Much That Is Hidden

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I haven't posted lately for the simple fact that, as happens to everybody, life got in the way. This time it was by way of that common irony in life - dealing with someone’s death. I learned last week that my eldest sister, all of 57 years old, is stricken with terminal cancer. Her condition was reported to be quite grave, a perfect storm of symptoms that prompted me to travel to my hometown where she and a majority of my immediate family still live, fearfully holding a hope that I could be with her one last time.

The night before I left I was lying in bed with my wife and my newborn son when the fear and grief took hold, and I sobbed harder than I can ever remember, taxing the nearest pillow so as not to frighten the baby. After I calmed, my wife said something that struck me at first as a bit insensitive. “It’s tough being a grown-up, isn’t it?”

What do you expect? I thought in a classic kneejerk that was more from embarrassment than from anger. Quickly I came to know that what she said was no insult. I didn’t immediately reconsider that I’ve made it 41.5 years on this earth without the loss of anything more painful than a favorite pet. I say reconsider because that fact was made apparent a few weeks back when I read a moving post about sibling death that Don wrote. A fellow commentor mentioned that after her older brother died, there was a strange passage, “a particularly odd time,” that she and each of the younger siblings went through when they reached the age of his death. I considered that as the sixth of seven children I was likely to have to go through similar odd times, quite possibly several. I also thought that the first of those would be closer to 20 years from now.

Another commentor, who has lost three siblings, said that losing them "also meant losing my witnesses,” which is particularly poignant in the case of my sister since, in another revelation I had over the weekend, she and my eldest brother (turning 54 next week) were “the family” for 10 years before the baby boom of five latter day siblings that arrived every other year beginning in 1959. As adulthood caught up with each of us and we scattered about the country, phone calls and visits home usually revolved around the here-and-now and the “great to see you,” with only occasional discussion of family history. Thankfully my mother was somewhat diligent and proficient in the media of family journalism, photography and 8mm silent film. Still, that archive leaves much to be related, pardon the pun, given that my rather taciturn father requires Mike Wallace-caliber probing to recall anything and my mother’s spiral into the darkness of Alzheimer’s now sadly precludes her further contribution (visiting her this past trip sped up the emotional see-saw that was already cranking). My sister’s condition has stabilized to the point that she is fully lucid, if quite beleaguered. So with a greater hope of having her with us a while longer, I am committed to my part of chronicling the family reserve.

Beyond that simple task is the decidedly more complicated one of dealing with her imminent passing and the support she and her husband and daughters and granddaughter will need from here on. And then of course that her father, four brothers and two sisters (we’ve decided that it serves no purpose to inform mom) will need to cope with a loved one lost far too soon. But there are myriad others who have dealt with this, and I will as sure as anything be seeking out them and/or their writings in order to bring myself and my family a little comfort and wisdom.

Nora Ephron recently wrote a commentary on John and Elizabeth Edwards’ situation regarding her cancer and Elizabeth’s proclamation that she had two choices: to go on living, or begin dying. Ephron respectfully disagreed with the simplicity of that, offering this jewel that for me settles the mud in the puddle of meaning just a bit more:

“I believe instead that at a certain point in life, whether or not you've been diagnosed with illness, you enter into a conscious, ongoing, unending, eternal, puzzling, confusing negotiation between the two (choices). Some days one of them wins, and some days the other. This negotiation often includes decisions as trivial as whether to eat a second piece of pie, and as important as whether to have medical treatment that may or may not prolong your life.”

And I was reminded recently of the grace, dignity and humor with which musician Warren Zevon faced his terminal diagnosis. His chief nugget of wisdom (the simplicity of which just about brings me to tears every time I think of it)?

“Enjoy every sandwich.”

So the deli of my soul is now open 24/7

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Labels: death, family, life, sandwiches