“Those who are in search of the sea should follow the river.”
― Vikrant Parsai
My mother died twenty-five years ago. And now my father is gone too.
I’ve been to a crazy amount of funerals, but it is only during each of my parent’s deaths that I actually participated. By participated, I mean I was beside them during their last days on earth.
This hardly makes me an expert on death. But through these experiences, I have come to realize that death is a communal endeavour: we all share in the experience and no one is left unchanged.
I used to think it was terribly sad if someone died with no one by their side. Neither of my parents died alone. But I now believe it wouldn’t have been so bad if they had.
It strikes me that the journey to death is our last and hardest trip; an epic pilgrimage that takes everything we have left, and then, finally, demands our last breath. Like any pilgrimage, it doesn’t matter how many people surround us, ultimately it’s an undertaking we can only do on our own.
Being on the outside and watching that journey unfold is not easy. But it feels like a necessary privilege. It is simultaneously heart-wrenchingly hard and also a beautiful honour to bear witness to the experience.
For some of us, death will be quick and unexpected, for others it will be a long slow declining. Then again, there are as many variations on how to die, as there are on how to live.
But no matter how or when we make that final trip, it is the ones who stand outside and watch that feel helpless and alone. The person dying is too busy using all their last energies to summit that final peak.
It is obvious to me that leaving this world is as traumatic as entering it. The death canal that Dad entered was no less real by being invisible.
I feel blessed to have been part of my father’s good death. He was lovingly cared for until the end. There were no invasive heroic measures. There was time to say goodbye and time to grieve his going. There was time to hold him and each other and to feel the love in that room.
But in the end he had to do it on his own. I’m sure he could feel our love, but I believe too, that if no one had physcially been there, he still would have felt our caring.
As the wonderful Pastor Janzen said after my mother died, “She left on a river of love and has entered an ocean.”
I’ve decided that while I’m still here on this river called life, I have only one task; to pay attention to what is right in front of me and to love.
It is up to we the living to ensure that we live our best lives, and a best life is an appreciative, grateful and loving one.
There is something inherently liberating in being derailed by grief. I am learning to be kinder and gentler to myself, to lower my expectations of what needs to be accomplished in a day.
I find myself sitting on benches and enjoying the sun warming my shoulders. I have been napping. Reading in the middle of the day. I feel less rushed, less compelled to get things done and more able to just be with whatever is happening.
Quite frankly, I feel I’ve gained the wisdom of how to live like a cat.
Maybe grief is a good thing…
Great post. For me, I usually experience a stage sometime after the shock of a loss when everything feels more alive. No fog of pettiness or depression. No dust of despair. Grief as an emotional cleaning lady. Perhaps there is a time when it is OK to appropriate the phrase “Good Grief” – but as you show, it does require living like a cat, and taking time for sun on shoulders. Good on yah.
Dear Sharon.
I came home from my sweaty run/walk this morning. I had gathered a fistful of feathers along the way. They made me smile. I walked past the crime scene from the shooting at Science World and thanked the groups of police for their service. I chatted with a little girl being pushed in a stroller by her mother. She showed me her sparkly shoes and her pebble and I showed her my feathers.
I got home, vacuumed, washed the floor and realized, “Wait a minute. I’m happy! In fact, I feel positively effeverescent!”
And then, I opened this comment from you and read, ‘Grief as an emotional cleaning lady.’
It seems, I am scrubbed clean.
Perhaps ‘good grief’ is like our favourite oxymoron, a ‘good cry’?
Right now, right here, in this moment…life is good.
Good 4 u !! Learning 2 live in the moment is a difficult task 4 those of us raised in such a staunch (Mennonite, Lutheran) environment. Please accept our condolences!
Enjoy ur blogs whenever I get a chance 2 read them. Keep on writing.
Hello Ruby & Richard. You’re right. Living in the moment is really is a difficult task for most and the Mennonite guilt of not constantly having ‘something to show for yourself’ is one I continually struggle with. Thanks for your encouragement.
Dear Colleen, sorry we couldn’t make it to the funeral, but hope you could feel our love and caring. I really missed getting together with you and the family to honour and celebrate Uncle Hank’s life. Christine missed seeing the “Dyck Chicks” … hope that brings a smile to your face. Hugs.
Dear Martha, I know he mattered to you and I could definitely feel your love. And Christine’s Dyck Chicks reference (which definitely made me smile), makes me think we need to schedule one soon. Stay tuned.
We’re not exactly the Dixie Chicks … but so close O:-)
Beautiful, Colleen. I’m sending lots of hugs your way.
Thanks Sharry. I’m feeling very hugged 🙂
So beautiful, Colleen. A good reminder to all of us.
Thanks Gwen. I think I write these things as a reminder to future self…
…so beautifully said, Colleen.
Thanks Dee Dee. I’m hoping the lessons I’m learning will have staying power and I’ll remember that less IS more:)
How true. Love your Blog Post Colleen.
Thanks Edna. In some strange way, grief is a gift.