I can’t sleep. That’s what I get for drinking Ooolong tea all day. I’ve been laying here doing breath exercises, which always make me fall asleep. Except, not tonight—caffeine wins. Everything is quiet. Even Rich’s snoring has finally lapsed into the stillness of delta sleep. Our world is at peace.
Rich is sleeping on his side with his back towards me and his head sticking out from the covers. I think about how I’ve been sleeping with this man for 25 years. I wondered how many more years God is going to give us? There I go again, wondering about the end of us. Death isn’t something that I customarily preoccupy myself with very often. Why? Because it scares the shit out of me.
My earliest thought about death was in my pre-teens. I had this irrational fear that I wouldn’t live past 37 after finding a spider under my pillow. Yet 37 came and went. I was devastated in high school when classmate, Tommy Johnson, died in a terrible car accident. I worked with Tommy. A week earlier we drove downtown in his Triumph to visit our Chicago affiliate health club. He was laughing and smiling one week, and the next week he was in a coffin. He was such a likeable guy, with gorgeous looks and a personality that claimed he’d go places someday. But he never did. I couldn’t fathom the terminating blow of his death. He’d never get married or have kids or go on to be somebody.
A few more childhood friends died by my early twenties and it never got easier to understand. My uncle Bob died of AIDS in his 40’s. There was a stigma surrounding his death but I never cared; I loved him. He was the first person I remember making me laugh. By the time he died, I had a spiritual base of heaven and the afterlife, and that gave me some solace. However, his witty presence would be sorely missed in a family needing some levity to lighten the heaviness of our dysfunctional interactions.
I was in the room when Rich’s mom passed away of liver cancer. I told myself I wanted to be there with her. For some strange reason I was unafraid, and I wanted her to be unafraid too. There were extra nursing duties that she needed that I felt honored to be able to do for her. Evelyn was given 10 days to prepare for her death (although the first two days she was in denial until Rich had to break the news to her that she was going to die. And the last two days she was in a coma). It wasn’t an easy 10 days. In fact, it was horrible until she lapsed into her coma. Thank God for morphine. She said goodbye to all her sons (she waited until they all flew in from all across the country). She said goodbye to her grandchildren and daughter-in-laws. And finally she said goodbye to her husband. I overheard her say to him, “You’ll be okay.” We all knew Grandpa Brandt wouldn’t be okay. The last things she said to Rich and I was, “Take care of each other.” It was something we both needed to hear early in our marriage. The afternoon she died the Cubs and the Sox were playing the Cross-town Classic on the TV in her hospital room. She loved the Cubs and watched them her entire life. My last words to her were “You can go now Evelyn, the Cubs won.” A half-hour later, her body was at peace. I’m sure somewhere between heaven and earth, her mind and spirit were too.
When my Grandma (G.G.) Melley died, it also came on suddenly (although she was a few days away from being 96-amazing-years-old--so it was expected eventually.). She had shingles that spread into a staph infection and eventually pneumonia. She was in pain too, restless, and not always responsive. I didn’t know what to do so I sang her favorite hymn ‘I Come To The Garden Alone’ over and over. I didn’t want to leave her side but I had to; it could be a few more days until she died. I always wanted to be there with her when she passed away too. She was everything to me. Rich and I held her hands and I prayed close to her face and whispered near her mouth. I wanted to breath more life into her so she’d hold on until I returned. Later my aunt called me to tell me it was time and to come back to the hospital. I missed G.G.’s last breath by 10 minutes. I was so glad that she wasn’t alone; my Aunt Bunny was with her. When I went into the room she was gone. I knew it. Her body lied there still and gray, lips cracked and dry. I reached to hug her. I was told not to touch her because she was still contagious. I didn’t care. They didn’t know that I held her fragile body a few days earlier. I wanted to hold her one last time and tell her how marvelous she was for all her flaws and quirks, and for loving me for all mine (when no one else would). We only had a little time to be with her before we awkwardly had to leave the room. Death has no proper goodbye. I miss her laugh most of all.
Sometimes I’ll be standing outside in the nighttime with the vastness of the heavens above me. It strikes me in a place that I can’t articulate that my days are numbered. One day I’m going to be gone and won’t even be remembered. I won’t know how or when it will happen. Maybe by the time I’m at the point of death in the moment, I won’t be scared. I wonder if I’ll die tragically like Tommy Johnson? Will I fall down the stairs and break my neck and nobody will find me for days? I know, it’s dramatic, but I wonder these things. Rich and I have told the kids that if we die of carbon monoxide poison because we left the stove burner on, it was an accident. We both have a bad habit of forgetting to turn them off. I can only relate in-part to what Woody Allen says, “I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Yeah, I don’t want to be there when it happens either.
I have a few scenarios I’d like to put in a request for if I could. Even though it haunts me what Evelyn had to endure, her death was one of the most sacred moments I’ve ever experienced. I’d like to go like Evelyn did (except without the pain). She was surrounded by her family and had a few weeks to say goodbye. I’d like to live well into my sunset years like G.G. and not die alone (dying alone is my greatest fear).
Rich said to me last week, “I want your face to be the last face I see before I die.” I told him that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I hope I go before him because he promised to give my eulogy and a New Orleans jazz funeral precession, and build a wailing wall. If he should die first (cuz that’s the grand plan) I wonder how it will happen, or how much longer we’ll have together? He travels a lot so I always save his messages until he returns home, just in case. I wonder if I’ll be able to cope without him (and how many cats or dogs I’ll have to get to fill the void and keep me preoccupied). I wonder if I’ll be looking at his side of the bed empty some day in the middle of the night? When I have those thoughts then I find myself getting mad that he doesn’t eat his fruits or vegetables. And I get mad that I was born to begin with because death is so mean, frightening, and unpredictable, and I didn’t ask to be born or to die.
Silent nights with nothing to think about sometimes makes me feel like I’m 12 years old. And as much as I’m comforted by my faith in Christ and assurance of heaven, I’m still pretty freaked out that death is coming one of these days.
