LJ Idol, Week 4, The Elephant in the Living Room
Not only is there an elephant in the room, but it's a dead elephant. Well, slightly more accurately, it's a dying elephant, and it's probably only a matter of days before it crosses the line into whatever heaven elephants in living rooms go to. It will still be there, though. Elephants are terrible guests, because once they get in there, it's tough to get them back out.
My aunt is dying, and death has become the Great Unmentionable. People are dancing around it, and because no one will talk about it, I don't know who will be offended if I say it. I shut my mouth, pick up my skirt, and join the pachyderm polka.
No one is trying to pretend that she's going to get better. It would take more than one miracle, it would take dozens of miracles. We're just not going to say, "She's dying." "She's going to be dead soon." We say, "It's only a matter of time," and, "There will be tears before this is over." But no one will use the d-word.
For one thing, it might be bad luck. For another, it might sound as though we want her to please get on with it, already. Plus, it's just uncouth to use any form of the d-word around someone who is dying, or around their family and friends. We wouldn't want to remind them about that uncomfortable elephant.
I have been quietly mourning my aunt for over a year, because the last time I was able to go east to see her, she was clearly on a downward slide that wasn't going to have a matching uphill slope. I haven't been flinging myself into the grave, just thinking about her and being sad that our good times are over.
Now, however, it is clear that she's likely to die in the next few weeks, and I need to cry. Among other things, while it's going to be fine to cry at the funeral, I'm going to be standing in the place of the daughter my aunt and uncle never had. My uncle is going to need me to be collapse-proof while I'm being tearful. That will be easier if I deal with some of my grief now.
Besides, she's dying. One of the loveliest people in my life is leaving me, and I have no religious conviction to persuade me that I will ever see her again. That's worth a few tears, as is the fact that in the last year of her life, she is so physically frail that the adventurous woman who loved me like a mother was gone completely.
My true fear, however, is that she will be erased. "Death" is a dirty word before, during, and after. I know people who would say, "Mother-fucking shit from hell!" in front of their grandmothers without batting an eyelash, but who respond to death with, "I'm sorry for your loss." Pay no attention to the elephant parked on the Persian carpet.
What frightens me is that a year from now, most people will think we should all have gotten over my aunt's death. They will also think that my uncle should decently retire his memories. They will not want him to darken their laughter with a reminder that sooner or later, death comes to everyone.
A good friend of my mother's once said that the hardest part about losing her husband was that everybody started acting as though he'd never existed. Sometimes she wanted to talk about him, and everybody put up a wall against any mention of his name. She was a hearty, cheerful woman, and she wasn't dragging around in her widow's weeds. She'd just had a wonderful marriage to a wonderful guy, and she wanted to remember that. It wasn't socially acceptable.
I do not want my aunt to disappear. I want my uncle to be encouraged to tell stories about her. You do not spend fifty years happily married and then suddenly shut your spouse out of your life because she is dead. I want to remember her. I want to keep on telling about the only good apple pie she ever made, and about ordering chicken at a seafood restaurant, and about how she introduced me to the best chili con carne I've ever eaten.
I have a plan. For one thing, right now, I am going to say, "What do we do when my aunt dies? Work is going to make it complicated for me to go east, but I have to be there for the funeral." But long term, I'm going to start asking my uncle the questions I should have asked a long time ago. How did they meet? Why did they elope? What was it like living in Italy, Hawai'i, San Francisco?
Talk to me. 2Good 2B 4gotten. We both loved her, so let's remember together.
Soon, my aunt will be dead, but if I have any choice in the matter, I'll teach that damn elephant to do circus tricks. I can't get it out -- as the Christian funeral service says, in the midst of life we are in death -- and I'm never going to be entirely happy about having four tons of elephant and the accompanying elephant poo in my life, but I can learn how to accept it as gracefully as possible. And I can negotiate couch space so that after pitching hay for the darned thing, I can sit down and live the rest of my life, side by side with the elephant in the living room.
My aunt is dying, and death has become the Great Unmentionable. People are dancing around it, and because no one will talk about it, I don't know who will be offended if I say it. I shut my mouth, pick up my skirt, and join the pachyderm polka.
No one is trying to pretend that she's going to get better. It would take more than one miracle, it would take dozens of miracles. We're just not going to say, "She's dying." "She's going to be dead soon." We say, "It's only a matter of time," and, "There will be tears before this is over." But no one will use the d-word.
For one thing, it might be bad luck. For another, it might sound as though we want her to please get on with it, already. Plus, it's just uncouth to use any form of the d-word around someone who is dying, or around their family and friends. We wouldn't want to remind them about that uncomfortable elephant.
I have been quietly mourning my aunt for over a year, because the last time I was able to go east to see her, she was clearly on a downward slide that wasn't going to have a matching uphill slope. I haven't been flinging myself into the grave, just thinking about her and being sad that our good times are over.
Now, however, it is clear that she's likely to die in the next few weeks, and I need to cry. Among other things, while it's going to be fine to cry at the funeral, I'm going to be standing in the place of the daughter my aunt and uncle never had. My uncle is going to need me to be collapse-proof while I'm being tearful. That will be easier if I deal with some of my grief now.
Besides, she's dying. One of the loveliest people in my life is leaving me, and I have no religious conviction to persuade me that I will ever see her again. That's worth a few tears, as is the fact that in the last year of her life, she is so physically frail that the adventurous woman who loved me like a mother was gone completely.
My true fear, however, is that she will be erased. "Death" is a dirty word before, during, and after. I know people who would say, "Mother-fucking shit from hell!" in front of their grandmothers without batting an eyelash, but who respond to death with, "I'm sorry for your loss." Pay no attention to the elephant parked on the Persian carpet.
What frightens me is that a year from now, most people will think we should all have gotten over my aunt's death. They will also think that my uncle should decently retire his memories. They will not want him to darken their laughter with a reminder that sooner or later, death comes to everyone.
A good friend of my mother's once said that the hardest part about losing her husband was that everybody started acting as though he'd never existed. Sometimes she wanted to talk about him, and everybody put up a wall against any mention of his name. She was a hearty, cheerful woman, and she wasn't dragging around in her widow's weeds. She'd just had a wonderful marriage to a wonderful guy, and she wanted to remember that. It wasn't socially acceptable.
I do not want my aunt to disappear. I want my uncle to be encouraged to tell stories about her. You do not spend fifty years happily married and then suddenly shut your spouse out of your life because she is dead. I want to remember her. I want to keep on telling about the only good apple pie she ever made, and about ordering chicken at a seafood restaurant, and about how she introduced me to the best chili con carne I've ever eaten.
I have a plan. For one thing, right now, I am going to say, "What do we do when my aunt dies? Work is going to make it complicated for me to go east, but I have to be there for the funeral." But long term, I'm going to start asking my uncle the questions I should have asked a long time ago. How did they meet? Why did they elope? What was it like living in Italy, Hawai'i, San Francisco?
Talk to me. 2Good 2B 4gotten. We both loved her, so let's remember together.
Soon, my aunt will be dead, but if I have any choice in the matter, I'll teach that damn elephant to do circus tricks. I can't get it out -- as the Christian funeral service says, in the midst of life we are in death -- and I'm never going to be entirely happy about having four tons of elephant and the accompanying elephant poo in my life, but I can learn how to accept it as gracefully as possible. And I can negotiate couch space so that after pitching hay for the darned thing, I can sit down and live the rest of my life, side by side with the elephant in the living room.