Tag Archives: Death

All Saints Day

01 Sunday Nov 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care

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In the quiet of a Sunday morning, after reading a few selections of the Daily Office, I settled into the pages of May Sarton’s book, Plant Dreaming Deep.  This particular book records the personal story of how, at age 46, Sarton came to own her first home in Nelson, New Hampshire.   I open to chapter one then glance at the title:  “The Ancestor Comes Home”.  It is a hint of grace that this chapter should set the table for All Saints Day so perfectly.

All Saints -- Granddad, Granny, Mom, Dad, Papa & Papageorge

I love May Sarton’s writing — her prose is beautiful, her memories hold power, and her angst over indecision is eerily familiar.  But as I enter Sarton’s world, I find I have more in common with Sarton than a shared angst over decisions.  She unwinds a few frames from the days of her life to tell  how she lost both parents by the time she had reached middle age, one in a lingering death and one in the space of hours.   My parents seem destined for this same divide and conquer method themselves; Mom is already gone, felled like Sarton’s great oak father, while Dad is withering on the vine like Sarton’s mother.

The deaths of Sarton’s parents set in motion the dismantling of her parent’s life.  And without any plan to do so, my thoughts immediately turn to my younger sister.  Christi has been living in the shadow of this reality for the last two months, as she has begun to take stock of my parent’s household and make plans for its destiny, whether it be landfill or another’s lucky home.  Sarton’s words about her death rendered event echo in the chambers of my own heart, just as they will soon echo in the vacant house that was my parent’s home.

“…I flew back through that long day to a house that was no longer home.  It was all sudden, violent, and terrible.  Within a week the house had been sold, and within two months dismantled, the books gone, everything torn apart of the fabric of my parents’ lives together.  I went through those months like a person in a dream, hardly conscious, making decisions because they had to be made.”

Christi too is “making decisions because they have to be made.”  However, I’m very grateful that my sister moves at a slower pace than Sarton, even as each passing day makes more clear that Daddy will never leave the nursing home to return to his home on the hill.  That’s our reality in a hard nutshell.  And of course the reality has always been there, keeping us company, nudging us toward recognition, in hopes that we might see IT for the truth it is and name it into existence.  I’ve never thought these thoughts before — that the hardest part of reality is its mere acceptance.

Last June, when Dad was a new and (so I then thought) temporary resident of the nursing home, I looked Daddy in the eye and told him he was a saint.  Daddy was surprised at my words.  Daddy knew he wasn’t perfect and even in his demented state, Daddy knew I knew this too.  So I went on.  “Daddy, you’re a saint not because your perfect.  You’re a saint because your real.”  And as soon as I spoke these words, I realized their truth, that they explained so much about who I am and what I hold most dear.

Dressing up in a Halloween costume of pretense and assumed identity is fun.  But it’s when the masks come off that the beauty and truth of a person is revealed.  For far too many, the masks stay on until death do it part.  But for others, it happens inch by inch.  We see these as the Mother Teresa’s of our world.    But whether alive or dead, we all become saints sooner or later.  We enter sainthood by owing — accepting the reality — of our own imperfect truth — our own imperfect humanity.  And when we no longer pretend to be other than who we really are — when our eyes open to our own beautiful brokeness —  we become just like Daddy.

It was October 18th

18 Sunday Oct 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Our beautiful crystal clear day is almost over.  What was the weather like two years ago?  I don’t remember.  Yet I recall that it was fall break and that I was watching the ‘grands’ that Thursday, as my daughters and the rest of Kara’s bridal party were off to have some fun in Las Vegas.  

And the recollection and writing down of these few words have served to resurrect within my own mind the nature of our weather that day;  it was colder than today’s.  But still pretty enough for the kids to play outside.  I recall Karson didn’t want to wear her sweater and she and I had a verbal tug-of-war over it, before she finally gave up and put it on.  It was probably other grandchildren-tug-of-wars that caused me to miss Mom’s call that day.  It was lunch time and I never heard the phone ring.  When I found her message later, I gave a quick call back to see what she wanted.  But our conversation was short and to the point.  She was busy and so was I.  And we knew we’d see each other the next day for supper.  

Mom sounded good;  she was having fun working in Christi’s shop.  Christi had wanted to close the shop so she and Jane could take a day for play.  But Mom wanted to work; the shop gave Mom a good excuse to get out of the house for the day and an opportunity to  visit with customers.

But the fun came to screeching halt four hours later, when Christi called to tell me that SOMETHING had happened to Mom; and that she and Jane were on their way back home.  We later learned that Mom had suffered a severe brain hemorrhage, sometime between noon and 3:30 pm.  The grands were playing with a couple of neighborhood children outside at the time.  And their other Nana wasn’t scheduled to relieve me until around five o’clock.

Until relief came, I was trapped and unable to rush to Shawnee Medical Center.  But as it turned out, Mom ended up being in such a bad state that she was soon headed my way, transported to Oklahoma City by ambulance to be worked on by the ‘big city’ experts.  When Jane gave me the update, she tried to prepare me:  “Jan, it isn’t good.”

My sister said those same words.  But always the eternal optimist, I found myself telling Christi it would be all right.  Maybe that’s when she got more specific with me.  My journal entry that day records our conversation:

“It’s not good”, Christi says.
“There must be hope, otherwise, they wouldn’t send her. Right?”
“No.”  “It will be days.” 
“DAYS?  Who told you that?”
“The doctors.”

I didn’t care what this doctor thought, or what other ‘grim reaper’ physicians thought, who ended up darkening Mom’s ICU doorway in the days to come.  I endevored to hang onto my hope up until the last week of Mom’s life.  On the opposite side of the track, my sister was afraid to hope, especially given the ER doctor’s prognosis.  Together, we made a great team, helping each other to see the light and dark moments of reality, with the support of so many others.  Mom ended up living seven weeks, though I never heard Mom talk again after those few words she spoke in the Oklahoma City ER, before Mom underwent emergency surgery to relieve pressure from her brain.

In the ER that night, Mom was surrounded by three generations of women — two sisters, two daughters, a daughter-in-law and two young granddaughters.  Trying to decide whether or not to operate, the brain surgeon came in to check on Mom in 45 minute intervals.  The surgeon would pose the same menu of questions, which Mom struggled to answer. 

“Can you tell me your name?”
“Carol Pappas”
Can you tell me where you are?
“Hospital.”
“Can you tell me what today’s date is?”
“——————————–“
“Can you tell me what today’s date is?”
“——————————-“
“Can you tell me what today’s date is?”
“——————————“

I’ll never forget the answer to that question that Mom didn’t know.  It was October 18th.

Bone Chills

11 Sunday Oct 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, The Great Outdoors

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Our cold and damp weather reminds me of cold winter days in south Texas.  Because of high humidity, a  mid-forty temperature ‘down there’ feels just as cold as below freezing temperatures do here in central Oklahoma.  This holds true even when a frigid wind whips down the plain.  But no matter where, I am chilled to the bone by a cold damp day.  

Today we took Max to a veterinary emergency clinic.  Laying on the cold floor of the waiting room, Max too was chilled to the bone.  His chills sent me out to the car to retrieve a comfy old afghan for Max to lay on.  Our mild-manner poodle boy has been listless and limp for the last thirty-six hours.  Just like a baby, the health of this particular dog goes down fast and usually, bounces back just as fast.  But not so this time.

Usually it’s me that makes the call that it’s time for the vet.  Even when raising children, my husband rarely thought the kids were sick enough to take to the pediatrician.  But today,  like a good wife, I planted the seed that it might be vet time for Max.  When I gave my husband a choice to wait or make the call, he chose to wait.  An hour later, I pulled out the seed a second time, this time leaving less room for choice.  In talking it over, we discovered  my husband had misunderstood me the first time;  he thought we were waiting for a call from our regular vet.  Lord have mercy.  Will my husband and I ever communicate well? 

The scary news on Max is that after blood and urine work, the on-call vet doesn’t know the source of Max’s illness.  What they do know is that Max is dehydrated and that the blood test seems to point to kidney disease.  An ultrasound may reveal the cause, but the doctor advised us to wait until Max is hydrated before running the test.  So we left our sad poodle boy to the experts for an overnight stay, to see if they can make Max all well again.

This dog of ours has faced and overcome so many health issues in his young life.  And I wonder, as my eyes tear up, if Max can fight off another claim on his precious life.  In the quiet of the waiting room, I noticed that my husband was no longer reading his book.  When I ask him to share his thoughts, I find that he too is trying to wrap his mind around the diagnosis called kidney disease and wondering where this will take us.  And Max. 

But no matter where, I am chilled to the bone at the scary words ‘kidney disease’ and the mere thought of losing this poodle boy of ours.  On this point, my husband and I are of one mind.  No words are needed.