Sex, death and money are taboo subjects but to tell the truth, as someone over 50, death’s been on my mind. It’s hard to write about dying but we all do it. The upside is that we realize life is short and it wakes us up to living more fully. Heaven sounds good and maybe we’ll get greeted by our favorite friend or pets on the other side? Hopefully, there’s less stress there.
But losing loved ones is hell unless you believe you’ll be floating on a cloud or reincarnated. Maybe life after death is bliss. I know my Dad looked radiant at the end. I felt a presence of something palpable and loving surrounding us. The last words of Steve Jobs of Apple Computer fame were, “Wow, wow, wow!” So it gives me hope that there is a kind God.
Still, death is difficult and the loss can be unbearable – maybe a relief or horrible beyond belief. I miss my best friend, Mona, terribly. And even though my mom was a pain in the behind before she died, (and how I prayed she’d ‘pass on’) but how I ache now to have her back.
In the end, death’s not for the living. It’s harder when we’re left. The clock’s ticking, the bucket list is staring at me and kicking the bucket even more likely. I’m in shock while my friends are talking about hip replacements, back pains, illness, cancer, caretaking or medications. I’m panicked. I drove myself to the emergency hospital last week with no health coverage. And yes, codeine cough syrup cured me in five minutes – still, the bill goes far into the beyond.
I’m even on a deadline with this writing, making me anxious. Why is there always an ending or is every ending a new beginning? It isn’t that I mind dying, it’s just that I’m dying to have more fun and meaning while I’m here. Death makes me realize how much time and energy I put into making ‘to do’ lists, running errands, checking emails and watching TV.
The other day I took the dogs to the beach and I let them wait a minute while I used the bathroom. When I got back there was a strange woman crying. She said how loyal my dogs were. Then she lost it. “My cat died last week,” she said gripping the railing looking frail and whispering, “He was fine an hour before. Thank God, I got him to the doctor in time for him to be relieved of his pain, he was screaming so loud.” Stunned, thinking “Oh, my God, this happened to one of my cats and I never understood why that horror happened to him. “It’s called an embolism,” she sighed. “I feel silly. My friends say my grief is ok but I wonder if it seems stupid to people, this crying over a cat.” I wondered, “Did our culture make sorrow so wrong that we have to hide our tears for fear of seeming too sensitive or crazy?”
That led me to remember Dad’s funeral. It was odd to see a gathering of his favorite folks when he so adored parties – so a friend and I used to talk about starting a business called “Parties to Die For.” We were going to invite friends and family to come to their own funerals while they were still alive. It also bugged me that I would miss my own party. We’d giggle uproariously about the publicity, “Don’t miss it!”
When the dust settles, and someone ‘passes on,’ where do they go? My mom used to say, “Call it death.” She thought soft words were a cover up for reality. In the end, we all let go. On my daily walks, I wonder, “Where do the birds go when they die?” I even asked a friend what happens to them. He said, “I never thought of it, I don’t know.” I muttered, “Do they lie down on a branch, go to Florida or sail into a cloud?”
I needed to get out this hairball about a subject in my heart but sometimes words fail.
Katy Byrne is a psychotherapist in Sonoma and the author of the “Hairball Diaries.”
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