Hello, I am bringing you today what I have titled Life, Interrupted. As I have being recording my podcast episodes and developing my series on Thanatology, death got in the way. I kind of got knocked around a bit in the past couple of weeks but nothing like my friends who lost loved ones in this past two weeks. I felt I could not continue bringing you podcasts without acknowledging their losses.
Here we go. I had known of a friend who’d lost her parent a few weeks back. I did what I thought would be neighborly and sent her a card. I wanted to see her face to face but we did not connect. Then we did. I was able to ask how she was doing. She told me about her other parent’s death a couple of days before. My mouth dropped open. That doesn’t happen to me often, but it was wide open. I asked to hug her, and she accepted my embrace. I had no words. We were able to talk a bit, and I let her explain the event leading to her parent’s passing. I offered some help for travel, house watching, etc. When it felt right, I took my leave. Then another friend told me of her parent’s death that morning, then another was in the hospital that evening and died the following day. Then another call came to me, informing me of a death. How could I possibly continue my podcast series about death and dying and not acknowledge what was going on around me? That seemed like a callous ignorance of all this loss. Death interrupted my talking about death! It forced me to stop and pay attention. Then it occurred to me that I could use this very medium I have been using to discuss dying and death in a manner that might help me, and you, process when death interrupts your day-to-day life.
Let me share a story of life, interrupted. I wanted to trim the geraniums. They were tired and their blooms were shriveling. Man, I wanted to spend my Saturday dead-heading those geraniums. As I gazed out the kitchen window at those plants, I thought of my dad, at the end of his road, having been told there was no further treatment option available for his cancer. He was going to die soon. Precisely when, of course, we could not know.
As I mentioned in a previous episode titled My First Mistake, I recalled the missed opportunities to really be with my mom. I can’t say I had learned from those missed opportunities from my mom’s end of life yet but, that day, looking out that window, the thought occurred to me that my dad did not have much time left. Those geraniums? They had old blooms, sure, but their stems and leaves were vibrant green and full of life. Life. For how long, I could not know. What I did know was that I needed to make the trip and be with my dad, to seek forgiveness and clarity, confirmation of his love for me, say last thoughts, hear his last pieces of life advice, express my love for him. I was then and I now still am so grateful I did not let that opportunity pass me by. I carry that in my heart now. It is something I keep because I don’t want to forget to take those opportunities, to say what needs to be said, to see whom I need to see, to sit with someone I care about, or spend time with someone who needs my time and my attention and my heart.
Because we cannot know when they, or I, will be gone.
We make plans, go to work, run our errands, watch our kids at their sporting events and dance classes, all those activities that make us so very busy. Life is so busy, with so many distractions. Then the phone rings. Then a friend is crying on the other end. A walk to the mailbox brings a neighbor looking so tired, knowing they’ve suffered so much loss and I have nothing to say that can take away their grief. Death is an interruption. It’s the kind of interruption that stops all that busyness, even if just for a second. For the one crying, so tired, so sad, filled with grief and a broken heart, it’s way more than a second. It is a life turned upside down; a gaping hole where that loved one who died once occupied space. Their loved-one’s life has stopped—forever.
I am in the middle of my Thanatology podcast series, probably not even halfway yet, but Grief interrupted me. As I took the phone calls, said the prayers, gave hugs, sent food or flowers, spent time with those folks to bring even the tiniest bit of comfort, my busyness was put on hold. This series was put on hold. I could not imagine going forward recording a podcast as though I had not received those sad pieces of news from people I care about and calls from friends and loved ones. There were so many interruptions this past two weeks, they began to feel like blows to my own heart, my own mind. My mind became filled with thoughts of those I love, and how I could be helpful, to ease their burden, to take on tasks or bring a meal so that those would be fewer items they needed to think about in their sadness, with sometimes completely overfilled minds.
Have you ever walked with someone who received that call out of the blue, sharing the shocking news no one wants to hear—that death interrupted their life, forever? That loved one was not ill. They died suddenly, without forewarning. They were doing their life, running their errands, going to work, like they did everyday—until that day. If you have walked with someone in this situation, then you know how muddled their thinking becomes. Some cannot eat, shower, wash their laundry, or put sentences together coherently. They may take to their bed. They may plunge into work. We cannot predict how that sort of interruption will affect the ones we love. Will bringing a meal suddenly put their sadness into perspective, or brighten their day? Not likely, but we do these things so we can be helpful. We say words to try to be a comfort. In my experience, none of that “works” for anything. In fact, after my mom died, I felt myself having to say “thank you” when I didn’t want any of it. I found myself comforting people for my loss! What was that???!! I was the one who just lost my mom! It seemed easier to accept the offers of help or tokens of love rather than explain why all I wanted was to reverse the clock and be where I was before she died.
Is it better to know the death is coming? Maybe. It is still an interruption, much like when a baby is due to be born. We know approximately when that may happen but the baby usually decides when it is time. Death happens that way, too. Sure, we have professionals who can determine a person’s proximity to death, can tell when a patient is transitioning to active dying, and our obstetricians and midwives can do that through measuring the cervix and timing contractions, etc. But, there is no guarantee that any of those factors will be 100% accurate. So we wait. We check in on the pregnant woman or the dying person, asking about their symptoms, how they are feeling, whether their appetite is stable and they’re staying hydrated. I watched my parents’ breathing, read Hospice booklets about symptoms, quizzed the nurses after each visit, and waited. Any slight change from the day before could have meant death was imminent. For me, it felt like I was halfway holding my breath. I stopped many normal daily activities and informed my employers and my kids’ teachers that any day soon my kids may be absent from school and to be ready to provide homework so could they do it at home.
On one particular day I had been talking with a friend about my mother’s situation, planning my next drive and arranging child care during my absence from home. A call came in—Interruption. A family member who had been briefly ill had died. Just like that. It was a blow. Boy, did I love that person. I had considered that person so special in my life. He was gone. I had spoken to him a couple of weeks prior to his illness. We were sarcastically joking with one another, as we did, and then he was gone. That was it. Even the vigils at my mom’s home were interrupted. This interruption was not welcome. But it came anyway. I had no choice but to stop, pay attention, and grieve that loss.
I wish I could say I have tips for any of you who will be interrupted. I am so sorry that I do not. This is not the type of interruption I can take in stride, like when someone at work needs a report now, before I complete the report currently underway. I have to stop, pay attention to what I’ve heard, and consider how to do the next thing, whatever that is. Sometimes I know, but not usually. Each interruption is different: as different as each relationship.
When the barrage came on in the past couple of weeks, I was forced to pay attention. Because of geraniums. Because they would still be there even when my dad would not for much longer. Because my mom begged for time with me and I couldn’t give it. I have gotten better since then and continue to work at being better for all the interruptions since the death of my parents and other loved ones. It has taken a lot of time away from my work, my errands, my “me time”, etc., but, for the one who has just experienced the death of their loved one, my interruption is like the geraniums. It is a small interruption in my life, when the Interruption my friend or coworker or family member is experiencing is forcing them to stop and pay attention. They now must sort through the questions in their mind about how that relationship was for them, maybe examine where mistakes or missed opportunities took precious time away from those relationships, or robbed them of the chance to reconcile a broken relationship or ask clarifying questions, or say I love you, do you love me? I found myself grossly inadequate to bring comfort to all who were interrupted recently, and I would be a megalomanic to think I could be the only comforter to make a difference for someone in grief, so the best I could do and can do is to be present, pay attention, cook a meal, send flowers, or write a card. Sometimes that can be enough. Sometimes it can be too much. I hope I can tell the difference and, when I can’t, I hope they’ll understand and not feel they have to comfort me because I wasn’t able to tell the difference.
Lastly, to those people I care about who have lost someone special in their lives recently, my heart is with you. My prayers continue. I am here to listen and sit when you feel ready. Thank you for sharing your life with me.
I will resume our look into Thanatology next week. That doesn’t mean grief stops, it just means life goes on, and I will work while I grieve and remember those lives that ended over the past couple of weeks. If you would like to discuss any portion of today’s message, please reach out to me at [email protected] or send me a note at grimtea.com. This is why I talk to you each week—my topics are relevant to my life and how I talk about death and dying, and I’d like to read whatever you might have on your mind about it as well. Till next time, take care.