I’m not comfortable with death. When I say that, it doesn’t sound so strange. I suppose many people aren’t comfortable with death. But somehow, as a Latter Day Saint, I think I should be. I understand the gospel. I know that death is part of the plan of salvation. And therefore, I’d like to cruise through life transitions with relative peace. But reality is so different than theory.
A couple of months ago I went to visit my 92 year old grandmother. I was standing at the kitchen counter making sandwiches when I heard a crash and a scream. My mother and my husband rushed into the den, where a heavy bookcase and all of its contents had fallen on my grandmother. I followed slowly. Mom and Don pulled books and the bookcase off of Grandma, but I felt incapable of doing anything. My mind and heart felt compassion and concern, but I couldn’t translate that feeling into physical action. Finally I exited to call the paramedics. While we waited for the ambulance to arrive, Mom gave me suggestions, “Wipe her forehead. See where that blood is coming from.” But the adrenalin in my system was too much. My hands shook through jerky, clumsy movements that could not comfort. Feeling useless as nurturer, I went outside to direct the paramedics.
I don’t have much experience with death. I have only watched one person die, and that was over a decade ago. Were these transitions easier for people in past generations, when extended families commonly shared homes, and when births and lives and deaths were more intimately intertwined? I don’t know, but it seems to me that it is hard to really appreciate life, either life in this world or life eternal, without getting to know death. That is one of the many reasons I love Sara Greenwood’s essay, “ Take Root Downward Bear Fruit Upward http://www.segullah.org/fall2005/takeroot.html from our fall 2005 issue.
Sara shares with us the intimate details of her experiences as the mother of Betsey, a beautiful child who died of cancer. I am grateful for Sara’s commitment to live deeply and to feel fully, even when the feelings are exquisitely painful. I am grateful for her willingness to share with such gut wrenching honesty. And because of her commitment to truth, I am comforted by the vision of life and purpose that she shares. Thank you, Sara.
For everyone else out there, are you comfortable with death? How did you get to that place? And how has it transformed your experience of life?
Henry James once wrote, speaking about death of loved ones, “Feel, feel, I say — feel for all you’re worth, and even if it half kills you, for that is the only way to live, especially to live at this terrible pressure, and the only way to honour and celebrate admirable beings who are our pride and our inspiration.”
That is a great quote Justine.
Sara’s piece was one of the most intense, emotional and sweet essay’s I have ever read. I continue to be impressed by how well she communicated that experience.
I’ve made my peace with death. It’s not as scary as it once was.
I’m not scared of death in the theoretical sense. (Esp. my own death.) But I am scared at the thought of living through grief. I’m realizing that testimony cannot enable one to skip the grieving process. I imagine it can make some aspects of it easier, but the body and mind and heart still must process the loss, and there’s no way to get through it without hurting.
I was touched by Elder Wirthlin and Pres. Hinckley’s frank references to their grief over losing their wives.
I do believe that the suffering caused by grief enables us to feel joy deeper than we could otherwise. I trust that God doesn’t make anybody suffer for the heck of it. It all has a purpose and a joyful flip side.
But again, that doesn’t mean I want to trudge through the pain. I think about losing a child and it scares me to death. Pun intended.
Pres Hinkley’s grief makes me cry. He loves that woman with all the strength of his being, and to see him suffer at her absense is so touching and sorrowful.
The scariest thing to me about death is the immediacy of needs not being met. Were something tragic to happen to me, my children’s immediate needs, their long term loss, that’s what haunts me. Losing my husband or someone I love is certainly daunting to consider on a personal level, but when I think about my children suffering — not knowing a parent, for instance — that is something I prefer to just not think about.
I’m with Kathy. Last night my husband and I each selfishly nominated ourselves to “go first” — because it’s not our own death we fear, but the prospect of life without the other. Makes me think the Jesus wept not for Lazurus but for Mary and Martha.
Justine–I love that James quote. Did you find it in \”Reading Lolita in Tehran\” perhaps? Don\’t get me started on that book….Kathy knows that I will quote it for days if allowed. So, I won\’t go into that now.
Angie–Dealing with, thinking about, and grieving over the death of those close to us is scary, it\’s uncomfortable, it\’s hard. I think your reaction is not only OK, it\’s even \”normal.\” Everyone \”deals\” with death differently. When I was in college, I cared for and lost my grandfather, grandmother, and two uncles in a 2 year time frame. Matthew and I are currently dealing with \”losing\” his grandmother to Alzheimer\’s and his grandfather to grief. We are facing the aging of our parents who are dealing with Parkinson\’s and other life-altering illnesses. I have had the opportunity to see how others are coping with the processes of living and dying. It\’s very interesting to see some of our family rescind and pretend it doesn\’t exist, others get angry and act on whatever glimpse of false hope there is, and others resign themselves to simply move: move on, move up, move forward not knowing the direction ahead. And I\’m convinced that all of these reactions are OK. They\’re OK because you have to live the grief in order continue to live a full and meaningful life afterwards. I believe there are no right and wrong ways to grieve. Good luck in your journey, Angie. I\’m so glad that you wrote about this…
An except from poem by Mary Oliver’s poem “In Blackwater Woods:
To live in this world
you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Mara, it was from Nafisi. Don’t get me started either. We should talk.
Thanks, Ladies. I’m not afraid of death theoretically either, especially my own, which makes it hard for me to understand how strongly I react to the reality of it. It’s comforting to remember that the challenge is to live and love so fully that these transitions are difficult.
Angie–very true. I guess we’re lucky to have those around who we would hate to live without.
It’s been a while since someone really close to me has died. But my dear friend is now going through the grieving process at the loss of one of his good friends and it’s such a reminder that death could come for any of us at any time. That doesn’t make me comfortable at all, but it does transform the way I relate to others and when I can realy focus it encourages me to love with zeal. Then we get to feel the greatest joy and I’m sure it will be the greatest pain at loss, but it will be worth it.
So, why is it, as LDS women, death is still viewed as such a loss? I’ve thought about this often, as the beauty of the gospel is that we know there is no true “loss”. Perhaps the pain comes from the knowledge that we are parted for a time. But can that really be it? I would be devastated if Don was gone. But that knowledge that he’s not gone to me forever should offer a measure of comfort.
I, frankly, have never had anyone close to me die. So this issue is, for me, academic (for the moment). I steel myself against the day when I must learn that lesson. Why is it still so hard?
Justine–I think death feels like a loss because it is indeed losing someone for the part of eternity that we are familiar with and understand. For me, knowing I will be with my children forever doesn’t lessen my fear of their death. And I don’t think it should. I think it should add perspective if that awful event occurs, but it doesn’t take away the sting of loss. Because no matter what your view of eternity is, no human truly understands it enough to see it as compensation for a life that they know, that they live right now.
I personally think that it is a disservice to believe that the gospel takes away grief or mitigates it substantially. Because that view leaves us “normal folk” who are angered and miserable at the loss of our loved ones feeling unworthy. And when one grieves, that particular emotion is singularly destructive.
Amen, Mara. Well said.
I remember a quote from a book called _Gone Too Soon_, which was about the death of infants, miscarriage, and stillbirth from an LDS perspective. There was a section of “things not to say” to a grieving parent. One was, “But you know that your baby is in heaven/the spirit world/the celestial kingdom.” The author’s response to that was, “It does not matter where the baby is. The baby is not _here_.”
Of course, it does matter where the baby is, where our loved ones who die are. Of course we are spared the pain of thinking we will never see them again. Some years ago my former college roommate lost her daughter at age 3–her husband accidentally ran over the daughter with his truck. (yes, gasp!) My friend’s parents were not religious and thought that they would never, ever see their granddaughter again. I am so grateful that I never have to wrestle with that kind of despair.
I remember when Sam was critically ill. There was a night that I thought we might truly lose him. Death gaped before me and I shrank. I could see the path of grief opening before me and I was terrified. At the same time I knew the path had an end, and I had never been more grateful for the Savior. But I was still desperately scared by the prospect of walking that path.
I have the same range of reactions to my husband’s chronic illness. I believe that he is going to die early–the Spirit has told me this–and in those moments I was at peace. The rest of the time I’m all over the place. Sometimes I shut him out emotionally because it’s too overwhelming to deal with. Sometimes I’m terrified about what that might mean for me and for our children. Sometimes life goes on as normal. I wish I could say I was renewed and filled with a desire to live life to its fullest in the meantime, but I’m not. I’m trying to hold things together in the moment. Occasionally people ask, “What would you do if you had one day left to live?” I used to imagine all sorts of possibilities–camping on the beach, snorkeling in Hawaii, you name it. But no one has ever asked me, “What would you do if you might or might not have only one day left to live?” That’s a much harder question to answer, but I’m realizing it’s the real question, not only for Don, but for everyone.
Yesterday a friend of mine got word that her son, who was serving a mission in South Africa, died. He has been on his mission 6 months or so. It was a hiking incident and he fell to his death. I cannot imagine the grief she is going through. My husband and I have discussed this topic in the last 24 hours. This boy was so young. He was my husband’s former home teaching companion. He was a good person who was so happy to be serving the people in South Africa. So, why? I believe that the reason death affects us so is that it suddenly breaks through the illusion that we all build around ourselves that this world is reliable, routine, steady, and predictable. We go through our lives day after day, doing the same things, when suddenly a tragedy occurs. We are thrown off balance. We grieve for the loss of a loved one, but we grieve for ourselves. We grieve because we recognize, if only for a moment, that our lives on this earth are fragile, that we have no control over them, and that all the routines we value are just illusions. We deceive ourselves. The reality is somewhere “out there!” and we have no memory of it. When that fact is brought to our awareness, we really grieve.
When my grandmother died, her last word on this earth was my name. I ran to her room and she had gone unconscious. I couldn’t keep her here, no matter how I much I willed it and held her. When she died, it seemed as if time had stopped. I couldn’t understand how everyone was still moving around and doing their daily tasks and stores were opening and people were eating and leaves were falling and dogs were barking and children playing. I was outside time and I watched everyone move as if they were in a dream. I’ll never forget that feeling. It was complete devastation. Being LDS and having an eternal perspective didn’t help. It didn’t comfort me knowing she was with Grandpa. Selfishly, I wanted her with me. Fear death? No, I don’t. I know she will be meeting me. I think I fear life more. I fear that I will not have lived it enough.
What an interesting idea you mention about time stopping. I have had that feeling in my life each time one of my children has been born. I would look out the hospital window and wonder how on earth the world around was unaware of the amazing person that just entered the world.
How completely fascinating that the same feeling would so aptly be ascribed to an amazing person just leaving the world, too.
It is comforting to me to see President Hinkley so openly still grieve for his wife. Hopefully it sends us all a message that it is OK to grieve and be sad. I would do well to remember that righteousness or faith will not buffer me from the sadness of that loss.
Thanks Angie for this discussion. It has been very good for me.
Melonie- “I think I fear life more.”
You know what I fear? I fear myself. I fear what I’m capable of, good and bad. And I think I agree with you that I fear life more than death.
Well said.
Amen. Way to spew out a personal essay in your blog post, Melonie.
And btw, welcome, Deborah!
If I have to live to be 90, I hope I die because a shelf of books falls on me. I don’t mean to offend you, but somehow that struck me as funny. I’m sure it wasn’t, but it sounds so Seinfield.
Marilise, what a profound statement. I scare myself to death, as well.
I’ve lost so many loved ones, my whole first family, two sisters, my father, many friends. When the phone rings and a friend asks, “did you hear what happened?” I ask, “did somebody die?” So I can sit down and brace myself.
I know, I KNOW, life goes on. I know the spirit world is around us. That is cold comfort. I lost my first husband 33 years ago and I mourn him still. I see his smile and hear his voice.
The gospel is cold comfort, but it is comfort nevertheless. I can’t imagine how it would be without it.
It was Seinfield-ish. Who has a bookcase fall on top of them? And the desire to laugh incredulously made it the horror and the fear seem even worse. I\’m glad you were brave enough to say it. And I only told you part of the story. She had just spent 4 months slowly rehabilitating from a fall and was finally up and around again. She had gone to chruch for the first time in months earlier that day. Crazy stuff. Her actual dying was a prolonged process of several weeks. That\’s a whole different post. Suffice it to say I don\’t want to experience that when I\’m ninety.