet, unassuming demeanor.

And last Sunday, after church, he died suddenly. And as my father put it so succinctly, another door closed.

He will be missed.

Living and Leaving

I just missed him by ten minutes. I called to say happy birthday to my father-in-law but he had already left for work. He's not one for long phone chats or alot of fussing but he does enjoy having his family about. However he's working all weekend so the celebration will wait for a week.

Gear shift. My ex-father-in-law passed away yesterday at the age of 92. My girls were understandably upset;  and as with Jewish custom, he was put to rest today. Amid swirling snow and frigid temperatures we formed a circle around the freshly dug grave and watched the solid wood casket adorned with the carved Star of David disappear slowly into the ground. We tossed poppies into the grave to commemorate his military service as the rabbi chanted in Hebrew. Then came the final and most difficult obligation -- to bury the dead. Each one of us took our turn at shovelling dirt from the pile onto the casket. It was a jarring sight, driving home the finality of death. I watched as his estranged son poured four shovelfuls into the hole -- one for he and his wife and for each of his sons, both of whom were not present, nor who were known to their grandfather. It was a heart wrenching sight. Were there regrets; words left unsaid? Would he find peace?

My daughter and I drove home in a blizzard, processing this ritual of death, discussing customs and these rituals that we cling to to ease us through this labyrinth that is our life.

Hubby just handed me the phone with a smile; my father-in-law was on the other end. My FIL joked that he and his son had run out of words in their conversation .... and then proceeded to chatter (uncharacteristically) about his day and all of the birthday wishes he received. He was clearly touched that his brothers had reached out to him and that he had heard from his loved ones. We agreed that a year lived was something that deserved celebrating. And so we will.

Today was a day of celebrating my father in laws --

one - a long life well lived, the return of his body from where it came, and the leaving of his spirit from this earth, and

the other - a year of life and milestone birthday (cheque is in the mail!)

Goodbye. You were loved.  Happy birthday. You are loved by many.

Life is a twisted yarn of irony, surprises, and mysteries. And that is what makes it worth living. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Peculiarly Circular

Life is peculiarly circular.

When we are born, we emerge from loins of pain, and similarly, when we exit we leave a labyrinth of pain for our loved ones to navigate.
We welcome triumphantly the birth of a new life, and we celebrate the life that has been lived, but is no more.

Tears, pain, and love in doses we can barely handle - at either end. Funny, similar, familiar feelings at polar opposite ends of the life spectrum.

Life is so peculiarly circular.

Musical Good-bye

I expected it to be difficult - even gut wrenching. Funerals are like that. But the moment that kicked open the floodgates was when my little friend took her place in front of the piano to honour her departed husband. She poured her anguish and love into every note of her powerful musical good bye. Her body followed her hands racing up and down the keyboard, and as she reached the segue in the piece she took a big breath, her face wrenched in utter grief, tears rolling down her cheeks - before plunging powerfully into the change up.

The notes sang her reluctant farewell to the husband who she loved for more than 24 years. And after she was finished, the room erupted into spontaneous applause.

You did good Mouse.

Circle

I stand in the church, head bowed, gripping the pew in front of me. The congregation is praying as instructed by the priest, but my eyes are open, my stare alternating from the popping veins in my hands to the draped casket parked at the foot of the alter.

It is the funeral of my friend's father. It is the first loss they are experiencing as a family; a parade of bewildered eyes, profound, stoic sadness and blank faces as they follow the casket of their beloved. My heart aches for them, and then my heart aches for me. My mind takes a travel back to another time and space. Another loss of profound sadness. Another reluctant goodbye.

I retrace the final days leading up to the impromptu meeting with "the team". The moment when the medical wizards looked at me with collective sympathetic eyes and told me that there was nothing left to be done; that my family and me should start preparing ourselves. I remember smiling, nodding and politely thanking them for all they had done. I remember my body executing the proper social graces as my mind raced with my heart in close contention. I was weightless, unable to connect with my physical self as my thoughts operated erratically - independently.

I fast forward the memory to the final hours of her life. The phone call in the middle of the night ... "your mother is experiencing acute respiratory distress ..." . The panicked drive to the hospital with my family. The horrific sound of laboured breathing greeting us as the elevator doors opened. The look of hopelessness in my mother's eyes as they inserted chest tubes.

It was over. My optimism was brutally invaded by the realization that the end was waiting in the wings -- and the doctor's hand on my shoulder confirmed the worst.

And in the end -- the very end, we formed a ring of love around our angel. She opened her eyes one final time, and blinked when we asked her if she was going. And bathed in pink glowing light, she passed over. We felt it. As she departed, she gave us a final gift - a millisecond of utter bliss and peace - and we knew she was free.

It had been easy to finally let her go. It was like childbirth; pain greater than anything I had ever endured, followed by a flood of emotion, and finally - a lifechanging moment as special as one can be.

Since my mother's passing, at every funeral I attend, I retrace as others pray. But the important lesson I garnered from the experience of ushering my mom to her eternity, was that there are things worse than death; and that death can be the beautiful, bittersweet closure of the circle that is life.

Flash Flood

It came up out of nowhere
like it usually does
driving on the highway
away from the sunset
radio singing
me along with it.

A flash flood of memory
your anguished face and pain
wild eyes and panicked breathing
emblazoned on my brain
I wanted you to stay ...

They came up out of no where
like they usually do
driving on the highway
away from the sunset
tears flowing,
my heart breaking
along with them ...

What Would They Say ...

I am sitting, laptop in lap, watching the Ted Kennedy's memorial service on CNN. As the parade of political colleagues, friends and family take the podium, it is fascinating to hear what qualities and stories about Teddy that they choose to share. There is a common thread ... his humanity, his booming laughter, his countless gestures of empathy and generosity, his love of family and his expressions of love. He is living proof that we do not have to become our mistakes and poor judgement - but rather we can choose at any time to become the best version of ourselves.

I imagine that tomorrow the political pundits will focus more on his political record and his personal scandals. But what is evident is that one's lasting legacy is what we have meant to others; what kind of friend we were; the love we expressed; the laughter shared and smiles; the hearts we warmed; our acts of kindness ...

I have lost a few special people, and I can tell you that the things I remember about them have little to do with their vocation or station in life. Instead, it is the warmth of their voices, the love and hugs I received, their listening ear, their unconditional, unwavering support.

It makes me wonder what about my own legacy. How have I treated others? What have I given - has it been enough? What would they would say ...

I think I have some work to do ... but for now, I will listen as "The Impossible Dream" is sung (one of my favourite songs ... something to do with it being one of the few pieces that I got to play some melody on my baritone in band).

Photo Credit: http://www.latitude38.com/

Saying Good Bye

Photo courtesy of Uncle A's Christmas Greeting 2008

Tomorrow we are heading over to the funeral of our uncle who passed away this week. It is resurrecting old memories and blurry flashbacks to the time when my mom passed. He is her little brother ... a young uncle to me -- just 11 years older. And we shared our birthday -- something that I always felt was our secret little bond.

I do not want to get to the end of my life
and find that I just lived the length of it.
I want to have lived the width of it as well.

- Diane Ackerman

He passed suddenly, without warning, leaving behind a family in shock, grief and disbelief. He was a musical man, and all of our family get-togethers ended in him playing his guitar and leading a sing song. He would laugh as he played when we missed - despite trying so hard (in vain) to hit - those high notes. He was like a medicine man with his bag of tricks -- he could pull the perfect tune out for for every occasion. "Here's a tune I think you'll like!"

His voice was soothing and gentle and he sang in a high register ... like his beloved hero Gordon Lightfoot. He provided the musical soundtrack for my childhood and I think my family would agree.

It has seemed like an eternity since getting the news from my aunt last Monday. Tomorrow we will gather to say our final goodbyes. On this past birthday during our annual ritual call, he told me that he thought that at most he had another good five years in him. None of his siblings who had passed before him had survived 65 and he was concerned that his genes would dictate an early exit. He was right. He said then that he hoped that when his card was pulled that he would go with a drink in one hand and his guitar in the other. And I think he pretty much did.

Tomorrow we will celebrate the fun and joy he brought to the lives of all who knew him. We will recount his devilish little stories and grieve for the laughter and songs we won't hear anymore.

Holes and Spaces

Holes. Spaces. Little empty places.
When people we love and care about leave us, their passing leaves a permanent void.

I still feel the space that my mom used to fill -- and although it may sound odd, it is not painful. It gives me comfort and I never want it filled ... it is a placeholder for the love she gave and the place that only she occupied. Not a bad thing ... just a fact. We all leave little holes (if we are lucky) if we have meant something special to someone.

The threads of our relationships and family bonds weave a delicate fabric. Death can unravel, snag the thread. And our weathered tapestry is a testament to the depth and richness of our life.

Holes. Spaces. Little empty places.
Little gaps we can't replace. Nor would we want to.

Hushed

the last verse has been sung
gentle strumming and sweet refrain
the light is slowly dimming
the curtains drawing to a close
and although an encore is applauded
the set has ended
spirit - departed.
we won't hear his song
anymore.

dedicated to my uncle R.A.S, 1949-2009

Adding to the MJ Saturation

A week later and TV is still saturated with Michael Jackson coverage. It is as if we are collectively examining his life, searching for answers, working through issues - trying to understand the man and his life. We are conflicted ... awestruck by his talent, shocked by his morphing appearance, confused by his lifestyle and saddened by what seemed to be a desperately lonely, damaged man struggling to handcraft his own personal family, his private source of unconditional love.

Some say he passed before his time. But there is nothing that says how long, long is. As a means of survival we cling to the notion that we each have a full measure -- 80 or 90 years to spend. But I think we live exactly as long as we are supposed to. We don't always understand "why him" or " why now" but it could be that once we have learned the lessons we need, evolved or served the purpose we were meant fulfill, life is fulfilled.

Our obsession with the superstar whose life and death was an enigma has more to do with our own disbelief that life can be snuffed out so suddenly, and to someone who seemed larger than life. And the sad casualty of all of this is his little handmade family - his children.

The takeaway from this sad tale ... prepare for our deaths; make arrangements for our children as well as our estate. And share this information with our families. Meet the inevitable head on and demystify it.

Let's hope his family finds peace.

Stages and Change

My uncle passed away this morning. He lived on the other side of the country and I didn't really know him very well ... not personally, that is. I have had glimpses of him in the tales my father tells about their childhood and through the news I hear from my aunt and dad. My uncle was unwell and even as part of a very large family, it was mainly my aunt and dad who kept in touch with him. He and my aunt spoke on the phone several times a day; they were both pretty much housebound and shared their mutual love of hockey. A poignant relationship formed later in life. A gift to one another.

How hard it must be to live to the point in your life when you start losing your siblings. My brother and sisters hold my history and if the day comes that I lose one of them, pieces of me will go with them. A life shared: secrets, mischief, adventures, triumphs, tribulations, firsts, milestones, who we were ...

So tonight I am holding my father in my heart and sending him loving thoughts. I think of my aunt who is missing her evening call to her brother. Life is forever changed for them. And change is inevitable - for all of us.