The Painful Goodbye
As we age bit by bit, soul by soul those that we know or better said that we knew go away. Where they go is a subject for a different conversation. Some will tell you heaven others will tell you dirt. Truth be told these are philosophical questions much larger than my humble mind can ponder. I can say that birth to life to death is a natural progression of organic life and it is only logical that those we cross paths with in life will at some point cease to exist. While logical in the course of human events it still doesn't make the event any less painful.
I don't understand what happens to some people when they grow old. Sometimes it seems like something changes in the mind. I don't know if it is a way of compensating for the eventual reality or if it is a reflection of true emotions. Perhaps this is one of the things that makes it so difficult. In my life and family I have had considerable experience with this phenomenon. It started with a dysfunctional relationship between my mother and her parents. To be honest I think this dysfunction predated her mother and likely leaked from her grandmother, grandfather and generations beyond. Sometimes I think dysfunction is woven into us with our DNA. Some people have it, some people don't.
In my mother's life a series of seemingly contrived actions led to literally years passing with no communication between her and her parents. As a result, I hardly knew my grandparents. When I was small I named them Sugar and Spice. I guess somewhere the sugar got lost and the spice transformed into Tabasco. A stated reason for their estrangement was an amethyst watch chain that had been converted into a necklace. It had once belonged to my great grandfather. My grandmother demanded that my mother return it. Why? I have no idea but she refused. Years of silence passed culminating with an odd summers day in Alaska. My grandfather and grandmother became world cruisers in their later years and at one point docked in my home town of Anchorage, Alaska. We met their ship and were allowed to pass to my grandparents cabin. My grandmother was hunched over from osteoporosis and clutched a walker. My grandfather sat silently in seeming servitude. After an initial greeting they said simply to my mother, "Did you bring the necklace?" It was like I was witnessing some kind of hostage negotiation. My mother told them no and the response was something like, "Well then we have nothing more to discuss."
We walked out and that was that. Eventually my grandfather died one hot summers day when his car broke down on the side of a steaming hot Louisiana road. He tried to walk for help yet soon yielded to the sun, collapsed and expired. After my grandfather's death my grandmother, in her last years, seemed to reconcile somewhat with my mother. They started talking and she visited her. They were trips filled with tears and confusion, love and resentment. Perhaps having her end in sight my grandmother felt the need to make some amends. My father tells the story that my grandmother demanded that her ashes be dumped on some piece of property that apparently was a convent. It may have been part of a church. To this day I can't figure out her last request and its relationship to the Catholic church as my grandmother was an Episcopal. Perhaps it was her way of healing the great Christian divide dating to old King Henry the Eighth and his desire to get a divorce. Unfortunately, there was no Las Vegas in England at the time. My mother and Cynthia the daughter of her brother approached the convent office and spoke with a nun or possibly a priest. My Mom explained that it was the last wish of her mother to have her ashes sprinkled on their ground, perhaps near a tree.
The priest or nun refused their request. They informed Cynthia and my mother that the church was on sacred ground and that there were rules regarding such things. How this could be justified when churches have been burying dead people in their midst for God knows how long I can't fathom. Perhaps it was more an issue of burial fees and being ... ahem... a Catholic.
Despondent, my mother and Cynthia left. My Mom was most certainly preoccupied by the thought of being haunted by the spirit of her mother into eternity. As they walked away my mother's resourcefulness kicked in. She noticed a patch of woods nearby the property and decided it was the next best thing. They ventured into the woods far enough to make sure they were completely out of sight from the convent. I have a vision of a mother superior looking suspiciously like a penguin leering from the window, holding a rosary, and mumbling prayers to herself. I have to wonder what the church would have done had they seen them. I mean once the ashes were out it seems a bit late. However, I would not put it beyond a diligent church official to produce a vacuum and order it's use.
Safely out of sight my mother and Cynthia spread the ashes around and mixed them with leaves and twigs that covered the forest floor in an effort to conceal their presence. As my mother lifted some leaves she was horrified to discover a wad of used toilet paper. In moments initial shock turned to open laughter. I suppose it is proof that despite best efforts even in death there can be little dignity.
Still wary that they were being watched they decided not to cross convent property and instead detour through the same woods. While doing this they continued to discover Goldilocks bread crumb like trail of used toilet paper. As they emerged from the forest they found themselves walking into an active construction site. Apparently for the workers the fresh air and trees had proven to be more inviting than the plastic porta-pot. In truth, who could blame them. Unfortunately for my grandmother her final resting place was not nearly as sacred as she had hoped.
Despite my best effort and that of my mother to escape the cycle of guilt and resentment something seemed to suck us back in. It was as if some uncontrollable force held sway over the generations. I felt I had a pretty good relationship with her but as cancer overcame her body and the end of her life neared anger seemed to bubble out. Maybe it was from me, maybe her, I can't say. I think anger and emotion is a vicious cycle that sucks us all in and like a cyclone it becomes difficult to escape. Beautiful memories become lost in the torment blurred beyond recognition. Psychological defenses try to conceal the hurt of impending loss that soon must be confronted and can never be denied.
Long before I was born my mother gave birth to two other children. Each from a different father and each out of wedlock. It was the 60's and a time when abortion was illegal. Desperate women had no choice but to either seek one illegally or carry the child to term. My mother was a nurse and I suppose she was likely a victim of her own experiences seeing young women come into her emergency room suffering from botched abortions. Perhaps fear generated from what she witnessed prevented her from aborting her own pregnancies. She ended up carrying both children to term and then adopting them away at birth. I can't imagine the pain a woman must feel as she carries a developing human inside of her knowing she will never know them or be their mother.
It is difficult for me to conceive my mom having had other children. You see for me, I was always an only child and she was always just my mom. I didn't know anything else. At some point during my teenage years motivated largely out of guilt and a feeling of self responsibility my mother went about locating the two children she gave birth to. In time she found them. One was a young man in the Air force, another a nurse living in Mississippi. Neither asked anything of her yet my mother continued to try to "build a relationship." She wanted me to do the same yet I steadfastly refused. From my perspective I could see nothing more than two strangers and I wondered how she could not feel the same. She was my mom and I had spent my life being her son. How could she afford this privilege, these feelings, these emotions to another?
My mom was not a rich woman yet when she added the other children to her will I took it as a stab in the heart. In truth I had no right yet from the deepest darkest regions of my soul I took it as an insult to my place as her child. Of course my mother had her reasons largely motivated out of her own guilt yet these were impossible for me to see, to comprehend. Eventually my mom seemingly acquiesced to my feelings and changed her will again to make me her heir. When she fell ill I was living in Bolivia. I did my best to care and support her even sending my wife, young son and Bolivian maid to her home to assist her. I remember calling my wife while she was living with my Mom. I missed her and just wanted to hear her voice. To talk about the insignificant things in life. My mother started to complain. She didn't want the phone line occupied. I guess in her mind, it cut her off from what little life she had left. One day I exploded, the torture just all came out mixed in a vicious cocktail of anger and tears. In early November, 1999, I flew home to be with my mother and my family. We planned to take a short family trip to the Philippines to see my wife's parents and when we returned I was going to prepare Thanksgiving for my mother.
While out of the country I received news my Mom had died. With her was my aunt and the daughter she had found once again. I returned home to bury her. It was then I learned of a last ditch effort by her to again change her will. At first I was angry, then sad. I felt once more I had fallen from her grace and this occurred most horrendously just before her death. The effort never succeeded. She was under heavy narcotics and her lawyer refused to change anything feeling she was not conscious of what she was doing, still, it hurt.
When I buried my mother I tried to let it go. It took a few years yet I believe by now I have succeeded. I just think of her as Mom and wish I had another year, another day to share my life with her. Despite this I still wonder why some make this final journey filled with such turmoil? Why do we hurt the ones we spent our lives wanting to love? My own age has helped me to understand better the perspective of my mother, a perspective my lack of life and own simplistic view refused to let me understand.
Today my step father is dealing with a similar situation. My grandmother is old and her days in this world are numbered. What should be a celebration of life and memory seems to become more difficult with each passing day. He wants to be the good son. He wants to care for his mom yet she makes it so hard. Emotional games seem to be endless torture devices as she wages a war of scorched earth and attrition. My grandmother has two faces. The one she shows me is loving and beautiful. She is still the woman that welcomed me as a boy and despite not sharing her blood, she convinced me I was every bit her grandson. For my father and his sister the baggage of a lifetime never seems to empty. It only grows more full with each passing day threatening to burst at the seams. Their minds weigh heavy with torment and conflict. Feelings of anger and self doubt are never far away. They want to love and care yet they don't understand why she won't let them.
These days when we talk my father asks me to do things for him when he grows old and increasingly I find myself asking the same of my son. They are not tasks, simply wishes. Wishes that we will not put our children through what we have seen, what we have felt. I want to grow old with my son loving me for who I am and not think of me as a burden. My father tells me jokingly if he reaches a point of non-self sufficiency just take him out into the wild. Lead him to a beautiful river in the mountains running with crisp clear water and jumping trout. Help him fix a line and cast a few times letting the fly dance over the invisible surface drawing the wishful glances of fish passing by. At that point, leave him there.
I want the end of my life to be a celebration of the love I have for my son, for my wife and for all the friends I have cared for that will outlive me. I don't want to leave any bitter taste in the mouth of those that saw me pass, those that will remember me. As God is my witness I will do whatever it takes to make this happen. My life is not just about me, it is about all those that have loved me.
Of course with every sad story there are stories of joy. Stories of lives fulfilled and memories left. My wife's parents are nearing their eighties. A number of years ago they left the pollution and chaos of Manila for the beauty and tranquility of a provincial life. They live in a traditional provincial home and her mother, a former botanist tends her plants with the tenderness of a woman holding a child. They bicker yet support, the love and cherish each day they still live. I am confident that when they pass their hearts will be filled with nothing more than love and thankfulness to have lived the life that was given them.
Age is hard to confront, dying even harder. Saying goodbye is painful enough it is hard to understand why some make it so much more difficult. Questions like these have few answers. There is however a time when a simple question can teach a lesson. A lesson that if followed can perhaps break the cyclical torment passed from one generation to the next and replace it with a smile and a kiss goodbye.
I don't understand what happens to some people when they grow old. Sometimes it seems like something changes in the mind. I don't know if it is a way of compensating for the eventual reality or if it is a reflection of true emotions. Perhaps this is one of the things that makes it so difficult. In my life and family I have had considerable experience with this phenomenon. It started with a dysfunctional relationship between my mother and her parents. To be honest I think this dysfunction predated her mother and likely leaked from her grandmother, grandfather and generations beyond. Sometimes I think dysfunction is woven into us with our DNA. Some people have it, some people don't.
 |
| Laurence & Bettie Lees |
We walked out and that was that. Eventually my grandfather died one hot summers day when his car broke down on the side of a steaming hot Louisiana road. He tried to walk for help yet soon yielded to the sun, collapsed and expired. After my grandfather's death my grandmother, in her last years, seemed to reconcile somewhat with my mother. They started talking and she visited her. They were trips filled with tears and confusion, love and resentment. Perhaps having her end in sight my grandmother felt the need to make some amends. My father tells the story that my grandmother demanded that her ashes be dumped on some piece of property that apparently was a convent. It may have been part of a church. To this day I can't figure out her last request and its relationship to the Catholic church as my grandmother was an Episcopal. Perhaps it was her way of healing the great Christian divide dating to old King Henry the Eighth and his desire to get a divorce. Unfortunately, there was no Las Vegas in England at the time. My mother and Cynthia the daughter of her brother approached the convent office and spoke with a nun or possibly a priest. My Mom explained that it was the last wish of her mother to have her ashes sprinkled on their ground, perhaps near a tree.
 |
| Where was the love? (taken on Love Boat) |
The priest or nun refused their request. They informed Cynthia and my mother that the church was on sacred ground and that there were rules regarding such things. How this could be justified when churches have been burying dead people in their midst for God knows how long I can't fathom. Perhaps it was more an issue of burial fees and being ... ahem... a Catholic.
Despondent, my mother and Cynthia left. My Mom was most certainly preoccupied by the thought of being haunted by the spirit of her mother into eternity. As they walked away my mother's resourcefulness kicked in. She noticed a patch of woods nearby the property and decided it was the next best thing. They ventured into the woods far enough to make sure they were completely out of sight from the convent. I have a vision of a mother superior looking suspiciously like a penguin leering from the window, holding a rosary, and mumbling prayers to herself. I have to wonder what the church would have done had they seen them. I mean once the ashes were out it seems a bit late. However, I would not put it beyond a diligent church official to produce a vacuum and order it's use.
Safely out of sight my mother and Cynthia spread the ashes around and mixed them with leaves and twigs that covered the forest floor in an effort to conceal their presence. As my mother lifted some leaves she was horrified to discover a wad of used toilet paper. In moments initial shock turned to open laughter. I suppose it is proof that despite best efforts even in death there can be little dignity.
Still wary that they were being watched they decided not to cross convent property and instead detour through the same woods. While doing this they continued to discover Goldilocks bread crumb like trail of used toilet paper. As they emerged from the forest they found themselves walking into an active construction site. Apparently for the workers the fresh air and trees had proven to be more inviting than the plastic porta-pot. In truth, who could blame them. Unfortunately for my grandmother her final resting place was not nearly as sacred as she had hoped.
Despite my best effort and that of my mother to escape the cycle of guilt and resentment something seemed to suck us back in. It was as if some uncontrollable force held sway over the generations. I felt I had a pretty good relationship with her but as cancer overcame her body and the end of her life neared anger seemed to bubble out. Maybe it was from me, maybe her, I can't say. I think anger and emotion is a vicious cycle that sucks us all in and like a cyclone it becomes difficult to escape. Beautiful memories become lost in the torment blurred beyond recognition. Psychological defenses try to conceal the hurt of impending loss that soon must be confronted and can never be denied.
 |
| A mother and her son |
It is difficult for me to conceive my mom having had other children. You see for me, I was always an only child and she was always just my mom. I didn't know anything else. At some point during my teenage years motivated largely out of guilt and a feeling of self responsibility my mother went about locating the two children she gave birth to. In time she found them. One was a young man in the Air force, another a nurse living in Mississippi. Neither asked anything of her yet my mother continued to try to "build a relationship." She wanted me to do the same yet I steadfastly refused. From my perspective I could see nothing more than two strangers and I wondered how she could not feel the same. She was my mom and I had spent my life being her son. How could she afford this privilege, these feelings, these emotions to another?
My mom was not a rich woman yet when she added the other children to her will I took it as a stab in the heart. In truth I had no right yet from the deepest darkest regions of my soul I took it as an insult to my place as her child. Of course my mother had her reasons largely motivated out of her own guilt yet these were impossible for me to see, to comprehend. Eventually my mom seemingly acquiesced to my feelings and changed her will again to make me her heir. When she fell ill I was living in Bolivia. I did my best to care and support her even sending my wife, young son and Bolivian maid to her home to assist her. I remember calling my wife while she was living with my Mom. I missed her and just wanted to hear her voice. To talk about the insignificant things in life. My mother started to complain. She didn't want the phone line occupied. I guess in her mind, it cut her off from what little life she had left. One day I exploded, the torture just all came out mixed in a vicious cocktail of anger and tears. In early November, 1999, I flew home to be with my mother and my family. We planned to take a short family trip to the Philippines to see my wife's parents and when we returned I was going to prepare Thanksgiving for my mother.
While out of the country I received news my Mom had died. With her was my aunt and the daughter she had found once again. I returned home to bury her. It was then I learned of a last ditch effort by her to again change her will. At first I was angry, then sad. I felt once more I had fallen from her grace and this occurred most horrendously just before her death. The effort never succeeded. She was under heavy narcotics and her lawyer refused to change anything feeling she was not conscious of what she was doing, still, it hurt.
When I buried my mother I tried to let it go. It took a few years yet I believe by now I have succeeded. I just think of her as Mom and wish I had another year, another day to share my life with her. Despite this I still wonder why some make this final journey filled with such turmoil? Why do we hurt the ones we spent our lives wanting to love? My own age has helped me to understand better the perspective of my mother, a perspective my lack of life and own simplistic view refused to let me understand.
Today my step father is dealing with a similar situation. My grandmother is old and her days in this world are numbered. What should be a celebration of life and memory seems to become more difficult with each passing day. He wants to be the good son. He wants to care for his mom yet she makes it so hard. Emotional games seem to be endless torture devices as she wages a war of scorched earth and attrition. My grandmother has two faces. The one she shows me is loving and beautiful. She is still the woman that welcomed me as a boy and despite not sharing her blood, she convinced me I was every bit her grandson. For my father and his sister the baggage of a lifetime never seems to empty. It only grows more full with each passing day threatening to burst at the seams. Their minds weigh heavy with torment and conflict. Feelings of anger and self doubt are never far away. They want to love and care yet they don't understand why she won't let them.
These days when we talk my father asks me to do things for him when he grows old and increasingly I find myself asking the same of my son. They are not tasks, simply wishes. Wishes that we will not put our children through what we have seen, what we have felt. I want to grow old with my son loving me for who I am and not think of me as a burden. My father tells me jokingly if he reaches a point of non-self sufficiency just take him out into the wild. Lead him to a beautiful river in the mountains running with crisp clear water and jumping trout. Help him fix a line and cast a few times letting the fly dance over the invisible surface drawing the wishful glances of fish passing by. At that point, leave him there.
 |
| Efren & Nydia Abanco |
Of course with every sad story there are stories of joy. Stories of lives fulfilled and memories left. My wife's parents are nearing their eighties. A number of years ago they left the pollution and chaos of Manila for the beauty and tranquility of a provincial life. They live in a traditional provincial home and her mother, a former botanist tends her plants with the tenderness of a woman holding a child. They bicker yet support, the love and cherish each day they still live. I am confident that when they pass their hearts will be filled with nothing more than love and thankfulness to have lived the life that was given them.
Age is hard to confront, dying even harder. Saying goodbye is painful enough it is hard to understand why some make it so much more difficult. Questions like these have few answers. There is however a time when a simple question can teach a lesson. A lesson that if followed can perhaps break the cyclical torment passed from one generation to the next and replace it with a smile and a kiss goodbye.
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