life lessons and deathdays
I found inspiration today in the oddest place: an essay from a female writer on the last page of a Time magazine.
I’m unjustly sceptical of such an article; the words “affirmative action” jump to mind all too quickly. To my pleasant surprise, I found Nancy Gibbs (“The Light of Death”, Time, May 5) had written a touching and realistic piece on death. Although it started with a reference to Harry Potter and the ghosts’ habit of celebrating their Deathday, it went on to answer her daughter’s question “is that Grandpa?” quite poignantly: “you know how when we go to Florida, we leave our winter coats behind because we won’t need them there? Well, he just left this behind because he doesn’t need it anymore.”
My experience with death involves all of one hamster (RIP Cinnamon) and three grandparents. I’m going to share the particulars here, but by all means, feel free to skip to the second last paragraph to get to the summation of the matter. My maternal grandfather died when I was all of three, methinks, and I wasn’t allowed to see him in the hospital. I mostly remember him vicariously through a story my dad tells me about me kissing Grandpa “where his ear [was]n’t”. My paternal grandmother died about two years ago after several battles with cancer. I wasn’t able to get off work to visit, I never called, and I missed the funeral. My dad insists I will someday regret this; thus far, I am willing to admit I just wasn’t ready to wrap my head around the idea. Once again, to me, she is remembered vicariously through others and their stories.
My maternal grandmother, Grannie, is a different story (and thus, a different paragraph). She passed last December, years to the day from when my grandfather died. I was able to see her in the hospital, and I was complimented by my sister and mother for holding her hand. Later, I asked my dad why I was complimented on doing something that was so simply the Right Thing To Do, and he explained that it was because people so often forget. As my uncle Denis so often reiterates when the subject comes up, my mother is now an orphan. December was already a troubling time for her: my Grandfather’s death and my parents’ (ex-)anniversary both sat around Christmas, which also happens to be my mother’s birthday. This is part of what made my Grannie’s death more real, I suppose. I better understood the impact. Another notable aspect was that I saw her dying. I was able to “man up”/grow up enough in December to visit her in the hospital. I barely recognized her. I said my piece and then went out to the hallway where my sister and I cried in each other’s arms. It was a good cry.
The previous paragraphs are mostly for my own satisfaction, but now to the real substance I want to get at. For one, this reveals the Untold Story of my III tattoo. There’s the Wiccan concept of the three ages of women; maid, mother, and crone. I got that tattoo before going to visit my family last Christmas, and so I had that symbol on my arm the last time the three generations of women on my maternal side were all in one room. If I one day have a daughter, I want my sister and mother in the delivery room so she is brought into all three generations together.
Secondly, there’s that elementary school rule about writing, the KISS rule (keep it simple, silly). I have been applying this rule more and more to general life. It’s not original by any means; Confucius and Buddha have said as much for eons. But really, it just makes so much sense that it bears repeating. I think this is how I will eventually come to terms with death. Obviously enough, I’m not ready for it yet. But fretting over finding some sense of accomplishment or Becoming Something is only going to bring death all the sooner. Like “Ever After”, just breath. Or the Sunscreen Song, “don’t worry; or worry and know it’s about as much use as chewing gum for your algebra test”. However you want to say it, it’s just a good idea.
Keep it simple, silly;
~RA~
I’m unjustly sceptical of such an article; the words “affirmative action” jump to mind all too quickly. To my pleasant surprise, I found Nancy Gibbs (“The Light of Death”, Time, May 5) had written a touching and realistic piece on death. Although it started with a reference to Harry Potter and the ghosts’ habit of celebrating their Deathday, it went on to answer her daughter’s question “is that Grandpa?” quite poignantly: “you know how when we go to Florida, we leave our winter coats behind because we won’t need them there? Well, he just left this behind because he doesn’t need it anymore.”
My experience with death involves all of one hamster (RIP Cinnamon) and three grandparents. I’m going to share the particulars here, but by all means, feel free to skip to the second last paragraph to get to the summation of the matter. My maternal grandfather died when I was all of three, methinks, and I wasn’t allowed to see him in the hospital. I mostly remember him vicariously through a story my dad tells me about me kissing Grandpa “where his ear [was]n’t”. My paternal grandmother died about two years ago after several battles with cancer. I wasn’t able to get off work to visit, I never called, and I missed the funeral. My dad insists I will someday regret this; thus far, I am willing to admit I just wasn’t ready to wrap my head around the idea. Once again, to me, she is remembered vicariously through others and their stories.
My maternal grandmother, Grannie, is a different story (and thus, a different paragraph). She passed last December, years to the day from when my grandfather died. I was able to see her in the hospital, and I was complimented by my sister and mother for holding her hand. Later, I asked my dad why I was complimented on doing something that was so simply the Right Thing To Do, and he explained that it was because people so often forget. As my uncle Denis so often reiterates when the subject comes up, my mother is now an orphan. December was already a troubling time for her: my Grandfather’s death and my parents’ (ex-)anniversary both sat around Christmas, which also happens to be my mother’s birthday. This is part of what made my Grannie’s death more real, I suppose. I better understood the impact. Another notable aspect was that I saw her dying. I was able to “man up”/grow up enough in December to visit her in the hospital. I barely recognized her. I said my piece and then went out to the hallway where my sister and I cried in each other’s arms. It was a good cry.
The previous paragraphs are mostly for my own satisfaction, but now to the real substance I want to get at. For one, this reveals the Untold Story of my III tattoo. There’s the Wiccan concept of the three ages of women; maid, mother, and crone. I got that tattoo before going to visit my family last Christmas, and so I had that symbol on my arm the last time the three generations of women on my maternal side were all in one room. If I one day have a daughter, I want my sister and mother in the delivery room so she is brought into all three generations together.
Secondly, there’s that elementary school rule about writing, the KISS rule (keep it simple, silly). I have been applying this rule more and more to general life. It’s not original by any means; Confucius and Buddha have said as much for eons. But really, it just makes so much sense that it bears repeating. I think this is how I will eventually come to terms with death. Obviously enough, I’m not ready for it yet. But fretting over finding some sense of accomplishment or Becoming Something is only going to bring death all the sooner. Like “Ever After”, just breath. Or the Sunscreen Song, “don’t worry; or worry and know it’s about as much use as chewing gum for your algebra test”. However you want to say it, it’s just a good idea.
Keep it simple, silly;
~RA~