Death
Death.
As children we are taught to fear death- as the concept is portrayed into a hooded figure with the name Grim. As teenagers and young adults death and the Grim Reaper subside. It is here that we are in our invincible stage. As years drift by allowing the grains of sand to begin to pile in majority at the bottom of the vessel instead of where it once was, slowly dropping from the top as if age was not a problem, death becomes the luring, hooded figure again. In this stage some see death as friend, some see him as anxiety, some pretend not to see death at all.
People who know me well have noted that between my recent poetry and the concept of writing an article on death, my projects have become a bit more morbid and melancholy. Very Edgar Allan Poe-esque-whose work I've never gotten a hand on, but remember seeing a group of actors perform The Monkey's Paw during an elementary school literature mind trip. In Boston I often find myself walking by the Edgar Allan Poe statue just to say "Hello". But I am not a crow. I am not a Poe. I am actually very Pro, in whatever sense that means. Death, depression, and sorrow are natural feelings that every human encompasses and this article will be my endeavors with death, my thoughts, and hopefully some kind of lesson or relief. If you're looking for a reading on Life, well, there's a magazine dedicated to that.
This morning I woke up to find an obituary of a friend of mine I knew back when I started treatment for my eating disorder. The news crushed me; it immobilized me. This woman was a close friend to me at a time I wasn't even sure I wanted to be friends with myself. It had seemed that with everyone in our company she was our compass or the northern star that offered us hope and had the tender affection towards others, that the Mona Lisa would submit to a toothy grin. One of my most distinct memories of her was hearing the Polish dialect in a vacant hall as everyone had headed into their rooms inbetween meals and snacks. She was wishing her brother a Happy Birthday and waved me down, asking if I would sing "Happy Birthday" to him. She was like that. The kind of woman who would make sure you were included in everything, and included like family.
But, I never told her any of it. Never told her how that is still one of my favorite memories from treatment or how she always lit up a room. We had not spoke since 2015 when I last saw her leaving the inpatient unit. Social media has been great to keep in touch with little comments over the years, but nothing that would share any deeper feelings. This was death in a tertiary degree.
I rank deaths as research ranks sources; primary, secondary, and tertiary. In research primary sources are the original artifacts, photographs, writings, arts, etc. in which one gets the information for their project. In death a primary death is one that you have experienced. Kind of like a near death experience.
Research shows that secondary sources are less reliable than primary sources. They are interpretations on the accounts of primary sources, which include items such as magazines or textbooks. In death, secondary deaths are watching a loved one die or hearing about a death of a close confidant, like in obituaries or word of mouth. Watching a loved one die was going to be a primary source, but you are not living that pain, or maybe that blissful experience -we all experience the closing chapter differently for various reasons. It will always be an interpretation or an evaluation of somebody else, so for that reason a loved one's passing becomes a secondary death.
Lastly, tertiary sources are collections of both primary and secondary sources evaluated and extracted to created a project like Wikipedia pages, for example. Grim offers tertiary death the role of involving those whom we hear about. Maybe these people are strangers and you're just looking through your newspapers obituaries or hear about as noise pollution in the background as the six o'clock news plays. Perhaps they are celebrities you have grown up with but never had the chance to meet or grow close with like you had dreamed about. Maybe they are people who would have been a secondary death if you only picked up the phone once in a while.
You see, that is the other thing about death; Guilt. Like the black hooded cloak that the Grim Reaper wears, guilt covers you a heavier cloak, reminding you of everything you could have done, even if there was nothing your hands could have offered.
I have experienced death in all stages. Tertiary when I realized musicians died after seeing Robin Gibb, of The BeeGee's, photo plastered on magazines in grocery store que lines, warning his final days were approaching. I was so beyond upset, Lauren (my twin sister at the time and still to this day) and I sketched a photo of him, along with playing BeeGees music all night long. Another tertiary death I can write about was my childhood best friends grandmother. She was so little, so sweet. I had gotten to know her well, laughed with her in my shorter clothes. However, as time slips away so do friendships and so did that relationship. Her funeral was beautiful, peaceful, and warm. Tertiary deaths are the ones you feel distant at. You say your peace, you may cry or feel guilt. There is a wall there or layers blocking you to succumb to that full emotion, just sorrow. Tertiary is a crow, not a raven.
Secondary deaths started happening at the age of nine when my maternal grandfather suffered a stroke. Here I learned what death was; how people reacted to death, what went into death, how to dress, and what not to do in a funeral home. How death forefronts memories in your mind, for I remember getting the call at Cumberland Farms gas station on my way to a softball game. I remember the field I played at that night, and the taste of sour leather, and sand grit in my teeth. My maternal grandmother would later pass away in 2016. She transitioned very peacefully after slipping into a coma in her sleep. She knew she was going, she thanked her nurses at the assistant living and told them all about her family and how proud she was of them before putting her down for bed and just never woke up. It had been several years since my grandfather, her husband, had passed away that she decided it was her time. I ultimately think she died of a broken heart, she always talked about him, even on her bad days of dementia she knew who Joe was. I read a passage at her funeral and took roses off her casket that still hang in my bedroom. Her death taught me it's okay not to cry at a funeral or a passing. There are many emotions that comes with death and my grandmothers was more of a peaceful feeling rather than one of sorrow. That's something I think a lot of people struggle with. "Why didn't I cry?" or "Why didn't I cry as much as you?". You're competing with emotion, which will show in it's own way. Maybe your sorrow is through silence or maybe peace with death is embracing the departed's peace with death that nobody else can see. After all it is Rest In Peace, not Rest in a river of my tears.
Another secondary death is still very raw and numb that I cannot write it all in full and probably never will. I heard death rattle in the back of my Papa's (paternal grandfather) throat. I saw death dribble down his chin, and then saw it encapsulate a man who I only knew as life. My papa was diagnosed with cancer when I was living with him and and Mamie during my time in treatment. In December he suffered a stroke while driving, and another while in the hospital recovering, but never did. He wanted to see us, his grand-kids, open our Christmas gifts one more time. His wish was respected as we brought our gifts from Santa to him to unwrap to his house, where he was laying in a hospital bed getting doses of morphine from my dad, aunt, and Mamie. By Christmas morning however, his eyes could no longer see. By Christmas afternoon his lungs could no longer breathe. Heart could no longer pump. Loosing my Papa was loosing a bit of sanity I will never get back. This is a secondary death that is very much like a primary death, but I couldn't feel what he was going through, though I saw it.
My experience with primary death has come in waves. I starved myself from life, food, and liquids for years. I ran thirteen miles a day while doing so and forced my self to do 3,000 crunches on top of it all. If that didn't kill me, while I was with my Mamie and my Papa I was leading that dangerous cutting food out of my meal plan diet life again. This ultimately resulted in me riding passenger in a car towards 24 hour hospital care again, something I didn't want at the time and thought death would be better option. I unlocked the car door and my safety belt on the highway in front of my mother.
I was too smart to tumble though. I was looking at the road when it clicked again that I knew and accepted that I needed help. Later we would find that my kidneys would be failing and so was my heart. A hospital was the best place for me and not under someones tires.
What I've learned from death is that it can also be a party. It's sort of like a homophone of death and passing isn't it? To say goodbye to someone, to "part ways" to part-ay ? When I was nine, a social awkward, and nervous at my grandfathers funeral the concept of a function hall with food and drinks confused me. No-one was crying. In fact there was laughter, and dessert? My Papa's was the best though (I've accepted that that is okay to say). When he took his final breath at 2:47 p.m EST , Lauren, Lynda, and I were on a walk and came home to my mom on the steps with arms open wide. Christmas Day the mourner couldn't be there for a while, but my dads side of the family showed up without hesitation. Within minutes and hour we had a party right in the kitchen and living room, with a corpse. Crying sure, but mostly talks and jokes of, "what a bastard, couldn't even let Jesus have a birthday." and recollections of memories. When the night quieted down and guest left we found his last scratch ticket. He always had those and mints, as kids he use to have Watermelon hard candies but he must have outgrew them, or perhaps we did which lead him to mature just to Altoids. Anyways, the immediate family scratch it, not a winner but I hung it on our fridge in New Hampshire, where it still hangs.
Death doesn't have to be a "Cry for me" situation. Death is a celebration of a new chapter. When reading a book you close one chapter and anticipate the next; the story still continues. No-one says it has to end. Most people think that when you die the story closes, it's the back cover. Isn't that a lovely thought? It's over! Finally! But hopefully you've left a mark deep enough that others will continue to write the next chapter for you. Their own expedition with your memories, big or small, so your legacy continues but theirs grows. After all in tarot card readings pulling the Death card isn't something to fear, for the card means transition and change.
I don't know what I believe in when it comes to taking that final breath. Heaven? Hell? Rest? Reincarnation? Whatever it is I'm prepared for it. There's no escaping death, there's no antidote or special elixir for it. When death taps me on the shoulder I think I'll be scared for the unknown, not mine but for those around me. I'll be hoping that the path I trudged left no footprints, because I wouldn't want anyone making the same mistakes I made or follow my journey. I'll also greet death as if I'd been waiting for him. I'm not waiting for my stork who dropped me off at the footstep when I was born. I'm not waiting for a God to grant me immortal powers. Death lurks at every corner and when I meet him I'm sure I'll be as polite and well mannered as I am with everyone else I meet. Perhaps, I'll say "excuse me" and try to dodge him swiftly, shaking off an awkward introduction, but most likely I'll thank death for letting me live this long and see, struggle, love, laugh, and cry the amount of times I have. Death is another exhale. Maybe ravens and crows are symbolized with death for the wrong reason. I see these black feathered creatures as souls we watch and keep, they are not death. Doves are the departed. For a dove is a symbol of peace. It's also more comforting to think of a graveyard filled with doves rather than ravens.
So feel how you feel, don't get caught up in not crying or feeling sorrow. Remember death is a party of transition. In closing, live like you're going to die; because you are. And that's okay.
Thank you.
-L
As children we are taught to fear death- as the concept is portrayed into a hooded figure with the name Grim. As teenagers and young adults death and the Grim Reaper subside. It is here that we are in our invincible stage. As years drift by allowing the grains of sand to begin to pile in majority at the bottom of the vessel instead of where it once was, slowly dropping from the top as if age was not a problem, death becomes the luring, hooded figure again. In this stage some see death as friend, some see him as anxiety, some pretend not to see death at all.
People who know me well have noted that between my recent poetry and the concept of writing an article on death, my projects have become a bit more morbid and melancholy. Very Edgar Allan Poe-esque-whose work I've never gotten a hand on, but remember seeing a group of actors perform The Monkey's Paw during an elementary school literature mind trip. In Boston I often find myself walking by the Edgar Allan Poe statue just to say "Hello". But I am not a crow. I am not a Poe. I am actually very Pro, in whatever sense that means. Death, depression, and sorrow are natural feelings that every human encompasses and this article will be my endeavors with death, my thoughts, and hopefully some kind of lesson or relief. If you're looking for a reading on Life, well, there's a magazine dedicated to that.
This morning I woke up to find an obituary of a friend of mine I knew back when I started treatment for my eating disorder. The news crushed me; it immobilized me. This woman was a close friend to me at a time I wasn't even sure I wanted to be friends with myself. It had seemed that with everyone in our company she was our compass or the northern star that offered us hope and had the tender affection towards others, that the Mona Lisa would submit to a toothy grin. One of my most distinct memories of her was hearing the Polish dialect in a vacant hall as everyone had headed into their rooms inbetween meals and snacks. She was wishing her brother a Happy Birthday and waved me down, asking if I would sing "Happy Birthday" to him. She was like that. The kind of woman who would make sure you were included in everything, and included like family.
But, I never told her any of it. Never told her how that is still one of my favorite memories from treatment or how she always lit up a room. We had not spoke since 2015 when I last saw her leaving the inpatient unit. Social media has been great to keep in touch with little comments over the years, but nothing that would share any deeper feelings. This was death in a tertiary degree.
I rank deaths as research ranks sources; primary, secondary, and tertiary. In research primary sources are the original artifacts, photographs, writings, arts, etc. in which one gets the information for their project. In death a primary death is one that you have experienced. Kind of like a near death experience.
Research shows that secondary sources are less reliable than primary sources. They are interpretations on the accounts of primary sources, which include items such as magazines or textbooks. In death, secondary deaths are watching a loved one die or hearing about a death of a close confidant, like in obituaries or word of mouth. Watching a loved one die was going to be a primary source, but you are not living that pain, or maybe that blissful experience -we all experience the closing chapter differently for various reasons. It will always be an interpretation or an evaluation of somebody else, so for that reason a loved one's passing becomes a secondary death.
Lastly, tertiary sources are collections of both primary and secondary sources evaluated and extracted to created a project like Wikipedia pages, for example. Grim offers tertiary death the role of involving those whom we hear about. Maybe these people are strangers and you're just looking through your newspapers obituaries or hear about as noise pollution in the background as the six o'clock news plays. Perhaps they are celebrities you have grown up with but never had the chance to meet or grow close with like you had dreamed about. Maybe they are people who would have been a secondary death if you only picked up the phone once in a while.
You see, that is the other thing about death; Guilt. Like the black hooded cloak that the Grim Reaper wears, guilt covers you a heavier cloak, reminding you of everything you could have done, even if there was nothing your hands could have offered.
I have experienced death in all stages. Tertiary when I realized musicians died after seeing Robin Gibb, of The BeeGee's, photo plastered on magazines in grocery store que lines, warning his final days were approaching. I was so beyond upset, Lauren (my twin sister at the time and still to this day) and I sketched a photo of him, along with playing BeeGees music all night long. Another tertiary death I can write about was my childhood best friends grandmother. She was so little, so sweet. I had gotten to know her well, laughed with her in my shorter clothes. However, as time slips away so do friendships and so did that relationship. Her funeral was beautiful, peaceful, and warm. Tertiary deaths are the ones you feel distant at. You say your peace, you may cry or feel guilt. There is a wall there or layers blocking you to succumb to that full emotion, just sorrow. Tertiary is a crow, not a raven.
Secondary deaths started happening at the age of nine when my maternal grandfather suffered a stroke. Here I learned what death was; how people reacted to death, what went into death, how to dress, and what not to do in a funeral home. How death forefronts memories in your mind, for I remember getting the call at Cumberland Farms gas station on my way to a softball game. I remember the field I played at that night, and the taste of sour leather, and sand grit in my teeth. My maternal grandmother would later pass away in 2016. She transitioned very peacefully after slipping into a coma in her sleep. She knew she was going, she thanked her nurses at the assistant living and told them all about her family and how proud she was of them before putting her down for bed and just never woke up. It had been several years since my grandfather, her husband, had passed away that she decided it was her time. I ultimately think she died of a broken heart, she always talked about him, even on her bad days of dementia she knew who Joe was. I read a passage at her funeral and took roses off her casket that still hang in my bedroom. Her death taught me it's okay not to cry at a funeral or a passing. There are many emotions that comes with death and my grandmothers was more of a peaceful feeling rather than one of sorrow. That's something I think a lot of people struggle with. "Why didn't I cry?" or "Why didn't I cry as much as you?". You're competing with emotion, which will show in it's own way. Maybe your sorrow is through silence or maybe peace with death is embracing the departed's peace with death that nobody else can see. After all it is Rest In Peace, not Rest in a river of my tears.
Another secondary death is still very raw and numb that I cannot write it all in full and probably never will. I heard death rattle in the back of my Papa's (paternal grandfather) throat. I saw death dribble down his chin, and then saw it encapsulate a man who I only knew as life. My papa was diagnosed with cancer when I was living with him and and Mamie during my time in treatment. In December he suffered a stroke while driving, and another while in the hospital recovering, but never did. He wanted to see us, his grand-kids, open our Christmas gifts one more time. His wish was respected as we brought our gifts from Santa to him to unwrap to his house, where he was laying in a hospital bed getting doses of morphine from my dad, aunt, and Mamie. By Christmas morning however, his eyes could no longer see. By Christmas afternoon his lungs could no longer breathe. Heart could no longer pump. Loosing my Papa was loosing a bit of sanity I will never get back. This is a secondary death that is very much like a primary death, but I couldn't feel what he was going through, though I saw it.
My experience with primary death has come in waves. I starved myself from life, food, and liquids for years. I ran thirteen miles a day while doing so and forced my self to do 3,000 crunches on top of it all. If that didn't kill me, while I was with my Mamie and my Papa I was leading that dangerous cutting food out of my meal plan diet life again. This ultimately resulted in me riding passenger in a car towards 24 hour hospital care again, something I didn't want at the time and thought death would be better option. I unlocked the car door and my safety belt on the highway in front of my mother.
I was too smart to tumble though. I was looking at the road when it clicked again that I knew and accepted that I needed help. Later we would find that my kidneys would be failing and so was my heart. A hospital was the best place for me and not under someones tires.
What I've learned from death is that it can also be a party. It's sort of like a homophone of death and passing isn't it? To say goodbye to someone, to "part ways" to part-ay ? When I was nine, a social awkward, and nervous at my grandfathers funeral the concept of a function hall with food and drinks confused me. No-one was crying. In fact there was laughter, and dessert? My Papa's was the best though (I've accepted that that is okay to say). When he took his final breath at 2:47 p.m EST , Lauren, Lynda, and I were on a walk and came home to my mom on the steps with arms open wide. Christmas Day the mourner couldn't be there for a while, but my dads side of the family showed up without hesitation. Within minutes and hour we had a party right in the kitchen and living room, with a corpse. Crying sure, but mostly talks and jokes of, "what a bastard, couldn't even let Jesus have a birthday." and recollections of memories. When the night quieted down and guest left we found his last scratch ticket. He always had those and mints, as kids he use to have Watermelon hard candies but he must have outgrew them, or perhaps we did which lead him to mature just to Altoids. Anyways, the immediate family scratch it, not a winner but I hung it on our fridge in New Hampshire, where it still hangs.
Death doesn't have to be a "Cry for me" situation. Death is a celebration of a new chapter. When reading a book you close one chapter and anticipate the next; the story still continues. No-one says it has to end. Most people think that when you die the story closes, it's the back cover. Isn't that a lovely thought? It's over! Finally! But hopefully you've left a mark deep enough that others will continue to write the next chapter for you. Their own expedition with your memories, big or small, so your legacy continues but theirs grows. After all in tarot card readings pulling the Death card isn't something to fear, for the card means transition and change.
I don't know what I believe in when it comes to taking that final breath. Heaven? Hell? Rest? Reincarnation? Whatever it is I'm prepared for it. There's no escaping death, there's no antidote or special elixir for it. When death taps me on the shoulder I think I'll be scared for the unknown, not mine but for those around me. I'll be hoping that the path I trudged left no footprints, because I wouldn't want anyone making the same mistakes I made or follow my journey. I'll also greet death as if I'd been waiting for him. I'm not waiting for my stork who dropped me off at the footstep when I was born. I'm not waiting for a God to grant me immortal powers. Death lurks at every corner and when I meet him I'm sure I'll be as polite and well mannered as I am with everyone else I meet. Perhaps, I'll say "excuse me" and try to dodge him swiftly, shaking off an awkward introduction, but most likely I'll thank death for letting me live this long and see, struggle, love, laugh, and cry the amount of times I have. Death is another exhale. Maybe ravens and crows are symbolized with death for the wrong reason. I see these black feathered creatures as souls we watch and keep, they are not death. Doves are the departed. For a dove is a symbol of peace. It's also more comforting to think of a graveyard filled with doves rather than ravens.
So feel how you feel, don't get caught up in not crying or feeling sorrow. Remember death is a party of transition. In closing, live like you're going to die; because you are. And that's okay.
Thank you.
-L
