Cupid’s Double-edged Arrow
It ain’t the heart, or the lungs, or the brain. The biggest, most important part of the body is the one that hurts. – poet, Sekou Sundiata
It takes energy to hold a sharp focus on the memory of a loved one who has died. It’s like holding an arm wrestling position; after a while you get tired and have to give in. Giving in can be a relief, but it also has its own compounding sadness. As you return to your everyday life and memories start to blur, so does the piercing clarity that comes from living on edge, so close to death. Your loved one left you, and now it feels like you are leaving them.
When my brothers Jim and Dan died six years ago, my life was turned around. It was the first time I had experienced the death of an immediate family member. I was surprised by the strength of the sibling bonds between my brothers, me, and my remaining seven siblings and caught off guard by the intensity of grief I felt. It wasn’t just the heartbreak of losing Jim and Dan as adults. Because I knew them as children, I grieved for the loss of that part of them as well. I referred to mourning them as being in the trenches of grief’s front line. In what would become a book about my brothers’ lives and deaths, I wrote about being in a hole: Maybe the way an animal goes off alone to heal, I go down – into a mine, an archaeological dig, the shadow of the valley of death. Once tripped into the hole, I wasn’t in a hurry to come out, at least not empty handed. If I couldn’t bring my brothers back I at least wanted to mine some meaning from their untimely deaths.
The hole I wrote about could also be viewed as a metaphor for the deepening that was being carved out in me, as though more room was being made for me to hold more. Although the edges of the hole have softened over time, the span of it seems to have widened to include other past and future losses; the loss of my youth, my sons as children, the anticipation of losing physical abilities and beauty that seem destined to come with aging.
Losing my brothers showed me that death absolutely will happen. So, in vulnerable moments I play out other death scenarios. When my husband, Joe, goes out of town, as he did last week, and I’m alone in the house, I find myself ruminating on death. I remember the woman in town who lost her husband last year. My eyes well up with tears when I think of her because it’s been obvious how much she loved her husband, as I do mine. Is pain the price we pay for truly loving someone? If so, why do we let ourselves love so deeply? Do we even have a choice? The pain of losing someone close seems unimaginable from a distance, but when it is your pain and your reality there’s no alternative but to feel it.
So what would my life be like without Joe? Where and how would I live? He comes from Maryland, I’m from Massachusetts, and although we’re both happy where we live, neither of us wants to be buried in the local cemetery here in Virginia. So where will our dead bodies go? Cremation? He wouldn’t care, but I wouldn’t be able to bear to look at a container full of his ashes. The thought of scattering his remains into obscurity leaves me cold. And I’ve not let go of the idea that a grave in a cemetery gives the dead and those who loved them a sense of belonging, a place in common, a concrete marker.
Such are the thoughts and questions that come with grief survival. The immediate wound that a death exacts eventually heals, but scars and fault lines remain. Once a grief fault line becomes apparent, it can grow. I don’t know whether my playing out death scenarios is an exercise in preparation, self-torture, or a byproduct of the trauma of watching one brother die before my eyes and imagining the other brother being violently crushed to death.
Yesterday was so hot, at midday I went to my bedroom, lied down, and let the fan blow on me. In the restful quiet that followed, I was struck by an uncomfortable feeling. As If I had rolled across something sharp, I remembered that my father was dead. When he died two years ago, four years after Jim and Dan, I grieved freely, but I didn’t have the heart or the energy to inhabit the hole again. It was too big, and having been there so recently, there seemed no point to further explore it.
But now, standing at its precipice, looking down, a flush of anxiety washed over me. For a few seconds, I was a child again, abandoned, unprotected, without a father.
Every death chinks away at my identity because my identity is intrinsically tied to those I love. But maybe life is designed to do that, so that when it comes my time to leave this world, my ego-self will have receded enough that I can finally let go of it all. Even so, the sting of not having a father, the fading memories of my childhood with my brothers, and the certainty of eventually losing others that I love, makes me want to splash cold water on my face.
Post Notes: James Michael Redman – November 22, 1946 – July 25, 2001. Daniel Mark Redman – October 7, 1951 – August 29, 2001. Entries on last year’s anniversary of Jim and Dan’s deaths are HERE and HERE. Photos of all nine Redmans HERE.
August 20th, 2007 11:57 pm
Perhaps enough deaths make one ready for one’s own. I see that in my dad. When down he only looks forward to the end.
Fantasies of death make it in our control somehow. There’s no natural end to it. One indulges then fills up and moves on again.
There’s sometime the feeling that levity of feather life is more volatile or less real than the same weight of lead deaths. For myself that sensation is an indicator of depression’s hungry distortion of proportions. It cycles back and wears itself out like wind again.
August 21st, 2007 7:42 am
I’m reminded of the words, “tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”.
By the way, have you read Sogyal Rinpoche’s The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying? Makes one consider death (and life) in a new way.
August 21st, 2007 8:21 am
Love and it’s inevitable loss are like inhaling and exhaling.
Or, what I meant to say,
(o)
August 21st, 2007 8:34 am
We have the Tibetan Book of the Dead around here somewhere. I haven’t seen the other one. I’ll look for it.
I have read many books on death and have considered it deeply. All the subconscious beliefs I had from being raised Catholic and the conscious ones from later studies came back down to zero when my brothers died, in that I lean toward certain beliefs but I really know nothing.
August 21st, 2007 10:35 am
This post reminds me of the scene in “Beaches” where the woman goes tearing through boxes of photos to see her mother’s hands. It is after her own little girl says “Look mama our hands are the same.” And the lady is also dying but she wants to remember her mama…she keeps tearing through the boxes shouting “I can’t remember mama’s hands.” I cried. But I always thought after that in certain moments that I really needed to try very hard to capture something important to me in my mind so that when I was old or if that person died I could have that memory pictured there. Like sometimes I wake and see Martin’s little head and think I don’t ever want to forget what the back of his head is like lying there. I try to remember that because at some point, unless I go first, I will lose a loved one and unless I have those things drilled in my brain they will be lost to me. That thought terrifies me.
That is also why I have books and books full of photos of him and the kids and the Labs…I don’t want to forget anything.
But one of life’s good things to help is that we have little parts of us that are from our parents and grandparents and other family members. Yesterday I noticed how I had the top corner of my lip sucked in and I looked in the car mirror and thought wow that is just like mom always held her mouth and mine has become hers….and I remembered how my great aunt held hers that way and she was so lovely that I thought it was a smirk. I hold my hands in a way just like my grandpa did a lot of the time. I think of my nannie when I see my own long fingers like hers. I think we have pieces of them making up who we are and when we notice that we will be recognizing them too.
Sorry you have been so sad Colleen. I don’t know how to comfort you because I don’t know what it is like. I would like to send you a hug though.
August 21st, 2007 11:40 am
I don’t remember much about the movie “Beaches” but I DO remember crying my eyes out.
These days garden tomatoes are all over my house and they so remind me of my dad. He was always trying to pawn them off to me or anyone who came to the house this time of year because they all come in at once. He hated to see them waste and so appreciated a good salted tomato.
I know what you mean about trying to bottle those moments and images, Deana. I do that too. My sadness is an aspect of the whole of me but it’s not the main part. I have melancholic moments even over summer ending. I’m mostly okay with anything that makes me feel (you know how I love those goosebumps). But it’s going to take me a lifetime to understand and accept death. The detective in me can’t help but ponder it deeply and want to KNOW what happens next.
Thanks for the cyber hugs!
August 21st, 2007 12:25 pm
Colleen, I think we all “want to KNOW what happens next.” When I was 14, I wrote a poem for a neighbor who was worried about death (sorry, I don’t know where that notebook is, so I can’t share the poem with you). Because of that woman, who is still alive today, I have thought carefully about death for over half a century. One thing I have noticed is that older people don’t seem to fear death as much as younger people. Of course, there are exceptions, but I have reached a point that I am ready to discover whatever that adventure is that takes me beyond this that we know. I doubt if any of our religions have it figured out, but it does seem likely to me that there is something more. And this is my thinking:
(1) Things we need for life (like air, food, shelter, warm sunshine) are available for us in this life.
(2) That sounds like something GOOD to me.
(3) Why would that change when we make the next transition?
(4) Therefore, whatever we need after death will be available for us then.
(5) When the elderly die, they are usually less physically able than when they were young and virile … and some are diseased or injured or in great pain.
(6) When an injured or very sick person dies, people often say, “At least he isn’t suffering any more.” (And most of us would even put an animal out of its misery.)
(7) Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I have heard people say, “Now she is able to walk again … and even dance!” Or, “Now he is able to use his legs again!”
(8) Therefore, death is not a bad thing, but could be seen as something good … like moving on to something better.
Okay, this is kind of unorthodox, but it’s my thinking at this point in my life. And I don’t dread what’s beyond our present KNOWING. I’m not rushing toward it, since I want to experience all I can HERE before moving on, but I do look forward to it as a positive thing.
August 21st, 2007 12:38 pm
Colleen,
You’re not alone. I know it’s hard to find comfort in this, but there’s nothing one could say to give you real comfort. Everyone who’s lost a loved one, is going through this and is certainly confronting their own mortality.
Time dulls the pain, but even now, after twenty years, I still cry for my grandmother. Memories come at the most unexpected moments, when you try the least to remember, in the form of a feeling, an image, a scent, surprising you with their clarity. Sometimes I dream of my grandmother – that’s when I wake up soothed, happy.
About a year ago, I was panicking at the thought of my own death and, worse, the one of my children. For days, I couldn’t shake these horrible thoughts, drowning in the darkest of depressions. It wasn’t fear of losing them now, as children; I was imagining my two daughters in their old age, facing their own deaths – it was unbearable, just as the thought of myself not being there anymore for them, not being able to see them grow.
But, we must go on, for the sake of the loved ones who are left in our lives, and also as a tribute to the ones who have left us physically. We will never be the same as when we were children, but we can find solace in the little things, in the riches left in our souls, in the persons in our lives.
You are not alone, Colleen.
August 21st, 2007 3:21 pm
The essence of the person is the soul; not the body or the ashes left behind. That soul lives on and is not contained in the grave. I want to be cremated. My thought is that graves are not needed, and if you want to focus on or commune with your loved ones who have passed on, you have only to call their names and tell them what you want to say. If they are meant to hear or have awareness, they will. Our photos and our memories can sustain us, while time will soften and mute the hurt of loss.
August 21st, 2007 5:19 pm
I’ve experienced so much death of family and close friends this summer as well as my dog and cat. I agree wholeheartedly about going all the way down with your dad. Sometimes you;
re afraid you just won’t come back up for air..Also sleep seems to set off the most elaborate of memory trains. I awoke the other week to the fragrances of the life force of an earlier boy friend gone over 40 years I have thus far survived cancer and there’s always the feeling why me when I loved them so much??
August 21st, 2007 5:32 pm
dearest colleen,
i lost my grandpa last year… he passed away on the 28th of august,2006
i loved him… strange as it may sound, he and i had the same hands… the exact same hands… with the same lines… he would always tell me, “simple living and high thinking… just be honest . to yourself and to your god… and you will go everywhere”
i had blogged about him not too properly yet crying… you can find that here
http://ignorantawakening.blogspot.com/2006/09/my-beloved-papaji.html
and finally after around 5 months of his death, i wrote this poem to him… you can find it here
http://ignorantawakening.blogspot.com/2007/03/omnipresent.html
of course if you would want to gothrough it…
u know colleen, i have a spiritual guru mother,i found her only 2yrs ago… dont think i fall for the usual orange cheats u find atevery nook and corner in india… she has worked with the un for africa for almost seven years…
mother has told me, and i know for sure cause i am an aspiring healer my self, we, you i, my grandpa, we are all souls… every soul takes a birth to learn a lesson, a lesson that only human experience can teach. lessons about love, eternal love and kindness… when a person dies, the soul floats up out of the body and once it is free from such bonds, it feels no pain. neither physical, nor emotional. the only thing a soul can feel is the feeling of peace. of love and of happiness…
you know my love, if u loved your brothers, then you and they had definitely met you in your prior births. and this i assure you, if after you die, you dont attain moksha, and if in this life, things have been left unsaid, you WILL see them again, in your next birth… cause the spiritual world gives highest priority to settling debts and saying unsaid things…
you will meet them again. maybe as their mother, their father or even husband or wife…
but u must know my dear one, every tear you shed, is like an ocean for them to cross to reach their spiritual plane[there r 7]
so find happiness in the time you had with them. and cherish them. dont worry about their memmory fading… every sound we make, moves around in the universe, for millions of years… so the laughs you had, the peace u felt was real… they will always be yours . you have their love… and you know you still do…
time cannot change your past… and its not a bad attribute of time… your love will remain…
forever…
and you now have 2 guardian angels… watching over you…
if you still miss them,
love,
just closeyour eyes… and look within…
god bless
i hope you will feel better soon…
yours in spirit,
sheetal
August 21st, 2007 1:58 pm
“Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world. The forms may change but the essence remains the same. Every wondrous sight will vanish. Every sweet word will fade.” Rumi
I definitely lean towards believing there is a continuum from life to death. Otherwise what is the point of anything. We can learn a lot by looking at the model nature provides. The flowers come back the next season. But they aren’t they same flowers.
I find some comfort in Near Death Experience stories. But is the white light, tunnel, and seeing loved ones a function of the brain firing as it dies? Or something more.
Ultimately, I find the process of pondering death an adventure that in taking it makes me a better person. Adventures can be both fun and dangerous.
“Dreams are real as long as they last. Can we say anymore about life.” ~ James Havelock
August 21st, 2007 6:03 pm
“It’s no more surprising to be born twice than to be born once.” So said Voltaire, or something like it. s.b. and kenju, Your words resonate with me, but It’s also true that the more I know the more I know how much I don’t know.
So glad you survived and are here to add your comments, Sandy. Thank you.
August 21st, 2007 6:23 pm
Oh Colleen….What an intense entry and What intense comments!!!
I found a Jack Johnson CD in my yard last month and I haven’t stopped listening to it. I thought the same thing…….wouldn’t Danny have loved this. I miss my FULL family and as I have been saying…growing old is not for wimps. xo
August 21st, 2007 6:57 pm
I stopped by this morning to read this post and had to stop until this afternoon when I have more time to let the emotions wash through me. I haven’t found words enough to explain what it feels like to lose a sibling, how deep the grief is, but you’ve stated it perfectly here. Losing the adult sister I knew is only part of the grief. It’s also everything we knew together, all the childhood experiences and hopes and dreams. The edge of that hole is still crumbly – I fall in a lot.
Thank you for writing about your brothers and your grief. I know how hard this must be. And to be in the middle of anniversaries is gut wrenching. I’ll be thinking of you.
August 21st, 2007 7:23 pm
Very heartfelt. I understand. I lost two sisters and a father, the latter two only 8 months apart. That whole becomes part of you, familiar and well-known. I think I may have had it a little easier than you, in that I mourned the lack of a father while he was alive and well, and his death left only a faint echo of that.
~S
August 27th, 2007 5:59 pm
I think about the same thing, Colleen…where would I be without my husband? Where will we be buried or our ashes? It makes you realize that all we have guaranteed is NOW and to appreciate it more. I have yet to lose someone close and I will not be “good” at dealing with life afterwards.
May 13th, 2015 9:37 pm
[…] 12. It takes energy to hold a sharp focus on the memory of a loved one who has died. It’s like holding an arm wrestling position; after a while you get tired and have to give in. Giving in can be a relief, but it also has its own compounding sadness. As you return to your everyday life and memories start to blur, so does the piercing clarity that comes from living on edge, so close to death. Your loved one left you, and now it feels like you are leaving them. –From a 2007 post titled Cupid’s Double Edged Arrow […]