It’s a greyed out Tuesday. Although my husband (the truly
magnanimous dog-walker in the family) tells me that it’s not so cold, just wet
and foggy outside, somehow no matter how many layers I layer on, I cannot seem
to warm up my extremities. Perhaps it has something to do with the presence of illness
and death hanging just as heavy and pervasive around me as the fog.
Last Friday, on the second anniversary of my own Dad’s
death, my cousin Carol died. She has been released from the unbelievably upbeat
struggle she waged against Cancer over the past two years and the pain she
endured during the last months and weeks. Of course we must agree that this transition
is a blessing for her. But her death leaves a pain in my heart and lays a fog
on my brain. Carol - one of a pair of twins; one of three sisters, an amazing
wife, mother, grandmother, friend, educator, community servant…. I know the
same trite labels can be attached to so many, and I assure you that the
fullness and commitment that Carol brought to her everyday actions and
relationships cannot be expressed by any common adjective or simple noun.
I think by now Carol’s funeral has concluded and family and
friends are gathered at her home to support her husband and sons as they begin
the seven day Jewish mourning period known as “shiva”. (Ironically, the Hindu
god “Shiva” is at once a
fearsome destroyer and yet also a calm, meditating spiritual seeker, but
in this context “shiva” comes
from the Hebrew word shiv'ah, which
literally means "seven". The Jewish tradition was developed in
response to the story in Genesis 50:1-14 in which Joseph mourns the death of
his father Jacob (Israel) for seven days.) On Carol and Larry’s street in White
Plains, NY, today there will be trouble finding a parking place. But Mike and I are not
there.
We made an ill-fated attempt to get up there from
Asheville this weekend, beginning Saturday, right after being confronted first
thing in the morning by Carol’s younger son’s Facebook tribute to his mom. We
made hurried arrangements for the dog, the house and the mail. We packed and bought
sandwiches to avoid making any lengthy stops en route, borrowed books on CD
from the library and a wheelchair from the nearby assisted living facility so
we’d be able to transport my immobile mom to the services. I fell flat on my
back trying to load the car in too much of a hurry, and perhaps that in itself
should have been all the omen I needed. But Carol is the first one of our
generation of cousins (“the Lucky 7”) to be lost, and although my original plans
for Saturday were to sleep off what seemed to be an impending head cold, I
wanted to – needed to - be in New York.
By the time the car was loaded and all the errands were run,
we’d lost half the daylight and then some and learned that the funeral was not
scheduled until Tuesday, so we decided to fortify ourselves with another night
in our own beds before setting off on the two day drive. Leaving early Sunday
morning we were able to reach Maryland, the halfway point, in time to catch a
sit-down dinner in the mall nearby the motel.
After Sunday dinner I contacted my brother on Long Island who was preparing
to return to work Monday for the first time in two weeks, dragging himself
there in spite of residual flu fatigue. I knew Josh would not be able to take time
off and assured him we’d be in Bellmore on Monday night in time to transport
Mom to her orthopedist appointment on Tuesday morning and to the funeral on
Tuesday afternoon, as previously discussed. That’s when he told me he wasn’t
sure we should stay at their house or be around Mom, who was sounding more and
more like she had caught at the very least a cold, hopefully not the flu,
herself. Mom probably wouldn’t be able to attend the funeral. He would work out
arrangements to get her to her doctor.
Shift gears. Call my friend Roz, another White Plains
resident. Leave voice mail, “Can we stay with you before and after the funeral?” Monday morning I got a call
back, “You are welcome to come, but I have come down with some kind of virus
myself, and I don’t think it would be wise. You know, the governor has declared
a flu epidemic in New York. Are you sure you should come at all?”
Because I am a transplant recipient I take immunosuppressant
drugs to prevent rejection of the liver that has settled so symbiotically into
relationship with the organs I was born with. In the six years since my
transplant I have had my share of “ordinary illnesses” and while recovery is
sometimes slower than for the “average” person, thankfully, I haven’t faced any
challenges that took a turn for the worse. I lead a normal life, but am
vigilant. I wear a medical mask on airplane rides. I sometimes even slip one on
once the lights go down at the movies. Mike’s poker buddies kindly beg off if
the game’s at our house and they are or recently have been sick. I made careful
choices at the recent holiday buffets and pot lucks, selecting only food that likely had
been handled by few people (no peanuts, nothing that might have been
“double-dipped.”)
I had a flu shot in early November, and now suddenly was
wondering if it was still viable. I thought about the crowds that would be in
close quarters at the synagogue and at Larry’s home after the burial. I thought
about the hugging and hand-shaking that, no matter what my intention, I would
not be emotionally able to resist. I even thought about how my body reacts to
baptism by sadness. Some say I am “too sensitive” – whatever, it’s me and it’s not
gentle. Thank goodness for a supportive, flexible husband. I made the difficult
decision to obey my gut rather than my heart – we called to make our apologies
to the family, turned around and drove eight hours south rather than north.
The universe would not let me be. Not five miles down the interstate we passed
a truck proclaiming the good work being done by, “The Heart of Hospice.” After
dinner at home in Asheville last night, Mike went down to the den to catch up
on sports scores. I went into our bedroom to stretch my car-weary back and
distract my mind with an HD Net Movie. The feature presentation, “The Big
Chill.”
It’s late afternoon on Tuesday. I am wondering how everyone
in New York is doing. I am wondering if my self-protective decision was
sensible or cowardly. I am wondering what I will do if and when my mother,
husband or brother is acutely ill and/or hospitalized. I am struck by the way
attitudes and actions interact and the cascading consequences of our decisions.
Dad is gone two years. Carol is gone three days. Other
losses past and future echo in the cold cavern of my consciousness and suck the
warmth from my toes and fingertips. It’s a greyed out Tuesday in mid-January. I'm praying, "Let this pass too."
