Being Em
When does grieving begin? It must happen once all the details are addressed: the friends have been greeted and thanked, the funeral arrangements have been made and carried out, and the possessions have been sorted through, distributed, and boxed.
Why do some people address the news of someone's death and others say nothing? Is it because some people feel more comfortable talking about death than others? It amazes me that the people who write about death use the same terms, words that sound like a whisper on the tongue. Loss. (Hush) Passed away. (Shh) I wonder if we actually talked about death, used the word 'death' in our acknowledgement of what happened, the idea would evoke less fear. I suppose changing the vocabulary would serve to place the emphasis on the act of dying instead of the act of grieving. Dad died. We miss him terribly; however, his death was a natural part of his life. He was still young at 62 years, but death came anyway. His death is what we are struggling to face. We may not have him around in the future, but he was very much a part of our past. If I have been struck by anything in the past week, it is how fortunate I am to have been born my father's daughter. I have not lost my father, nor has he passed away. My life is richer for having been a part of his. His memory, more importantly his legacy, is still very much alive inside of me and everyone he touched.
Dad would have loved the attention he has received in the past week. There were two newspaper articles about him over the weekend: an obituary written by his former wife, our mom and an editorial written by a staff writer at the local paper that highlighted his role as a humanitarian. Over 350 people attended his funeral on Monday. Without much warning friends and family from as far away as Minnesota set aside time on a summer morning to honor Dad's life. Members of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra paid him tribute by volunteering their time and talent. The first violinist, the concertmaster played a solo. Everything about the service was beautiful: the music, the words the minister wove into his homily, the passages my brother and my Uncle John's partner John read, the friends, some of whom we had not seen for 20 years, and the 20 family members who processed in and out of the church as a unit. Dad's cremains were laid in a hole that was dug in the church garden as the organ bellowed in celebration of his life.
After months of keeping vigil by Dad's bedside, his support team has disbanded. My two uncles left with their partners after the reception that followed the funeral. Charles left yesterday. Margs and I will be leaving in the next few days. Only Mom and Helga will remain in Atlanta. I suppose it is time for each of us to re-enter our lives and face our individual challenges. We united in our love for Dad and drew strength from each other. We will keep Dad's memory alive as we reach out to support each other from this day forward.
"Breathe in love; breathe out fear." I regret that I was not quick to recall these words, my family's mantra that our sage Bettie shared with us years ago, when I spoke with Dad on his last day, but I suppose they were not needed. Dad, who had been surrounded by family since April, had been breathing in love for months. He was not afraid of dying, just afraid of the new facility, of the unknown surrounding hospice. Once he was transferred and situated in his new room, he was able to rest peacefully. Death came quickly after a restful night. He was with his two brothers and present wife. Music played softly in the background.
Mom, Margs, and I were on the way to hospice when Dad died. Charles had just flown to Houston from New York City. That morning Margs and I made a decision to go for a run before leaving the house and spending the day with Dad. We had no idea that the end was so near; however, we were fully conscious of the fact that every decision that we made to spend time away from Dad could mean that we were not with him when he died. Several weeks ago, I found solace in the memory of my 15-year old self sitting next to Dad on a couch in our den when the phone rang to notify him of his mother's death. Dad was not with his mother when she died. It would be okay if we were not with him. That morning I found increasing strength with every step of my run. At some point just before the half-way mark, I sensed that Dad was going. I reacted by straightening my back, opening my chest, and increasing my speed. By the end of the run, I felt as if I could soar. I was ready to face what lay ahead.
Dad did not need the four of us there when he died. He needed his brother John and wife Helga. He needed them to release him, to let him know that they would be okay without him. He needed his brother Randy to come early that morning to infuse the room with positive energy and love before John and Helga arrived. After such a long struggle, Dad died peacefully.
There is something different about the quality of a shared versus an individual memory. My last memory of Dad is an individual one that I have found myself returning to over and over since we parted. As a unit we left Dad's room when the man from the funeral home came to collect the body. I returned to ask the young man whether I could remain in the room while he transferred Dad from the bed to the stretcher.
Since I was young, I have been interested in and have asked questions about cultural practices associated with death. It is one of the first topics I approach when I travel to a new country. Ironically, within an hour of disembarking from the plane in Fiji when I traveled there to collect data for my master's research in 1996 I found myself attending a funeral and burial of a young man who died from asthma. In Nepal, I spent hours at Pashupatinath Temple in Kathmandu watching cremations and the ceremonies that preceded them. For me, the scene was intensely spiritual. I witnessed the removal of clothing, the application of red and orange vermilion to the gold shroud, the procession around the funeral pyre, and the ignition of the cloth protruding from the dead individual's mouth. Both Hindus and Buddhists believe the soul is released from the mouth. For this reason, the mouth is lit first during a cremation. For the most part, the view of the burning bodies was obscured by the straw and flames that covered them. Only later in the process, several hours after the initial lightening, does it become necessary to remind one's self of the detachment that occurs when life transcends the physical plane. It is this history that I bring to Dad's death, that provides background for the questions I asked the young man who came to take Dad to the crematorium and the older Southern gentleman at the funeral home who was puzzled by my directness and desire to know such detail.
It was important to me to make sure that Dad was taken from hospice with the same care we had shown towards him in life. I asked the young man how bodies are cremated in this country. He took his time in answering my questions and shared with me the detail that I sought. Together we uncovered Dad and gently lifted and strapped him on the stretcher. The man shrouded him in emerald- green velour and wheeled him into a white mini-van. Having that time with Dad after the rest of my family left filled me with peace. It felt as if Dad were still with his body, still in the room. It was my chance to say goodbye.
It is over. Dad died this morning at 10:58 AM.
I want to write and record some of what is happening, but I need to be a part of the action right now. There will be time to write later. So much is happening. I don't think I have words for everything. Yesterday, I turned my dissertation into the six readers who will sit on my defense in mid-August. It is absolutely unbelievable to me that I was able to find the focus to finish. Today, we gave permission to the doctors to remove Dad's feeding tube, stopped his cardiac medication, and moved him into hospice. For the first time in several weeks, he was alert and able to talk with us about death. He is surprised that it is happening now, when he is so young, but is not scared. This is such an intense period, beautiful and wrenching at the same time.
Is this reality or am I merely an actor playing on Shakespeare's stage? By Friday evening I wanted to laugh; the stimuli that have been thrown my way just in the past week have seemed utterly unbelievable. Haven't the challenges I have endured over the past three years, even just the past 12 months been enough? I feel as if Hercules and I have switched roles for the summer. My God, this is tough. It appears that I have five days to finish my dissertation - five days during which time my family and I need to discuss our next plan of action. Finally, some of Dad's doctors are being truthful and have suggested that we investigate placing Dad into hospice care. It is time we help Dad to focus on the task that lies ahead of him. We (his two brothers, two wives, and three children) are collectively reaching a point where I believe we are able to let him go. Fly Dad; it is time for you to go. You know we love you.
It is the simple pleasures of life that make me the most happy. Yesterday, happiness took the form of running the largest 10 kilometer race in the world, the Peachtree Road Race, with my brother, sister, and 54,997 other people. The three of us took advantage of being home in Atlanta for Dad to run. It was a reunion of the Siegel Sibs running team. Our last appearance was in October 2003 when we ran the Chicago Marathon and before that in November 2002 when we ran the Atlanta Marathon (Charles and I) and Half Marathon (Margaret). Charles stopped in route to eat a donut, Margs waved to Mom (Charles and I missed her) who took a break from her shift of caring for Dad to watch the race from the hospital lawn (I was using her number), and I soaked up the essence of one of my favorite celebrations of running. We all had a lot of fun.
For the past few days I have been thinking and talking with my family about an email that my friend Mark wrote last week. His words eloquently described his observations of the 'tipping point' that occurs when an individual who has been struggling with life is able to confront the fear and uncertainty associated with death in an effort to find peace. His words have had particular meaning for all of us as we watch Dad struggle. For Dad, the tipping point has not arrived. He is trying to sit for the rehabilitation therapist, eat a few bites of food for his family, and talk with visitors as they enter and exit his hospital room. He also winces, moans, cries, covers his head with his covers, and sleeps. Conversation is limited. More and more often he either is not able to express a complete thought because he forgets what he wanted to say or falls asleep in the middle of a sentence. He must be sleeping over 22.5 hours a day. Since the hospital provided him with a bed that gurgles and murmurs as it shifts the pressure from one area of his body to another, the aura around him has been peaceful. His family members, my stepmother, two uncles, mom, brother, sister, and I, take shifts to sit by his bed ready to respond to whatever is needed. Not an hour goes by without a nurse, clinical partner, doctor, or another hospital staff person entering his room. They tell us that he is 'sweet' and treat him with respect. Soon he will be transferred to an acute care facility that costs his insurance company less than the hospital. How long he will stay there is anyone's guess.
Aside from describing the details of Dad's condition, I have few words to articulate what is going through my head. My unexpressed grief lies heavy at the back of my throat and top of my lungs. I am finding that I have experienced a sort of 'tipping point' within myself over the past week where my need to spend time with Dad is being replaced slowly by my need to care for myself. I am finding it very difficult to witness Dad living in this present state and am beginning to choose to spend more time away from the hospital. My work deadlines loom in the near future; however, I would guess that I would have the same reaction if the deadlines did not exist. I suppose I will have more words for this experience once it is over. For the time being, all I can do is continue to look out for myself and support my family members and Dad as we all work on living with the uncertainty that characterizes the situation. Fortunately, I was born into a family with a sense of humor. Despite everything, we have not forgotten how to laugh. Laughter and running soothe my soul.
