It does not seem possible that it has been three years since my father
lost his brief, brave fight with cancer. There was a soft-tissue
tumor on the liver, with metastases to bone and lung and probably
elsewhere before he had a diagnosis. We barely had time to start to
fight, and it was over. He barely had time to realize this was going
to be the one that got him.
In her wonderful novel, "Momento Mori"(1959), Scottish author Muriel
Spark brings up the question of historical characters. Before the age
of daily newspapers (and sometimes even after that) we often know of a
famous person only the year they died. No cir***stances. We go
through so many years of school (or at least we used to -- I'm getting
old, so that must have been "old school"!) memorizing dates. I'm told
the children in England used to have to memorize the names and dates
of reign of all the English monarchs. "Edward III, d. 1377" -- Muriel
Spark asks, "What did they die...of?" History is so often silent on
the ends of the greats. Unless they took an arrow through the eye at
the battle of Agincourt or some such.
But for us, the parents and sons and daughters and friends of great
people who (I'm assuming) were not famous, the details of the ends are
carved deeply into memory -- so deeply no amount of abrasive living in
the uncaring world can erase them.
For those we love, we know what they were sick, what they died, of.
Slowly or suddenly. In what place and at what time. These were huge
happenings in a small -- i.e., personal -- way. Not historical beyond
a small circle and within a small number of generations, these losses
nevertheless are bigger than Armistice Day, bigger than any number of
National or Hallmark Holidays in our own personal way of observance.
Say our sun really is the center of the space-time continuum. Say
when a loved one dies, a huge cloud of grief is emitted around the
planet. It lingers there in space, a nebula of recollection and
emotion. Every year our little planet swirls back around and smacks
back into that same cloud. Oh, not everyone notices. Very personal
grief-pheromones and emotion-scents linger and are only picked up by
the persons involved. That's what Sadiversaries are like.
So I'm back in the nebula of September 4, 2005, once again. "Dad's
heart just stopped last night. They say he was not in pain." I had
his durable power of attorney for health care. I was the one that
signed the do not resuscitate form. I was the one that ok'd upping
the morphine drip. So I guess . . . I'm the one responsible for him
not being in pain.
He waited until nobody was there. I think he knew in spite of the
drugs and all. There are ways of nerves and Body+Mind -- and then
there are spirit ways of knowing, too, don't you think?
Anyway. "Celebrating" another sadiversary. Tomorrow I will celebrate
by doing what Dad did for so many years -- get up and go to work. The
older I get the more I admire him for that.
Peace and love to all of you,
--
Daniel ( deltaechomike@[EMAIL PROTECTED]
)
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