Yes, I’ve been on a bit of radio silence. I’m still somewhat dour, despite a desperately needed 4-day vacation that let me forget everything stressful (save the thigh cramp that left me crippled and unable to bend my knee for two days. Yes, I still hobbled 10 miles a day on it.)
Yule is the season of darkness. The final harvest (of the Northern Hemisphere) is over and Earth is at rest, readying for the rebirth of Spring. The Romans didn’t even give winter months calendar space: after the Saturnalia was a 63-day month of “winter,” our January and February, which would cover the darkest days until after Imbolc and Spring arrived again. This year, our darkness came early.
My mother’s mother died in November of 1992, a cold, gray month. My father’s mother died in January of 1963, a cold and brutal time to be standing in a windy cemetery. My father’s father died in December of 1971, making holidays tough. My father-in-law died just before Thanksgiving last year, making it slightly easier for the family to spend an entire week together.
This year, we lost my father, Bob Staneslow, on November 5, 13 days shy of his 85th birthday, at a time when, with global warming, the weather was exceptionally pleasant.
No one knows why he died, beyond the direct reasons. He had no detectable infections. He had no major system imbalances. He did have prostatitis, not uncommon in a man just shy of 85 (he was born a month past his due date, at over 11 lbs, so if I count that, he was already 85), which led to tubes, which, in his semi-demented state, he refused to leave in, so his hands had to be tied down. His ability to swallow suddenly diminished, leaving him seriously choking on not only food but water. While waiting for tests to find out why – and being limited to only IVs, he rapidly lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. Some days he was himself, other days, he was in another dimension. Without food he would die, but more food would mean a feeding tube, which meant his hands would have to be forever tied to the bed.
Dad did not want tubes, and certainly would not want to be tied to a bed for the remainder of his life, be it days or years. To put him in Hospice meant more or less giving the hospital permission to kill my father, when, on the good days, he was his normal self. He neither gave permission for it nor refused it, because he had no idea what was happening. He just went from one room to another, and they removed his tubes and freed his hands and let him drink his Coca Cola again, in small sips, and he was happy. And we put on happy lying faces and sat there telling him he would go home again as soon as he got stronger.
As he starved until the point his kidneys shut down, and then the rest of his body, aided by medications to make him forget what was happening. It took three days.
I understand the point of Hospice. There are people, who, in the throes of excruciating end-stage cancers, in a country that won’t allow you to do it yourself, allow you the medications that will ease your pain and end your life without horrific misery.
And that’s a mercy. But overall, I do not like Hospice.
Life does not end willingly. Death is a struggle. People can seem on their last breath, then sit up and speak, then collapse again. They can moan, yell, scream, claw the air, speak to people no one can see, fight someone trying to calm them. Anyone who has heard an agonal scream – a scream made by those in the process of dying – is not likely to forget it.
I never will, and that was only a cat.
And there are the cases – that I personally know – where the diagnosis was vague, the person was very much still aware and talking despite some health issues, and the nurse came in with medication as the visitor was leaving and the person was dead before the visitor left the parking lot.
For my grandfather, with end-stage cancer that had spread to his brain, it wouldn’t have made much difference, and he died quietly at home.
The hospital did every last thing they could for my father – I have no complaints there. They ran tests that were pretty well pointless, desperate for something they could fix. They gave it their all, above and beyond. But everything seemed fine. His final diagnosis was vascular dementia, which isn’t enough to calm the grief. Wacky doesn’t mean you die from it.
So this is a dark month, the second dark December in a row, full of dark humor, bleakness, and those million little moments when you say, Oh that would be perfect! I’ll take/call/tell/give Dad ….
No, I won’t. I just finished a manuscript I know he would have loved, but no matter how many times I think it, he won’t give me feedback.
My mother opted to not do any funeral, but maybe have a service in the spring (which, knowing my mother, won’t ever happen, nor would she attend it), so there has been no closure, no way of compartmentalizing anything, just an emptiness, expecting someone to be there and then almost confused when they’re not. Over and over and over.
Dad died, of course, hours after the funeral of his best friend, whom he hadn’t seen in several years, partly because they were now 1500 miles apart. One of his chief complaints was that he was lonely because all of his friends were dead, save his brother 1500 miles away in Minnesota, and a cousin 2500 miles away on the west coast. Despite being a bit of an introvert, Dad loved talking to people about music, cars, or history. He loved babbling in his languages. Although he came out of several health crises speaking more Italian than English – we had to warn the nursing staff that it wasn’t dementia, he spoke other languages – when it came down to the wire, it was French he was still speaking at the end.
I do not want my kids to go through the agony I did. I want to die in my sleep at age 100, preferably of a stroke, nice and quick. I think 100 is a nice round number. At least the 00’s are.
Hug your loved ones. Call them and tell them so. Even when you know the end is coming, it’s still a blow.
It’s Christmas, full of the music my father loved. The library is having a concert of 15th-century music on appropriate instruments, something my father would have loved dearly. The radio played a carol on guitar today, very much in a style my father would have played, as he played them every Christmas Eve.
And I cried.
It’s a dark month, the darkest of the year, and harder for some people than others. Just remember, as the Romans knew, the dark days may seem long, but the rebirth of the world in Spring, spiritually and physically, is just around the corner.
Camp Chaos Rules 