Jini called me yesterday or Thursday to say she’d spent
another night in the ER; her heart was beating out of control. My sister is three years older than me; about
50 pounds heavier and so full of life I can’t even begin to imagine the world
without her. It’s probably not necessary to go there yet; her doctor says she’ll be fine as long as she takes her meds. But ever since that second call I’ve been
almost holding my breath, waiting for the next call, the one from
the doctor or hospital that tells me to come pick up her body. Bloody hell, someone dying is bad enough but
the aftermath is so much more painful.
Tuesday night I raced to the bedside of a 90-year-old woman
who was unable to get out of bed; in so much pain she couldn’t move her legs or
her bowels. She wanted a healing first
and then if things didn’t get better she would go to the hospital. I sat with her for about an hour, doing healing
work and prayers. When at last she
relaxed enough to sleep, I felt relieved; she would be OK. She didn’t need to go to the hospital. But still as I sat there in her small one
bedroom apartment and saw all the pieces of her life that would need to be
managed should she die or even if she didn’t die, should she move into a
retirement home, I was distraught. Boxes
and boxes of things to be wrapped and stored away or given to sons, friends, or
Good Will: the detritus of life.
Yet we all have those things, boxes and boxes of things that
will need to be sorted, boxed, given away.
And it made me feel so desperate.
What is the point of all this accumulation? I remembered when E. died; Kathie had several
dozen boxes of clothes, shoes, suits, belts, ties—all profoundly beautiful, of
the highest quality that had to be sent to Good Will because no one else could
use suits or shoes in the size that E. had been in life. Heartbreaking. And Kathie left with little or nothing at his
death due to policy cancellations made necessary by the extravagant spending on
clothes and suits and shoes. Kathie was
fine but I wasn’t. It bothered me, just
as all the sweetness of Ruth’s treasures bothered me. Who will receive these treasures? Will they be valued as tokens of her sweet
life or sent to Good Will to gather dust on some trinket-laden shelf? It seems so sad.
So what’s so sad?
That we/she lived a rich full life?
That the things she treasured are of no real value. What is it?
I am writing all around the issue but not really finding the concern
that concerns me. Dave Wilcox wrote a
song about being upset for a metaphorical reason. Am I upset for a metaphorical reason? Not sure what the metaphor would be
here….
I’m upset because we simply die and fade away. That our memories—no! Not our memories, but the memory of each of
us fades away as quickly or more quickly than the trinkets we cling to as a
token of who we are. We live and we
die. That seems to be it. Pretty much sums it up. And so why am I pissed about that? What is it that’s got me knickers in a knot?
There is a momentary, reoccurring thought that surfaces and
then ducks and hides; a sense of something familiar where all these questions
and contradictions find resolution and completion—just a hint or a glimpse and
then nothing… or everything.
