Thoughts on mortality

 

A notice on Facebook this evening informed me that an acquaintance died suddenly, apparently yesterday, of a heart attack. She was a woman I didn’t know well enough to call a friend, but we had crossed paths enough that I knew she was vibrant and lovely, much loved by many people including close friends of mine. What do you say when you write the surviving husband in the instance of such sudden, unexpected death? I am always tempted to steal words from Katie Sherrod and say, “May she rest in peace, and rise in glory.”

Death is on my mind more than a little bit these days. I think it’s a combination of age—at 83, I have outlived many friends and contemporaries—and covid, which has made us all more away of our mortality. Some people will say they want to die in their sleep—a peaceful way to go, suddenly, without the agonizing knowledge that death is approaching. When a dear friend died, having moved out of my life several years earlier, her husband wrote that she was afraid of two things: falling out of bed and dying. So the night she died he sat by her bed holding her hand—he could keep her from falling but not from dying. I guess I too fear the fear of dying.

But I have also thought recently that if I died in my sleep, there would be so much left undone. My oldest son is my executor, and he and I work hard together to keep him up to speed on my career, my finances, my life. But what about that novel I have half finished? And the project I still want to write about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus for the crucial years in the 1950s and 1960s. My blogs, and the letters of a Mntana author I want to edit. I have a lot of work yet to do.

I like to think I am a devout Christian, accepting the teachings of Jesus. Indeed, much of my political activism comes because I cannot separate Christianity’s preaching of love each other from politics as I see it today. Remember those bracelets people wore that said WWJD—what would Jesus do? In my book, most conservatives have entirely missed the point, and none so much as most born-again, evangelical Christians. Franklin Graham kind of Christians.

On the other hand, I’m not at all willing to commit myself on belief in the afterlife. I simply don’t know. I know a woman my age who truly believes she will ascend to streets of gold, and everything will be wonderful. I can’t quite buy that vision for myself, but what I do believe is that the soul lives on after it leaves the body. A big question for me: do we reunite with those we’ve loved? Could be ticklish sometimes—like ex-spouses, etc.—but there are many I long to see again. Can we as spirits embrace? I have no idea.

My thoughts on the afterlife are meant as a way of saying that I do not fear death. But I simply do not want to go. At least not now, not yet. I am too happy, enjoying this life too much. I don’t want to leave my children and my dog and my friends and those half-written manuscripts. I know I am among the fortunate, but life as I know it is too good. Which somehow makes me think though that even people in desperate situations cling to life—and that brings Ukraine to mind and the desperate people whose fate hangs in the hands of the superpowers. But that is another subject for another day.

A friend told me that once his father died, his mother soon tired of life. She felt she needed to follow her husband and be sure that he was all right. And maybe that’s the ideal state—to be ready to leave this life. Not with anger or sadness, just ready to move on. And knowing it.

Sudden death doesn’t offer you that opportunity. So I think tonight of that old nursery prayer which must have scared children to death:

Now I lay myself down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

And if I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

 

Living with fear and other thoughts

I have been boldly saying that though I find much inconvenient about this quarantine, one saving grace is that I am not particularly fearful. I think it’s because I feel so isolated and secure in my cottage-cocoon. But recently some dreams have made me aware that of while I am not consciously fearful, my subconscious is. The other night I dreamt that a cataclysmic event had shifted the earth off its course, and we all lived in terror of the consequences. Then I realized that we had only lost a few minutes and life was going on as usual. When I woke, I still thought that was true and had to convince myself that it was only a dream. I’m not a sci-fi fan, so I have no idea where that came from.

More realistically, I have twice dreamed that I was at a concert and someone coughed on me. Note: I have never been to a concert (except the symphonic kind) in my life, never to one of a major artist, though I have longed to see Joan Baez and Neil Diamond in person (that dates me). But one night, Christian, Jordan, and I were at a concert; another I was with my parents, and there was a great fuss about getting me a handicapped seat—another note: I was never on a walker until years and years after I lost my parents. Each time I had to convince myself it was a dream, not reality.

I talked with a friend the other day about this. She, some five years younger than I, said she’s had a good life and isn’t afraid of dying. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid, but I am not anticipating it with the joy of some. I know people who think they are going to find streets paved with gold, but that’s not my vision. My main thought is, fear aside, I don’t want to die. I like my life. I want to enjoy my family, see my grandchildren grow and develop. I have things to write, dishes to cook. I still have lots to do, and I’m hopeful that I’m contributing a bit to the world. But the final thing I said to friend Jean is that I do not want to die of COVID-19 because it is a miserable death.

On a much cheerier note, I’ve been reading Minding the Store, by Stanley Marcus. Probably should have read it years ago. I began it on a hunt for mention of Helen Corbitt, but I ended reading it for itself. Marcus was a bit of a formal writer, but he was also an accomplished storyteller, and he had anecdote after anecdote about retail life. It was a great glimpse into a world that was unfamiliar to me.

But the part that most interested me was his account of the political atmosphere in Dallas in the early Sixties, culminating tragically in the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Marcus later said he had warned JFK against the trip to Dallas, fearing he would be humiliated; he never thought he would be assassinated. Marcus was an outspoken and courageous liberal who nonetheless managed to be a civic leader in a highly conservative city. I was appalled at the narrow vision of some in the city, including the city’s leading newspaper, and impressed by Stanley Marcus, his insight, and his courage. There are so many parallels to today’s political world, lessons I hope we all learn about cooperation and working together. Not happening yet.

Outside my window these days I see ornamental grasses. When the wind blows, they wave and move like dancers in diaphanous gowns. I am fascinated by watching them. Sometimes, when I am at my computer, I catch that movement out of the corner of my eye and think someone is headed to the cottage. Sometime soon, pentas will be planted along the front of the deck, covering up a bare stretch. Can’t wait to have a flowering summer yard.

Today was another chilly, drab day. Supposed to be eighty by Sunday, but then cooler again with rain a possibility, sometimes slim, for the next few days. I could feel the effect of the falling barometer on my disposition today and had to work hard to overcome it.

How about you? Does the weather affect your mood?