Hallowed Ground

It's weird how afraid we've become of death.

For more than a million years the average lifespan for our species hovered below 40 years. Only in recent times have we come to expect longevity beyond four decades. Now, we barely bat an eye when someone turns 70, or even 80.

Dealing with death is subjective – with no “right” and “wrong.” We all experience the loss of our loved ones in truly unique ways.

My mom is 72 years old. She was born in Germany as the fires of World War II were still smoldering. To say it was a different world back then is a gross understatement. Mom would grow up a child in a war torn landscape, during a generation of rapid technological advancements and massive changes to the geopolitical map.

Both of her parents died in their early 50s. She would be orphaned at the age of 20. Because of that her fear was that she would not live a long life. That fear became harder to bear after she was diagnosed with diabetes in the 1990s, and later more so as her sight has begun to fail.

I know I talk a lot about my mom dying right now. I hope you'll grant me some indulgence because I wrestle with both being her son and being a journalist. Part of me is wrought over with sadness, and part of me wants to tell her story, more and more.

The story I want to tell is of the person she is, and the life she's led. It'll come out in small bits – now, tomorrow, and after she's gone. This, I'm certain.

For those who wonder how I feel about saying goodbye to my mom, I don't really have a cogent thing to say. When the cardiac surgeon told my mom she faced four options, the grave nature of each, and the prognosis that she will not survive much longer no matter the course taken, I was stunned. The surgeon left us there, after telling Mom how sorry she was to have to tell her the news, and she stood in the hallway. I walked out after her, and as I passed she hugged me sideways and I thanked her for being honest with my family. She had tears in her eyes.

I walked down the ICU corridors numbly. I felt something starting to well up in me. I walked into a waiting area outside of the ICU, and told my dearest friend the news. Before I could say another word, a wave of unmitigated anger crashed over me and I headed straight for the restroom.

I smashed my fist into a metal paper towel dispenser, three times, with such force as to completely cave in the front. I let out a broken scream, primal and filled with grief.

After a second – and it was only a second – I walked out calmly and say this to my friend; “This is so fucked.”

And, it is.

In the days that followed, I felt something closer to serenity about the reality of the situation. I'm not sure why, actually. I know part of it is the fact that my mom accepted her circumstances with grace and dignity. She would confide in me that she never cried for herself, but she wept deeply for my father's grief of her.

A “good death” is a term used throughout hospice care to describe an end of life process that involves dignity, family support and the decision making of a cognizant patient. It also includes celebration of the dying person by acknowledging their existence as a whole person, who is completing the final chapter of their lives.

In this sense, my mom is one of the few modern Western people who is being afforded the experience of a Good Death. Hospice is a loving transition away from one's living years.

Mom and I talk about her life a lot. We talk about her dying, too. She, as anyone does, has things she laments. But, it's the fond recollections that she spends the most time talking about: Travel, Disney (where she worked for 13 years), owning her own shop, working as the official translator in a major court case, teaching German to soldiers, raising Audie and I all over the world, friends, family – here and departed – and loved ones.

I lost two aunts during the days my mom was in the hospital. My Aunt Sandy and Aunt Kay, both spouses of my dad's brothers, passed suddenly while mom was fighting to remain with us. It is not lost on me what an amazing gift we've been given with my mom going home for the remainder of her days.

Here's some dime store philosophy for you to think on. Why do we fear death? It is, inherently, part of life. It's nature's cycle. The only guarantee we have on the day we are born is that we will die. Short of suicides, not many folks know how much time they have left. That we are so afraid of dying as to not even discuss it openly until confronted with it is puzzling, though.

Our attendance record is not the truest measure of our lives. We are measured by love, by kindness, by family and friends, by inspirations and creativity.

I think modern times have deluded us into a mode of thinking that More is Better. That clinging to something is infinitely better than letting go.

We will all face that moment. You, me, our parents, our children, every person alive will lay quiet in the arms of Death's embrace, sooner or later. Immutable as it is, dying happens millions of times around the globe, daily.

I think that's what gets me through this experience. It is such a natural thing, such a inevitable part of life, that I take solace in learning this lesson from my mom.