Returning: How We Process the Death of a Loved One, One Memory and Emotion at a Time
It's not easy
Pixabay Image - by GoranH
Returning, what does it really mean?
For the past is past, the sounds, now
old sounds unrepentant. The memories
scratched and misaligned, our present
life knocking them out of sync, so they
no longer play as easily as they once did.
**
Yet there we sit, enthralled at what
once was – look at all those kids, those
adults sipping espresso and chattering
in Italian. Watching us, watching them,
and now where are they?
**
Returning is being dragged through gravel
and thorned bushes, while music plays
sweetly in the background; laughter
everywhere for we remember joy over
sadness and yet it is sadness that reigns
when the last part of the day sets unwillingly
in the west.
**
We are soulful creatures; tearful at times.
Remembering so much, regretting too little,
whispering to ourselves – we could’ve
done better, but not knowing how or why
really. It’s just the thing to say.
**
Returning to one’s roots is not possible.
They are all grown out. A great tree
overhead now. Branches everywhere and
nowhere. Blossoms or fruit falling. Are we
there beneath to catch them or mourn them?
***
My mother passed away a few short weeks ago. She was 100. A remarkable number when you consider all that has happened on this planet while she was alive. Born a few short years after World War I ended. Years before the Great Depression raged. A teenager when we failed to learn our lessons and marched into a Second World War as if the first one hadn’t taught us enough.
She was a good woman, a good mother, a flawed human like all others who lived her best life as she defined it. While we all watched from the sidelines witnessing something rather unique.
Death rattles the staid and steady reality that wraps itself around all of us. Tears it. Rends it from here to there as we understand too little and resist too much in our ongoing effort to live a good life.
Did she live a good life? I think she did. There were regrets, hers, not mine. Moments that could have been, should have been if she had her way, but never were. Being a woman, she was denied access and acceptance in times far less egalitarian than they are today. When ‘you can’t do that’ was a common retort simply because her sex had better things to do that did not include crowding a field that was meant for men alone, as defined by men alone.
She was strong. Much stronger than most men for she had to carry twice as much, twice as long to get half the distance that others achieved. And this ground her down over the years.
Made her bitter when she should have been sweet. Made her weaker for self-doubt creeps in even when the cause is not hers to bear.
Happiness came and went. Marriages came and went, not through divorce but through death; she simply outlived them.
She danced through life, not literally like a Gene Kelly movie, but she would have liked to. She danced metaphorically, keeping her steps light, her mind on the next day, and her attention off the more difficult things in life.
It’s not that she didn’t have them, we all did, she just danced around them. Setting them aside; focusing on her next thought, her next desire, her next outfit that she would design and stitch carefully with the artistry of a skilled seamstress.
It was her way. Her superpower that enabled her to march through her eighties and her nineties with the steadfastness of a much younger person. She loved life even if at times it didn’t seem to love her as much in return. But she coped.
Not all by herself, no, no one lives alone fully. She had those who loved her and took care of her. Watched to make sure her mistakes were minor, her failings uneventful and her days as steady and comfortable as possible even as her body began its final descent into immobility.
Returning is all about remembering but with the distinction that all the details, all the emotions are present and accounted for, so that one feels the aches and pains all over again.
It’s a journey of reconciliation, as one decides what moments should be kept and which ones should be discarded, like the odd dinner plates, figurines, and tchotchkes that one collects over a lifetime.
To keep only those that matter, that help hold the good in place while the rest, though just as relevant, can fade away after a thorough review to make sure we learn from them.
The above poem is a distillation of an ongoing process. Death rattles us; dislodges all sorts of memories and emotions from places where they should have remained. But what’s done is done, now it’s time to assess, disregard, or retain, and move on. The last bit being the most important.
This is very special. I can feel your mother in its bones. Witnessing is an act of love. 'Returning' is a great word to describe the aging journey