At Samhain, we play with death, exploring the barrier that
separates it from life, trying to lessen its scariness in a way. Or reinforce
its mystery. Like many events in this life, death either brings out the best or
the worst in us. Or in the shades of grey world I live in, perhaps a bit of
both.
I remember exactly when I wrote Generations, about a month
after my grandfather died. Of all my grandparents, his death was the hardest to
deal with for numerous reasons. I was back at home after what at best would be
called a stressful experience. Not just his death but the way my immediate
family handled it.
As children, as young adults, most of us learn how to handle
death by watching our parents deal with it as their parents or, increasingly,
grandparents die. Or how they don’t. Most of these lessons we absorb without
knowing, without thinking. But they influence our behavior nonetheless, just as
ours influences the generation that follows after. These are very difficult
cycles to break.
Fortunately, many of us have more than a single pair of
role-models to draw upon. It’s not to say we will pick and choose how we will
react. I think too much of that is either learned too early or hardwired in.
More that we will absorb and synthesize many different reactions from parents,
grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, family friends, complete
strangers. Who shows up, who doesn’t, who has to be coerced. Who takes charge,
who falls apart, who leans on who for support. Who looks out for who with small
kindnesses and who takes the opportunity to air old grievances.
I remember my first experience with death, the first time I
watched the last of a generation die. I think I was in first grade. My great
grandmother, who I want to say was over ninety and in a nursing home at the
time, died. As with her life, I don’t remember many details of her death.
Before she died, I remember visiting her on one of our trips to Boston
in a very alien and scary (to me) nursing home. I remember she didn’t recognize
many of us. I want to say my sister and I waited outside her room because we
were pretty much unknown entities to her by then. I seem to remember my mother
got the call that she had died at night. I remember crying because she was
crying. I remember I didn’t sleep well that night. I remember still being sad
in the morning, though I wasn’t sure exactly why.
The thing I remember most was the reaction of a teacher.
When I showed up at school the next day, I think I cried again. My teacher came
over and asked me why. I told her my great grandmother had died. In an admonishing
tone that said I needed to stop, she said, “You are lucky to have had a great grandmother.
Most of these kids don’t have grandparents.”
I was twenty-eight when the first of my grandparents died.
My paternal grandfather. By the time I was forty-one the last of that
generation of immediate family was gone, my paternal grandmother. With each of
the four of them, I was fortunate in knowing the last time I saw them would
likely be the very last, so I purposefully set those scenes into memory. In
each case, I remember very specifically absorbing every detail I could. I’m not
sure why or where I got it. But they are the memories I cling to.
With my father’s father it’s a memory of him brushing his
hair to ensure it looked right before he moved out to the living room and
settled in his favorite chair for my final visit, like everything was normal.
With both my mother’s parents, it’s seeing them standing by their apartment
door as Karen and I turned back before boarding the elevator down the hall, the
first time with both of them, the second him alone. With my father’s mother,
it’s a final lunch out by the water before she moved to a facility fifteen
hundred miles north.
Then there was my father, the first of the next generation
of immediate family to fall away. My father is the only person I’ve witnessed
die. Counting the seconds between his final breaths is emblazoned in my memory.
I had considered writing about each of their deaths and how
my family reacted to them. In fact I had it written up. But after allowing that
draft to settle, I decided it wasn’t what I wanted to say. What we said and did
would likely be as meaningless to anyone else as any of those memories.
Suffice it to say there were phone calls, there were tears,
there was drama. There were connections formed and connections lost. There were
four memorial services, two with huge reunions of friends and family, two for
immediate family only. There were three stealth burials, two in suits and ties
with spades and shovels and other implements of destruction complete with
skirts and dresses serving as lookouts, one conducted under cover of darkness
by just me and my wife. There were bitter feelings over property, there was
easy sharing and compromise, there were long battles fought to ensure final
wishes were met. There was protocol, there was censorship, there were
recriminations. There was a suicide, a secret deal, a murderous accusation, and
a synchronicitous inheritance.
So pretty much like any holiday dinner with family.
But in too many cases, recounting those events opened too
many old wounds. Neither you nor I are interested in my tears of blood.
I’m not sure what I take away from those experiences. All of
them were difficult, some more so than others, perhaps because of the event
itself, perhaps because of the people and the circumstances involved. There are
moments I cherish in each and moments I despise. I suppose there’s no escaping
that in this life. But I think I am getting worse at this as time goes on.
I read a research brief this week that said even after your
heart stops, your brain still forms thoughts. Which means it’s very possible in
that sudden stillness you know you’re dead at least for a few seconds. Which
probably bothers me a lot less than it does some of you.
So as I watch the generations change over season by seasons,
at least one day I know I will find my peace.
© 2017 Edward P. Morgan III
