Death
4 October 2012
Death – it is so very, very
final. It allows for no grey area and no
comebacks. But by definition, I suppose
that is exactly what it is – a point of no return.
A very good friend of mine’s
husband died on Saturday. And my heart
simply aches for her. Her much loved
husband was simply too young. He still
had a wife to love and kids to help raise.
How is it possible that his time was cut so short? I can’t seem to find a rhyme or reason to
these things. Can’t we all simply go at
a very, very, very old age softly in our sleep one night? And only after having a full, long and
healthy life.
Richard had been ill, for quite a
while. He suffered greatly, as did those
around him – seeing his decline and pain.
But he fought the good fight, and he fought it bravely, with much
courage. In the end he was at peace and
ready to go. He leaves behind a
beautiful, but broken young wife – heartsore and numb. A beautiful young girl, a tween if you
like. And a lively little boy. Will they ever remember their Dad as he was
before illness ravaged him? His goodness
always shone out. As did his love for
them.
At 82 my grandmother has been
absolutely overwhelmed by death at the moment.
Within two short years, she lost her brother and both her sisters – they
were all exceptionally close. They spoke
on the phone daily and visited each other often. She says that in the beginning, the quiet
telephone really caught her off guard, after being used to it ringing so frequently. And now on a weekly basis she is notified of
the death of yet another cousin or long lost friend. At 83, my grandfather has lost all of his
male friends and peers. His brother is
long gone, as are his brothers-in-law and his male cousins. How terribly, terribly sad. So very depressing.
My Dad was still so young at 46
when he died. We had had time to prepare
for his death, and had the very surreal experience of standing around his bed,
a week before he died and telling him exactly how much we loved him. How it was okay for him to let go. How we would look after our Ouma Cathy – his
mother. How we would remain a close
family. I made an oath to him that I
would ensure that my children (at that stage I only had Luke) knew about him
and that I would keep him ‘alive’ for them.
We assured him that we would always look after our mom. Personally I thanked him for everything he
had ever done to me. How much he meant
to me and how deeply I loved him. I
remember my matric valedictory with absolute clarity. It was a special moment for me. The culmination of 12 years at school. We were wished a stirring farewell by our
principal and teachers. Our head boy and
head girl made fabulous uplifting speeches.
And us, the class of ’90 sang a farewell song to the school. I was hugely disappointed as my folks
wouldn’t be able to attend. My mom was a
teacher and thus was working – not able to take leave. And my dad was working too. They had both expressed remorse and regret,
but assured me that they would be there in spirit. And they warned me that I would have to
rehash the whole thing for their benefit later that day, once we were all
together again. And then, during the
assembly, I looked out towards to crowd of parents, proudly sitting and
watching their kids. And there, at the
very back of the hall was my dad - standing.
I still don’t know why it meant so much to me, except that it did. Hugely so.
He must have moved mountains to make it happen. Just for me.
Just to make me happy. And even
now, while I’m typing away, I’m crying about it. Ridiculous, I know. Such a silly thing to do. But at 17 it meant the world to me. And on his death bed I thanked him for
it. And still think about it to this
day. It taught me a lot as a
parent. To never underestimate things
that seem trivial to us, are so very important to our kids. I remember giving my dad simply the biggest,
biggest hug when assembly was finished.
How he stood around chatting with all of us – he always fit in with the
teenagers. A friend has a video clip of
it, which I would dearly like to see.
And I remember my dad rehashing the story with me, to my mom that
evening when we recalled the valedictory.
So special. I would like to
believe that it gave him a measure of peace, when we all stood around his
bed. Even though he was no longer
capable of speech, he followed us with his eyes, and at one point he squeezed
my mom’s hand.
My friend whose mother has
Dementia, currently has a very different take on death. But then again, she is watching her much
loved mother suffering. All pretence of
dignity gone. Her dearest wish, without
sounding callous, is for her mother to have a massive and painless stroke or
heart attack, ending her suffering. She
fears her mother could carry on forever in her current state. All mental faculties gone, but the physical
body at least is still doing relatively well.
And being in a home, the environment is quite clinical. The chances of her getting sick are
zero. There are no stresses or strains
enforced upon her. So for now, she is
wasting away on the inside – becoming more and more hollow. Simply a shell, an empty vessel. No one steering the ship.
Personally, I very much share
Woody Allen’s take on death, and I quote “It’s not really that I’m scared of
death. I just don’t want to be there
when it happens”. Which I supposed
encapsulates it for me perfectly. But
what I have witnessed, in my near 40 years, is the effect of dying. Not on those that are dearly departed. But on the ones that are left behind. Trying to pick up the pieces and going
ahead. Not the simplest of tasks by any
stretch of the imagination.
Rest in peace, Richard. You were very much loved and your legacy will
live on forever. Your family will be
cared for. They are loved and cherished
by many. And have an awesome support
system. You did well. Your work is done, you may rest. You have deserved it.
Very beautiful 'story' Helene. Illness and death both seem so unfair and so sudden even when it's not.
ReplyDeleteRIP Richard with the lovely family. xxxx
As always, beautifully written Helene. Condolences and love to Richards family. RIP.
ReplyDelete