Death is a Grumpy Cousin I Can't Shake

This morning was one of those times where I woke up with one sock on, one off, tangled in the sheets and crying as though my heart had just been broken – not about anything specific. Pretty much about everything: How long do I have with my old dog? Or with the pony - I am so darn attached! With my parents? They have to live forever because I don't know what I'll do without them. Why is it I live so far from my brothers and sister? Or what about my best friends - how long do we have? My circle of women is so dear to my heart. Why do dear friends move away or I have to move from them? Will my daughters overcome their health challenges? Will they survive college? It was one of those mornings where I was wide-awake when the alarm went off and I was happy to hear the alarm! The minute I got out of bed the anxiety and sadness fell away with the other sock as I attended the practical business of the body. I splashed my face with cold water to calm the salty eye-puffs.

Life has a way of tenderizing us. It’s called Death. Maybe it’s why I feel drawn to working with the grieving families at Hospice Care of Boulder and Broomfield Counties. I’m not sure I will get that placement for practicum, but I am applying. I’ve always been a depressing person – just get to know me a little better and you’ll see. Actually people who work with the dying and mourning tend to be funny. It’s why nurses are so witty (right Susan?)! It’s why my mother who was almost killed numerous times in WWII has such a wicked sense of humor, but also a deep kindness. Heck, I was even a depressing kid. At age 5 my mom would take me on a date and I would say things like: “Let’s talk about death.” Maybe she took me on dates when she was trying to lose the guy! I can’t help I got stamped with “existentialist” before being shipped onto this planet.

Then I got plopped into a family who had just come from Europe and the horrors of WWII. They had lost everything except the clothes on their back. There was a sense of underlying fear and: “It’s us against the world.” Death was a grumpy cousin we couldn’t shake. I didn’t play at other kids houses and they didn’t come to mine, unless I was at my dad's and Lynda's every other weekend, but those encounters with other kids were few and far between. I'm not sure if the other families thought we were weird Lithuanian immigrants or if my Mutti felt she couldn't trust strangers not to kidnap me. I played alone in the backyard or with my Aunt Helena who was like an older sister.

Helena would spin imaginary games for me that took us up onto the roof; she buried

crystals for me to find as part of the adventure and wrote notes that led me from one location to another on a treasure hunt. If not with her, I was playing with Pinky the big black lab. I had 5 imaginary friends who were so real to me, I introduced them to my friends when I moved to Santa Monica. I watched a lot of TV after school (Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Genie, Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, Bewitched) and then my Mutti and Papa, aunt and uncle and Mom all sat around the kitchen table for dinner. I was even allowed a “thimble-full” of beer. This was a very happy childhood that I treasure remembering - just different.

Then, frumpy, overweight kid suddenly does the swan thing and ends up fairly popular at Santa Monica High School. It was like some cosmic joke had been played on me. I hid behind my cheerleading costume, totally bewildered. Painfully shy, the facade suited me. The traditional roles gave me something to be. Parochial elementary school taught there was a right and wrong answer - none of this critical thinking stuff. I didn’t even know how to begin to form an opinion! Until I got to Santa Monica at age 11, I had been raised mostly by adults. I had never been to an overnight at a friend’s house. I didn’t even know the clapping game: “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?” I was an unsocialized Golden Retriever who had only seen other dogs through glass. I missed all the cues. I listened to classical, not rock and roll. When I did speak in high school, I was so painfully serious. But I took myself so dang seriously, because death was still a concept in my head. Intellectualizing death kept it at a safe distance. My feelings were shut down; they were too dangerous to allow out. Oh, I cried a lot, but I stuffed the deeper feelings. I had no idea how to broach anger. But when the concept of death got to my heart via heartbreak and love and loss and changes...when I had the bravery to let it move out of my head and into my heart, which came in waves from age 25 to 45, the experience was shocking and searing. Putting words to that kind of realization of impermanence is pretty much like trying to describe

a spiritual experience. Words became inadequate. When we awaken to the reality of imminent death, we can’t take anything too seriously, because tomorrow it will be different. It deepens our appreciation for the people we love and the time we have with them. Laughter heals.

The pursuit of an open heart didn’t stop at age 45, but now I’ve made peace with the idea that there are going to be mornings I cry my eyes out. It’s okay. That’s part of the deal. Sometimes I’m going to win a trip to Italy or be associated with aristocracy in England. On some level, I’m still the homely, lonely kid which causes me to appreciate others and the potential fun on earth all the more. Feelings are like the waves I body surfed. Sometimes I’m going to get rolled on the sea floor, but I’m going to stand up, crunching on sand, with more experience and exhilarated. I’m not going to stay planted on the shore telling everyone: “Don’t go in - the waves are too big!” With some discretion I’m going to dive in again. True happiness blossoms in the heart as an ongoing state of being when we can let sorrow tear through us like a hurricane and realize we will still be standing when it's over.

Excerpt from William Cullen Bryant's poem, "Thanatopsis"
So, live that when they summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach they grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.