Death Changes

(Photo of Alexander H by Anna H, 1997)

     "You've had so much loss", my cousin said with her eyes welling up, "I don't know what I would have done". 

   For reasons too many to enumerate, I found this extremely offensive.  Death is not a loss, it's a fact.  One loses a dollar, the house key or more recently, one's cell phone.  These are devastating losses.  I lost my key once and believe me, it was a devastating thing.  I have no idea how I got home, since a key was needed to drive the car, but I have come to accept  that my car keys remained back at the IKEA bathroom and that it was as fine a moment of magical realism as any.

   Losing one's parents or children is a fact just as losing one's health or any other aspect of being alive. I read once that St. Ignatius of Loyola said one should not be too attached to any particular outcome, good health versus bad, wealth versus lack of it.  It's all the same.  I'm not too sure if I get all of it because I've been trying to refinance for a while and am pretty attached to the outcome.  However, on some basic level, one has to be prepared for the worst possible outcomes and be ok with them. Plans are nothing, planning is everything.  Even all the insane planning of my parents, borne of historical genocide imprinted on our genes and life in three different countries, could not have prepared them for the loss of their son.  Their witnessing of  a slow disintegration of a good and honest man could not have been foreseen and none of us were prepared for it, but it was a fact.
 
  I went to a support group once and the therapist said:

     "I'm not seeing enough tears".

    That's just it-- it's not a question of anyone else seeing those tears but rather the acceptance of the fact that they're there and that maybe their owner has things to do and people to take care of.

     "Thank you, " I told my cousin with the misplaced sympathy.  "I'm ok. To be honest,
the hardest thing was the lack of continuity and support when I needed it most."  Perhaps this was a cheap shot, but I was standing in front of my father's casket  when someone apologetically showed me a text from a family member too busy to come to the funeral.
 
      "The thing is, " I continued, "that they are always with me. It's only their physical absence but in all other ways, they are a constant presence".  I was talking about my parents, brother and aunt and as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how futile it was.  The futility of talking to someone who cannot hear.  Asoghin, lsogh petk a,  as the saying goes in Armenian. To whom who speaks, a listener is required.

     Years ago, in a writing class and after I'd read a story from my childhood in Armenia, Mariano, a poet friend of mine said in his awesome Spanish accent:

      "In these stories, you are like blotting paper," while gently tapping his fingers on the notebook in front of him. "Simply absorbing everything around you.  Invisible, but present.  The invisible, present child."

     At the time, I didn't understand what a gift writing would become and in fact, on the day that I found out that my brother was dying, I went to my class. I didn't know what else to do.  My mentor and teacher, the late and great  Philomene Long made certain that someone would drive me home and in the years that followed, writing helped me to navigate the inner landscape. 

     I don't need sympathy, I wanted to say to my cousin, for this is not something that has happened only to me.  If I sound defensive, then be it. Nothing crushes the spirit more than pity.

    Death changes things, but in ways one cannot expect.  From a spectator's perspective, the view is constantly changing.  Imagine seeing a Christmas tree completely done up in the window of a lovely home, with beautiful Christmas décor all around.  It's lovely and evocative but oddly empty, because it is the middle of August. That's how it can feel.  Uncomfortable, shocking, shockingly despairing and just physically ill fitting.

   Then, suddenly it changes.  It can be the middle of August, you look up and suddenly see a beautiful Christmas tree in the window of a beautiful home , all done up to be so festive and kind.
And suddenly, instead of despair, you think of a home with a small plastic Christmas tree on top of a table, or a china cabinet with cheap plastic toys on it from a cheap swap meet and maybe some little lights on it and the room is filled with people who are desperately trying to be above frivolity, but are really loving it all.  Little crystal cups filled with cherry liquor, waiting for the apple to fall and for Dick Clark to do his bit and to gather around and turn on all the lights for good luck, to toast each other and to say, "Shnorhavor Nor Tari!".  Happy New Year!  Sometimes, the imagery can take you back to a hospital room, where everyone is watching the Oscars, or the emergency room where your brother looks up at the hospital clock and says, "It's New Year", in a droll, witty and sarcastic, funny and kind voice.

    Death does many things, it changes the viewer, memories and perspectives. Like in a movie, you can look at the same thing and depending on where you sit and who's in front of you, what you see is completely different. 

    Philomene once said and instructed us to write a story on what we have lost.  Quoting a study in Japan where most people lose umbrellas, she said that we are the sum total of what we lose and asked us to write about what we have lost. She meant literal losses and not metaphorical ones like ambition.  I didn't know what to write about at the time, because to be honest I never lost stuff.  This could be because I am or rather was, a very orderly person-- my brother would say OCD, but now I can say that I lose stuff all the time.  Maybe it's time, middle age, dulling sense of memory, but I seriously cannot remember a thing.  I'm not even sure that "lost" is the word to describe people who were in your life, shaped you and now are no longer physically present.  It's obviously a different thing, since you can eventually find your car but a dead mother cannot be found again. That's the thing that's hard. The finality of it. But this is the caveat, for if you try, it isn't final at all. You just have to look and be ok with constant reminders of absence and this I have come to realize is what separates most people.  There are those who are ok with carrying pain and remembering and those who are not.  I finally understand what Kundera meant by the Unbearable Lightness Of Being, but I could not explain it to anyone and least of all to those who pity.  Koshogin ashogh petka a.  A talker needs a listener.