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The zephyrs of death, as it seems, waft in around the windows of this house. Not cold or shivery, but gentle reminders.
-- My wife is off in New Jersey where here mother grew weak on Christmas day and went to the hospital where medical teams stabilized her congestive heart failure. Mary is in her mid- to later-80's. This morning she is in a rehab unit and would like to go home. "She wants to die at home," my wife said to me on the phone. And it is nice to wish for others what they wish for themselves, so perhaps, I hope, Mary will get her wish and not be subjected to too many interfering kindnesses.
-- My mother turned 95 yesterday and when I called a couple of days ago at around noon, her minder said she was sleeping a lot and had not yet got up. We can no longer really converse on the phone. My mother's hearing (which she seems to have the capacity to turn on and off) is mostly off these days. Why waste the energy? Others may imagine they have something worth transmitting, but I do not think my mother thinks that. I wish her what she wishes.
-- A friend told me that his father died a couple of days ago. My friend has no fond memories of his father -- an abusive, self-centered man, to hear my friend tell it. Nevertheless, my friend wonders vaguely if he should make a 1,000 mile trip to be at the funeral. My friend has his own disabilities to cope with and the social imperative of attending on a family member's burial -- especially one who offered so little of the nurture generally associated or hoped for with immediate kin -- carries little or no weight.
I think that the death of loved ones or enemies carries a measure of surprise in the sense that now we are forced to admit what had always been true -- that we ourselves are the ones who created the loved ones and enemies. In their death, there is no more shirking of the responsibility. My wife IS her mother. I AM my mother. My friend IS his father.
It can be a real jolt, in the same way that soft zephyrs can occasionally offer an icy sting or a fiery burn.
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Thank you, Adam Fisher, for your thoughtful observations. You are a sensitive witness and an elegant writer. Your father would be pleased.
ReplyDeleteThank you 'anonymous.' If I learned anything about writing, it came from my mother, who had the courage. My father was more of an academic wannabe in the writing department. My mother followed the wisdom, if not the subject matter, of the old sports writer Red Smith. "Writing is easy," he said. "You just sit down at the typewriter and open a vein."
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