Tag: sorrow

Life Topics

Death

Jo McLaughlin

Death is an evil muse, an uninvited bitch, tearing our fragile heart out without a thought. Emotions can be like a roller coaster climbing to highs of comfort and acceptance, then down with the sweet memories that you have in the dark, alone.  You try to hear their voice again, remember their touch.  Confusion and sadness can drape the survivors, who wonder if there is a God.  “Why” echoes throughout the grieved, a question that is flatly unanswered.

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately.  I am on the threshold of my elder years and am starting to feel the tender pain of loss.  A pain that time will conveniently tuck away.  Hardly any time goes by that I hear of a death of someone I know or know of.  It’s depressing.  A dear friend has just passed and that caused me a quiet agony for all the memories we will never have.  Life without her has left a wide gaping hole.  She touched my life so profoundly that I feel like I’m a better person because of her.

The fear of having so many empty holes in my life scares me.  No one lives forever, however, we carry on as if death is a whisper that we cover our ears not to hear.  But our eyes and hands can see it coming after those who suffer.  All we can do is helplessly look on.  Dad is now fragile and is quickly failing.  He is like the living dead.  Every visit is our last, every hug is tighter, every laugh turns into quiet tears.  My ability to handle his impending death is doubtful.  I can’t bring myself to prepare.

I wish I knew what exactly I’m trying to say.  I just know that I am afraid of death.  Afraid of the aftermath, the sorrow, the loss.  And angry, yes angry!  I want my “whys” to be answered, but alas it’s not for me to know.  I guess the only answer to feeling this way is to live.  Don’t take the people in your life for granted.  Stop and have that conversation with your neighbor, turn off the TV and call a friend, hug for just a few seconds longer and build fabulous memories.  Because when you remember, you honor a life in a way that keeps them in your heart forever.

 

Life Topics

Pray for the Witness

Jo McLaughlin

[4 Haikus]

Reach for the living
Touch leads to mistrust ahead
Fold up your feelings

Anchor the deadbeat
Bind them with loving sorrow
Escape leads to doom

Pray for the witness
shame enables admission
Take away the crime

Evade the guilty
Life mistreats the innocent
Accept the true self

Life Topics

Putting Charlie to Rest

Jo McLaughlin

iStock_000058582528_LargeWe put Charlie to rest today.  It was a small funeral with a handful of family members and Mom and Dad.  His box of ashes sat in front of us as soldiers went through the honor ceremony.  We blessed ourselves through prayers while the wind lashed out at us.  My middle-aged graying cousins, who I hardly knew, stood with us as the grieving do, but there was no crying, no sorrow.  In fact, no one really knew Charlie.

Charlie was 88 years old when he died last week.  Dad found him when he went to check on him.  Charlie was a brother and an uncle, never a husband or a father, and he was barely that as he kept to himself, afraid of human contact.  Dad is the baby of the family, and at 80 years old himself, was Charlie’s main caretaker.  Anxiety ruled Charlie’s world.  He was a recluse because of his fear of people, and would only go out to doctor’s appointments.  Other than that, he would sit in his chair, in his apartment, in his building and reject the world outside.    He spent most of his life living with his other bachelor brother Chris, who also cared little to socialize.  But, at least Chris would be the life of the party when he did go out.  They bickered constantly.   Charlie was like an old cat lady, without cats, wearing tattered clothes and talking to himself.  Chris died a few years back, and Charlie was left alone, which was probably how he preferred it.

People didn’t visit Charlie, and he liked it that way.  He would occasionally call my Dad and always say, “hello this is Charlie from Wareham”, which my brothers and sister found amusing.  So, we never called him Uncle Charlie, we would always say, “so, how is Charlie from Wareham doing?”  We did see him more when he spent some time living with my parents.  He had his routines that drove my mother up a wall, but not my Dad.  He had a severe lack of hygiene, as well as being nearly deaf.  He would painfully try to engage us, but would never hear the answer and would refer to my sister and I as Ann or Joan.  Our names are Susan and Jo.  He would go back to drinking his tea once the ill-fated conversation was over.

When I spoke to my cousin’s before the funeral, there was a consistent theme.  While they all felt sorry that Charlie was gone, they each said, “I hardly knew him, but I’m here for your Dad.”  I guess that’s what funerals are all about, being there for the people who are most effected by the death.  Prepared or not, it’s got to hurt on some level.  My Dad has always been loyal to his family, even when they weren’t loyal back.  It didn’t matter to him.  Because having an open heart, enjoying people, having contact is the right way to be.  There will surely be a lot of tears at my father’s funeral, and everyone will have known him well.

So, why do we say the dead are at “rest”.    I think everyone needs rest from this crazy world, but the ones who really need the rest are blessing themselves in the wind and holding back the tears.

Rest easy Dad.

Life Topics

The Black Skirt

Jo McLaughlin

black-skirt

I took the black skirt out of the closet and chose a white sweater to wear with it.  It looked like I could have been going to a job at a restaurant, but I wasn’t.  Today is Jeff’s funeral.

I didn’t want to wear black today, not today.  It was a symbol that I accepted the loss.  I didn’t want to believe that he was truly gone.  As I put on the skirt, I thought of all the other times I had worn it to parties, to work, to events, paired with a shimmering top or a simple t-shirt.  I wore this skirt in happiness and expectation.  Now it was paired with grief, the kind that lingers and transforms into a deep hurt for all who knew him.  I felt the blackness of sorrow for his other friends, his children and his parents.

Zipping up the skirt, I knew that I had to grab my black shoes before leaving.  My everyday shoes,  that I never thought much about.  They are comfortable and dependable.  I’ll be standing for the service, standing outside the church, inside the church, whispering “I’m sorry” a hundred times, wishing we didn’t have to be here.  Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, I watch the mourners, sleep deprived and aching to go back in time; to see him one more time.

After services, I get back home to remove the skirt and put on some jeans.  I will wear this skirt again, but hopefully not to say goodbye to a friend.