We Are Easter People

I have an Easter memory from years ago. I was living in Washington, DC, and that year was a low point in my life. My older sister had recently died and both of my brothers were seriously ill; my best friend was leaving town, and on top of that I was questioning my work.

In my journal that April I wrote, “Am I depressed?” When I read those pages now I laugh and shake my head. “Depressed?” That I even had to ask. In that long year I thought I’d never laugh again, just as I thought I’d never again feel love, the joy of easy friendship, or the satisfaction of good work.

I went to church that Easter out of both habit and desperation. I had grown up in a church going family. It was what we did. And so to honor the family that I was losing I went. I chose a big downtown church for Easter services—one with hundreds in the congregation--not daring to visit a smaller church where I might have to speak to people or be embarrassed by my own tears. I wanted the paradoxical safety and anonymity of being in a crowd. 

The minister that Easter Sunday said many things that I don’t remember but one sentence has stayed with me all these years. He said, “We live in a Good Friday world…”  That I understood. A Good Friday world is a world full of suffering, questioning, unfairness, trouble, mistakes, hurts, losses and grief. That was certainly confirmation of my life that day. “But”, he continued, “We are Easter people.” Those words stopped me cold. I was stunned to be reminded that painful morning that there was something other than what I was feeling.

My life was not instantly transformed; his words did not change the course of my brothers’ illness; nor give me answers to my questions. But the idea of being “Easter people” gave me a pause in my grief and the teeniest hope that there really did exist something other than pain.

Today all of the things that hurt so much back then have changed. As my brothers died friends came forward to help. I began to write and publish. Months later I fell in love and moved to upstate New York where a new life began with new friends, new work and yes, of course, new problems.

What strikes me now is that this believing in “Easter” in the midst of “Good Friday” is as much about being an American as it is about being Christian.  Americans are, by character, a people of reinvention. There is an extra layer of intention that we bring to “new life” that isn’t true even in other predominately Christian cultures.  As Americans we are future oriented, we look forward not back, and we are, for the most part, a culture of optimistic, hopeful people.

The gift from that Easter service many years ago was the reminder that we are, by religion or culture, a people who believe in possibility. When our hearts are shattered we are sometimes shocked to discover that there is joy as well as pain inside. Out of the ashes of our mistakes, from our defeats and even our despair, we rise again in better lives.

The Best Death

We had a talk about death last night. It was a good talk. In fact, a great talk. Death is an open conversation for us. It’s always there weaving in and out of every conversation and through our running chats about food and books and friends and politics and yes, sex.

But there was something else last night. Cancer, I’m sure, opened the conversation, but somehow we went deeper than before. We talked about the how of death, and would we help each other die, and how would we know we were ready. What part would be pain, and what part would be exhaustion, and what part would be a sense of readiness?

And all day today as I went back to that conversation I realized something new—something that has changed for me and that, maybe, is also a bit of acceptance.

For so many years—especially in my younger years—I always imagined that a sudden death and an unexpected quick death would be the very best kind. When we play that hypothetical, “How would you like to die?” game I’d always thought that a plane crash or explosion or something sudden and relatively painless would be the way to go. I’ve heard many others say, “die in my sleep” or “die in my lover’s bed” or “die in my recliner watching my team win”…all to suggest that a fast, unexpected death would be the best kind.

But today I realized that I want more from death than that. Maybe this comes from being a control freak, or maybe its because I love process, or maybe it’s because I really do want to place each of my scarves in a friend’s hands—but I want time to know when I will die. I want to know it will be six months or six weeks. I would choreograph each of those scenarios very differently. I want to say good-bye and give my things to specific people. I want to make love dying. I want to say words and hand out books.

And given all of that I realized something about cancer that I never considered before: It may be the very best way to die. Cancer, for the most part, gives warning. Many cancers have some kind of timetable. Cancer lets you have at least a little time to say, “Wow, here we go. This is really going to happen. What do I want now?”

For all the war against this thing and all the battles waged, and all the agendas that insist we should have no cancer consider this: If you accept that you will die, and you know you will die of something, cancer could be the best way to die.

The Eve of Back to School

It is the last day of summer and the eve of the New Year. We will both grieve and celebrate tonight. It’s been a wonderful summer. We had great adventures traveling alone, and with friends, we saw great cities and beautiful beaches. This year it felt like we had more really great books to share than any other summer I can remember. Work has been good, and John’s health continues to improve. I feel so grateful for the goodness that surrounds us.

This night –Labor Day--always feels like New Year’s Eve to me—the influence and habit of so many years of back-to-school preparation. I bought new notebooks this week even though 90% of my work is now on the laptop. But I had to have some new school supplies.

We did three cemetery walks this weekend. The longest at Albany Rural Cemetery—that one has been part of our walking habit for many years. Over the years we’ve pieced together lots of Albany literary history via her dead, and today Prospect Hill—closer to home and smaller but a poignant mix of old and new.

Some people find graveyards morbid but I have always loved them. I grew up a few doors from one and it was our playground, camp and hangout. It was also where I went to pray—even as a kid. I find a sense of tonic in walking through a cemetery. Dead people put everything into perspective.

At Prospect Hill today we looked at a fresh grave that was just dug for a burial tomorrow morning. As we looked down into the grave John said, “Are you ready for that?” It’s quite clarifying to be able to say, “Yeah, I mostly am”.

On this night also—like on Day of the Dead—we’ll eat spicy chocolate and talk about the new season coming, we’ll attempt a schedule –harder this year with book deadlines pressing--and we’ll laugh and dance and make love. Back to school tomorrow. Life is good.

The Upside to Dying of Cancer

Stay with me on this one please. Yes, it’s just a tad morbid—but there is, I swear, an upside. This may be one for small group discussion—with or without wine, with the girl friends, couples at dinner, adult siblings, workplace lunch room.

But you have to be well past the conversational opener that begins, “If I was going to die…”. We’re adults here and we know there is no “if”. Still balking? Still believe in Superman? Come on. 100% of human beings will die. So, given that, what’s the best way?

If you are over 45 you have begun to see some deaths—grandparents, parents, friends, etc. You’ve witnessed enough different kinds of illnesses to have a sense of the good and the bad and the horrid. So how about your death?

I have seen some awful, prolonged illnesses—brothers with ALS and Antitrypsin disorder, parents with strokes—the sudden death kind and the lingering in a coma for years kind. I’ve also spent time with many grieving people—who are ill or who are losing or who have lost a loved one. And here’s my take on this best death possibility.

A sudden heart attack is a poor way to go. In terms of less pain and little personal suffering it’s good, but no preparation, no good-byes, no chance to give things to people, too many things unsaid, too many messes and if you like control—you get zip. Someone else decides what to do with your kids, pets, clothes, books and ideas.

Ditto for strokes. With a stroke you die outright (same as heart attack) or you linger in a coma or semi-conscious for years costing the family money, grief, and painful ambivalence about you. No thanks.

Lou Gehrig’s Disease (ALS) the horror belongs to everyone—the patient (your mind works but not your body) and the caregivers die one thousand times over. (Been there. Done that.) Upside: you know what is going on, you do get to plan a little, but then you mostly watch.

So this brings us to cancer. Dreaded cancer. The disease we are trying to cure. But here’s the thing; if we cure cancer we are left with the choices above. With many cancers there is some time to live between diagnosis and death, there is some choice about what to do, there is time—months or years-to get used to the idea that the disease will end your life. The perfect cancer—if I dare say that --is one that gives you 12 to 18 months to live so you can talk, plan, visit people, try some treatment options, maybe do something on your bucket list, have the chance to personally hand your books, jewelry, artwork, favorite scarves etc. to your friends. It’s the illness with which, should you choose, you could, sort of, go to your own funeral.

Once you accept that you will die, and really grasp that in your heart and head, cancer has its pluses.

Art and Death: Holding Our Own

I watched this extraordinary documentary with three good friends this week. I had seen this film in a class on Caring for the Grieving last year and I was so moved I had to have my own copy. I tracked it down and made a movie night. It’s not everybody’s idea of a chick flick—but really, in a sense this is the ultimate love story and a heartbreaker that makes you happy to cry a lot.

Holding Our Own is about fabric artist Deidre Scherer who creates  “paintings” from her real life sketches of people who are dying. Her work is extraordinarily beautiful and her craft amazing in the ways she creates super-realism in portraiture using layers of fabric. But the other beauty is her belief in and her philosophy of the role that death plays in life.

The second focus of this film is the Hallowell Chorus in Burlington Vermont. Hallowell is a group of amateur and professional singers who volunteer to sing at deathbeds and in hospitals with people who are near death. Again, no, it doesn’t sound like fun but in fact this is stunning.

Watching this extraordinary film with close friends led us to an intimate conversation about our beliefs in life after death, and what we might like for our funerals and our desires for the way we’d like to experience the end of our lives.

Holding Our Own was produced by Paul Newman and it’s available from Netflix or can be purchased on Amazon. It’s a fabulous intersection of creativity and death—which is to say generation-- or life and death.

Ways to Go

If you have dealt with cancer, as patient or caregiver, you know the questions from friends and acquaintances: “Is there a family history?” “Did she smoke?” “Wasn’t he overweight?” “I think he had a lot of anger?”

Translation: There must be some reason that you have cancer and I won’t get it. However, we have numbers to help us sort the crowd. And to remember that cancer is not a moral issue or a character weakness or a personal failing. Maybe this also helps if you are asking, “Why Me?” In truth, why not you?

From the National Safety Council we have statistics that reveal what holds the greatest chance of ending a life. Here are some of the lifetime probabilities of a US resident dying. These are expressed as odds of dying:

Heart disease: 1 in 5

Cancer: 1 in 7

Stroke: 1 in 24

Falling: 1 in 128

Pedestrian accident: 1 in 626

Drowning: 1 in 1,008

Airplane accident: 1 in 5,051

Lightening: 1 in 79,000

So this tells us that cancer is very common with little discrimination and so shouldn’t we all be learning more? It also tells us that heart disease should be our biggest worry, so swap out those pink ribbons for red ones. But the biggest thing we need to be facing is our own mortality. The total odds of dying, of any cause, are 1 in 1. 100% of us will die. You’d think, given that, that we’d get a little bit better at dealing with it.

Stranger Than Fiction

Last night was a great Friday night at home. I stirred up Cajun steak tips and sweet potato fries. Almond Joy ice cream for dessert. And then we watched my all-time favorite movie: “Stranger Than Fiction”. I love, love, love this movie. I watch it at least twice a year and it’s new every time.

“Stranger than Fiction” has the most amazing cast: Emma Thompson, Will Ferrell, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Queen Latifah and Dustin Hoffman and it’s about everything: literature and art, careers and creativity, and especially about death and love and taxes. It has one of the funniest pictures of a stuck writer I have ever seen and one of the greatest, most poignant love stories. And it’s about death. Facing death, accepting death. (That’s why I need to talk about it here.)

This movie makes me believe in art, in love, in courage, and in the sweet strangeness of human beings. And in cookies.

Guys: this movie sets the bar for how a man can win a woman’s heart with a gift. And ladies: Maggie Gyllenhaal’s handbag --and her arms, oh, her arms. Makes you want to do pushups over and over and over.

Stranger Than Fiction. It’s on Netflix.

Obituaries

I read obituaries every day. I have since I was in my twenties. I think of them as little stories, very, very short novels or Haiku lives. But recently I’ve been keeping score of how many of the regional dead are in their late 50’s or early 60’s—our ages—me and John.

I think again—“People my age and John’s age die every day.” And they are not extraordinary deaths, just regular ones from illness and disease and cancers.

I try to use this in a positive way. To remind myself to live my life—mine and not someone else’s idea of my life. To choose my day and –maybe I can’t completely choose what’s in that day --but to choose my attitude about that stuff. To include more of what does matter to me in this day and less of what doesn’t.

I don’t want to die on the day that I was obsessed with who didn’t like me or on the day that I kept trying to please someone else.

Steve Jobs

I am sad about Steve Jobs. He died yesterday from pancreatic cancer and its treatment. I didn’t know him—my only connection is an I Phone and a laptop. But he was 56 and smart and talented and fierce.

Maybe too, his death is a reminder—again—that we die. And that no amount of money, access, power or even the best healthcare in the world can beat death. We die.

I’m also saying to myself, “Oh Diane, get this, please get this, people my age and John’s age die every day--and death at our age is not extraordinary, so really, does work or money or who doesn’t like me really matter?”

I know that the answer is “no”. But living it—that’s another matter.

When He Dies

This morning I was out walking very early. At that hour my mind drifts all over the place and I was imagining John’s funeral. It was prompted, I think, by the music on my IPod, a thought about the music choices I’d make and what the actual event might be like.

Then the fear hit me; I knew how sad I’d be and how scared I’d be and how hard it would be to walk out of the church when John has died. But then my drifting mind reassured me. “Oh,” I thought, “But John will hold my arm, he’ll walk out of the church with me; I’ll lean on him”. And then the terrible reality hit me: When I am at John’s funeral he won’t be able to help me.

On that day I most fear—the day I’ll need him most—he won’t and can’t be next to me.

Evening Gatha

In Zen Buddhism a gatha is a song or hymn that is chanted as part of one’s practice. This evening gatha was a gift from a friend. It hangs in my bathroom.

Evening Gatha:

Let me respectfully remind you~
Life and death are of supreme importance~
Time swiftly passes by, and opportunity is lost~
Each of us should strive to awaken…..
.....awaken
Take heed. Do not squander your life.

Holding Our Own: Art and Death

Tonight in our class on Death and Dying we watched an extraordinary video called “Holding Our Own”. The subtitle is “Embracing the End of Life”.

This documentary is about fabric artist Deidre Scherer who creates fabric “paintings” from real life sketches of people who are dying. Her work is extraordinarily beautiful and her craft amazing in the ways she creates super-realism in portraiture using fabric. But the other beauty is her belief and philosophy about the role that death plays in life.

The second focus of this film is the Hallowell Chorus in Burlington Vermont. Hallowell is a group of amateur and professional singers that participate in Hospice in Burlington. They come to homes and hospitals to sing to and for people who are actively dying.

These artists speak about their feelings and beliefs about death and what they have learned about their own lives thru the experience of singing for and creating art with the dying.

This video was produced by Paul Newman and it’s available from Netflix or can be purchased on Amazon. It’s a fabulous intersection of creativity and death—which is to say generation-- or life and death.

Sex

Sex becomes so important when I think about him dying. But that makes sense, doesn’t it? Sex is generation and death, annihilation.

When Death Comes

Tonight I read an interview with Mary Oliver in Oprah Magazine. Perhaps one of the first interviews that's she's allowed to be really public. She talks about her partner Molly's death and that she decided that she had two choices after her partner of 40 years died: She could buy a small cabin in the woods and lock herself in or she could unlock all the doors and invte the world in. She chose the unlocking. And she says this amazing thing. Five years after the love of her life has died, Mary Oliver says she is the happiest she has ever been in her life. She also talks about doing therapy--at 75 --to deal with a terrible abusive childhood. All of this gives me such hope and a model of a way to be in the world--and in myself.

Here is the poem, "When Death Comes", by Mary Oliver that I am memorizing:

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver ~

How Not to Die of Cancer

I’m re-reading Siddhartha Mukherjee’s wonderful book, “The Emperor of All Maladies—a biography of cancer.”

He says so many things that are obvious after you read them but that we don’t think about day to day. Such as: “Cancer is imprinted in our society: as we extend our life span as a species, we inevitably unleash malignant growth (mutations in cancer genes accumulate with aging) so that cancer is thus intrinsically related to age. If we seek immortality, then so, too, in a rather perverse sense, does the cancer cell.”

This is one of the reasons people in the developing world have more cancer. We live long enough to get cancer.

So how to not die of cancer:

Die young.

Die of malnutrition.

Or die of TB, cholera, malaria, dysentery, or any of the prevalent fevers in the second and third worlds: Choose from River Fever, Dengai Fever or Scarlett Fever.

The Swan

On Saturday I’ll read this poem at the memorial service for our friend Will. I did not know the poem before his wife asked me to read it. And now I am in love with this image of ungainly, ungraceful swan that lumbers and is awkward. That’s not what we picture when we think, “Swan.” But the one in the water, the one we see gliding, regal. And now Rilke says that is like us and I think, “Yeah, this is why I like poets—they can put words to this feeling and this fear of my own bumbling, rope tied, tripping over to-do lists life.



"This clumsy living that moves lumbering
as if in ropes through what is not done,
reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.
And to die, which is the letting go
of the ground we stand on
and cling to every day,
is like the swan,
when he nervously lets himself down into the water,
which receives him gaily
and which flows joyfully under
and after him, wave after wave, while the swan,
unmoving and marvelously calm,
is pleased to be carried, each moment more fully grown,
more like a king, further and further on."



The Swan, by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.


---Mary Oliver

Montaigne on Death

I’m reading Sarah Bakewell’s new biography of Montaigne. Wonderful format: she writes one question: How to live? And answers it in 20 essays giving glimpses into Montaigne’s life and writing and thinking.

A near death experience was a key to his life and thinking. He wrote:

“If you don’t know how to die don’t worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot, fully and adequately. She will do this job perfectly for you; don’t bother your head about it. Life is more difficult than death; instead of passive surrender, it takes attention and management. It can also be more painful.”

Day of the Dead

Today I celebrate Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. It’s not a holiday I grew up with but one I’ve borrowed from the Southwest and Mexico. It’s become one of my favorite holidays partly because it’s a good spiritual counterpart to Halloween. Except for the candy, October 31st doesn’t leave much for grownups. Being scared of goblins and ghoulies lost its sway when I got old enough to lose people that I loved. The dead just aren’t scary in the same way anymore. In fact, I’d welcome a visit from some of them.

That’s what Day of the Dead is about. There is a belief that on this day the veil separating this world and the next is thinner and so it’s a time we can be closer to those that we love who are dead.

Day of the Dead celebration centers on rituals for remembering loved ones. We can visit in our imagination or feel their presence. It can mean prayer or conversation, writing a letter or looking at old photos. The tradition that I use includes making an ofrenda, or altar, something as simple as putting photos and candles on the coffee table and taking time to talk and remember. We also have chocolate as a symbol of the sweet and bitter separation from those we love.

A ritual is a way of ordering life. Whether Purim or Advent, hearing Mass or saying Kaddish, small ceremonies help us sort and reframe our memories. When someone dies the relationship doesn’t stop, it’s renegotiated, literally re-conceived.

This isn’t a very American idea. Culturally our preferences are for efficiency and effectiveness; even with grief we use words like closure and process.

I remember my frustration when I was grieving and well-intentioned friends would suggest I move along in my process and quoted Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. The simplified version of her theory lists stages: Denial--Bargaining--Anger--Depression, and Acceptance. But it’s false to create an expectation of five discrete steps. This listing implies order and that a person can move from point A to point B and be done. That makes grief seem like an emotional Monopoly game where you go around the board, collect points and get to a distinct and certain end. This false notion of linearity is apparent when we hear people judge someone who is grieving, “Oh she missed the anger stage”, or “He hasn’t reached acceptance yet.”

I always thought that “losing a loved one” was a euphemism used by people who were afraid to say the word dead.. But after losing my brother Larry I know that lost is the perfect word to describe the feeling that follows a death. Something just out of reach, still here, but also gone.

Though he died several years ago my feeling about my brother is that I have misplaced him; It’s that sensation of knowing that my book or that letter I was just reading, are around here somewhere…if I could just remember where I left him.

I think this is why we can sometimes be so hard on the grieving, and why we want them to go through those stages and be done with it. We love closure and things that are sealed and settled. But death and grief, for all their seeming finality, are not as final as we would like.

So tonight I’ll make cocoa and light candles; we’ll look at pictures and tell stories and we’ll laugh.

The root of the word grieve is heavy. We carry our dead as a cherished burden. Death ends a life but not a relationship. Who would want to close the door on that?

Christopher Hitchens

...is dying from esophageal cancer that has metastasized. He is chronicling this in Esquire Magazine and NPR is also interviewing him weekly. What else does a writer do than take his own experience and turn it into words, hopefully mining the experience for others but also for himself? That’s what we do.

Hitchens, you may recall, has written and spoken extensively about God, religion, and belief and his non-belief in each of those. Now cancer. Soon death and I must say that I do admire him for the integrity of his beliefs about belief.

Yesterday he spoke about the many people who are praying for him and he makes a distinction between those whose prayers are good wishes for his health or comfort versus those whose prayers are more along the lines of, “God, maybe now that this bastard is dying he’ll finally believe in you.”