Dying

I stood outside of my classroom tonight and tried to console a student who is about to make a decision that will alter her life and that of her mother's; a decision that will change the very core of who she is as a human being. I watched her try to hold it together as she sobbed and attempted to convey how important it was to her to stay in the class and to finish her homework and to pass the course; I listened and tried to think of something comforting and philosophical and enlightening to tell her. And I couldn't. In that moment, all I could do was give her a hug and reassure her that she was doing the very best that she could and that it would all come together. After she walked away, I thought about where she was headed and what she was going to have to do in the next few days and for the rest of the class and into the night, I thought about dying; not death, that final moment, but the process of getting there and how grueling and terrifying and devastating and hopeful that process can be.

Coversations about what happens after death are rampant. Beliefs in spirituality and reincarnation, redemption and damnation are just a few, but what makes me pause is the process of getting there; watching someone you love drift away slowly and how that impacts you as someone who is a part of it. We put so much emphasis on the "newness" of life. When a baby is brought into the world, there are showers and parties and registries and the sharing of advice, hand me downs, heirlooms. There are stories behind names and even birthdates sometimes. The birth of a child symbolizes everything that is promising in life, it is a beginning. But, the process of dying, leading up to that moment when that "life" exits the universe is not only as important, it is more so. If birth is entering the class and life is the term paper, then dying is the grade; looking back to see if what we set out to accomplish is in fact where we ended up. Did we win the Pulitzer and with how much dignity?

No one likes to think about death or how they are going to go. It's morbid and really, it's pointless. You can't stop it, can't prevent it, can't change the fact so why bother. Maybe the real problem with dying is that you don't know when and because you don't, you're not sure how to do it properly. I like this notion though. I like the implication of dying as an art; that there is a poetic way to leave this world equal to how you entered it. That every human being has a chance to say her goodbyes and read his last book and share all the memories that she thought were long forgotten. I like to think that at the end of someone's life, even if they don't know it's the end that there are a few moments of absolute clarity, like the picture is crystal clear and in those moments, you get a chance to feel whatever you want the way it was the first time that you experienced it. You close your eyes and there's your mom holding the birthday cake that she made for you on your fifth birthday, there's the recital that you were in when you were 8 and about to sing "We wish you a Merry Christmas," there's the time that you stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon and realized how vast the world is, bigger than you ever imagined and there's the moment when someone tells you that they love you and that they will always love you, forever. And when you open your eyes, you're ready for whatever comes and you can reach that level of dignity that everyone deserves in their last moments of life. I like to think that, but it's hard to sometimes when I remember situations or hear stories or listen to someone tell me that their mother is dying and they don't know what to do. And then the poetry becomes noise; a lot of pain and fear and guilt and sorrow and I, like my student, don't know what to do.

I've been to many funerals, to wakes, to receptions where people share anecdotes and moments about the deceased that involve laughter and tears and events that are universal to those who are sharing them. There is food and music sometimes and photos documenting the memories of the person and how they related to the others in their lives. There are videos and speeches; tributes to a life lived. And then, sometimes, there is nothing more than the burial; a quiet end to a simple life. But it is the getting there, the journey that makes me wonder when my student will make the decision to end her mother's life or not and how she will face it. I hope, for her and for her mother that the moment will be a peaceful one.

I will turn 41 tomorrow. Birthday. Deathday. Doomsday. Another year in the journey, gone. Maybe it will be my last, maybe it will be my finest or maybe it will just be another calendar of 365 days that are filled with bill paying, yelling at kids, avoiding cooking, running, going to church, having coffee with friends... Maybe it will be the year that makes the 40 before it seem irrelevant. I don't know what's around the bend and that uncertainty is the same that my student is feeling; that notion that at any moment, it can all change. We know this, we are reminded of our mortality often and yet we waste so much time and so many opportunities. In the last decade of my life, I've thought about people from my past and I find myself mentally saying, "I'd like to see him or talk to her before I die; before I die." Interesting idea, just like the bucket list. I'm going to add those names to my list and make out a map so that when I see them, I can say or at least tell myself, that I've come full circle and that each of them was a part of my journey.

"You're not that old mom" spoken by a kid and maybe truthfully, but also with a tinge of pity for someone who they love who is starting to see more crow's feet and laugh lines and bigger bat wings, whose knees crack when she gets out of bed and who has trouble sleeping, who gets heartburn from spicy potato chips and who can only have two glasses of wine before she's drunk; a woman who has to write things down to remember them but who then forgets to look at where she wrote them. Age, aging; there is no remedy and there is no cure and contrary to what most magazines preach, I like the fact that I look my age. I've earned it.

A few years ago, I took a class of eighth graders to a retirement community as part of a service project and the kids were intimidated at first. The "old" are different some of them said, they won't remember anything, they can't walk, they can't function; what do I tell them? What will I say? They had so many concerns and yet, ten minutes after they found someone with whom to sit and talk, their faces said something entirely different. I walked around and listened and interestingly, so many of the conversations were about what the retirees thought about THEM and the questions were directed at the students rather than the other way around. Of course, there were stories about when "they" were young and their memories of World War II and Vietnam and when JFK was shot and the kids loved to hear these stories. There were moments when the residents got teary eyed, talking about their grandchildren and how their own children don't come as often to see them. And, at the end of the day, there were hugs and sharing and invitations to "come back and visit." The students wrote about their experiences and then they mailed their essays to the retirement community so that their new "friends" could read them. I hoped that some of them would go back and visit, but even if they didn't; sharing a tiny piece of that journey with people of a different generation, changed them. Maybe not profoundly, but in that instance, showed them the possibility that what they thought or think about someone and their journey is not always correct and, more often than not, it's not even close.

I thought today, "I'm dying as I write this and really, I have been since the day I was born; a little more each day." It's humbling to think of one's life in those terms. Dying is like the slow or even sudden shedding of one's clothes: moments, ideas, thoughts, beliefs, fears and, it is the responsibility of those who are still here to gather them as they are shed; to share them, keep them, feel them. To experience the passing of a human being is a privilege, much like sharing in the welcoming of a life. Grief is as powerful as joy; the other side of an equation that everyone is faced with but that no one seems able to solve.

Tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I will pray for a dignified and peaceful death for my student's mother and I will pray for my student as she faces a decision that no one should have to face. And for myself, I will pray for another year to create more moments.