The one service consisted of the Kaddish, the Jewish mourner’s prayer for the death, and then an afternoon of sitting Shiva. Surrounded by family and friends, and considering the long fruitful life of the deceased it was far from a somber gathering. Her time was right, something that she realized and lobbied for.
The second service was different. There was joy in the remembrances but there was the realization that this was death come too soon. The visitation line at the wake never lessened and the church was overflowing to standing room only. One person after another came to the pulpit and spoke glowingly, and steadfastly refused to say goodbye even while doing so.
It was tragic and inspirational. Tears flowed followed by hardy laughs. The pastor who knew him best was profane in describing their relationship obviously shocked that he no longer had his beloved parishioner and friend to kid around with.
Throughout the service, our departed friend’s first grandbaby made a ruckus. It made a deep impression, a loving grandfather gone replaced by a dear child who will only know her exuberant grandfather through reminiscences and images. It is the way of the world but that does not make it fair, easy, or tolerable.
Sitting in the pew, listening to the gathered group of Lutherans sing their hearts out, my parents came to mind. My father died quickly. There was barely time to comprehend what was happening before it happened. And even though I spent much of my life in healthcare, I cannot understand how someone so present could just disappear.
My mother was a different story. Her disappearance took three years. At the end, she was not aware enough to continue her wish for death, so we took up the banner. The thing she and I did was sit next to each other, outside if possible, and talk. She carried on with many of the same stories year after year, and I listened quietly year after year.
I would often hold her hands as I listened, and study them. She worked all her life, even more after she retired. Strong of mind and body it was hard to watch her change and especially to watch her hands. Born in America of Sicilian parents, when she allowed herself to become tan, she would take on an earthy bronze. Mainly this was evident on her hands, tanned from working in the garden.
Skin is a marvelous organ. It provides us with protection, sensation, and embarrassing social moments. The look of skin provides a barometer to a person’s health. Pink, yellow and grey are some of the hues that offer clues. There is also another characteristic, transparency, which often escapes notice.
As I watched my mother fade, her hands became translucent. My knowledge of anatomy almost overpowered the awe of what I was watching, identifying structures as opposed to seeing the glow. Towards the end of her life, her skin was like that of the little aquarium fish that light passes straight through.
September was sobering. When the leaves begin to change color this fall and the garden dies back, it will be difficult not to think of the one thing that cannot change, we are born and will die. And that there will be exuberance and tragedy, and in many ways, the two will be comingled.
I am not a religion person but I think this is what the Lutherans, Methodist, and Jews exposed me to this September, and what, in my secular understanding, my mother’s hands revealed.
October 2016
