Life, and Death, on Lillian's Terms

  

A week ago was my mother’s 90^th birthday. She was not here to celebrate with us in the usual way because two and a half years ago she took off—she left her physical body and ran ahead of us to join her loved ones on the Other Side (also known as Heaven). She couldn’t wait to see her parents again, her sisters, some of her dear friends, and especially her son, my brother, Steve. She made it quite clear during her last year here on Earth that she was ready to move on. She was not at all afraid to die. She felt her work here was done.

Lillian was one of 6 daughters born to Armenian natives for whom death and loss were a close companion. You see, they had to flee Armenia in the 1920s due to the Armenian genocide which was taking place in their homeland. My grandparents had witnessed the massacre of hundreds of their own friends and family (among the more than one million killed in total), including their own parents and siblings. As they fled across the Syrian desert, they witnessed the deaths of many of the people with them who succumbed to starvation. They watched others attacked and slain by the machete wielding oppressors. My grandparents’ own 2 babies (not included in the 6 mentioned above) did not survive due to disease. In fact, my step-grandmother who came into the pictures years later and had survived these atrocities, told us how she went on to birth 12 babies, only to have all of them die in childbirth or infancy. I had no idea how my ancestors could have survived all this. 

According to my mother, some of these experiences were the bedtime stories told to her and her sisters by my grandmother. It was not at all meant to upset. It was my grandmother’s way of sharing what had happened, telling the stories of their lives, and probably was a necessary way for her to express her pain. I mean, the pain has to go somewhere.

With this history of her family in her in her back pocket, as well as in her DNA, my mom faced the many adversities of her own life with grit. She had a tumultuous marriage with my father, and their weekly, sometimes daily, arguments came to blows on a few occasions. Their 16 year age difference, clashing generations and cultures, and my father’s own rageaholic personality (no doubt drawn from his own painful past) were a perfect recipe for a dysfunctional family environment. But she forged on raising us 5 children with love and commitment. She was often exhausted, and sometimes depleted of joy. Yet her resolve to take care of us kept her going.

Mom was a violinist as a young woman, and was expected to set that aside when she married at age 18. Her passion, her outlet, was squelched. Her firstborn son, my older brother Steve, was born with a congenital heart condition that left 2 holes in his heart. In the 1950s and 1960s, surgery was out of the question. At age 21, she began the journey of caring for a child who would not live a full life span. My mom’s own sister died of tuberculosis at age 36, and her mother died soon after that. Then eventually, by 1979, my older brother’s body was too frail and sick to hold on much longer, and Steve’s spirit was set free. My mother, naturally, was in bitter grief. In all the years to follow, she endured the pain of missing him by listening to audio cassettes of the music that my gifted musician brother had composed and recorded. This helped her to feel close to him.

My mother’s coping mechanisms were in place. She was a smoker since age 16, a drinker (at times), and a gambler. She took prescription pills to help her go to bed at night and different pills to help her get up in the morning, as was typical in the 50s and 60s (check out the lyrics to "Mother's Little Helper" by the Rolling Stones). She loved the distraction and atmosphere of the horse races and Las Vegas and spent time engaging in these activities whenever the opportunity arose, usually a few times a year. These were the rare occasions we saw our parents having a good time together. Yet in 1974, when the strain of her stormy marriage became too much for her, she even attempted, and survived, suicide…twice. Interestingly, each time, she informed one of us after she had taken the potentially lethal dose of tranquilizers so that we could intervene. I don’t think she really wanted to go. It was a cry for help.

                                                             

That is not to say my mother didn’t make sure to take good care of her kids. All 5 of us were well fed and clothed, hugged and kissed, and indulged on birthdays and Christmases. We were driven to dance lessons and scouts, taught to bake and sew, read to, and she was always there for our recitals and graduations. We were very much loved. And of course, each of us, as well as our own kids, was taught how to play Black Jack as soon as we could count to 21!

But we also, thankfully, saw the healthier coping mechanisms that helped her make sense of the stresses and heartbreak in her life. She had been a writer since childhood and as an adult spent time writing novels as a way of expressing her deepest feelings.(Despite numerous submissions to various publishers, none of her books ever made it to print.) She went back to school at age 50, after we were grown, to earn both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in English, and another bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. These then allowed her to teach English at the local community college. By now my dad had retired and mellowed. And from time to time she even dusted off her violin and played many of the old classical pieces she used to play. Mom was intelligent, witty, strong-willed, funny, and outspoken. She was a firecracker. Her students adored her, and people who met her for the first time were endeared by her wild spirit, sense of humor, and heart of gold.

So in 2018, 49 years after her son Steve had passed away, 15 years after my dad’s death, 2 years after her boyfriend of 13 years made his exit, and a year after my son Eric, her grandson, had been killed in a car accident, my mother’s health began to fail. She was now 86 going on 87, and she had no intention of sticking around much longer. Her body was becoming more feeble, and her mind fluctuated from very forgetful to sharp-as-a-tack. She refused to go to doctors anymore, so we pretty well assumed her stomach pain might be due to stomach cancer, as tests from a couple years previous had indicated that possibility. Despite all her smoking, her lungs never developed cancer. But quit smoking? Not on your life! She could hardly eat anything anymore, but don’t anyone dare take away her cigarettes!

In her last 5 months, Mom became very frail and needed 24 hour care to make sure she was getting the right dosage of her medications (provided by hospice) and was well fed, at least as much as her tiny tummy could allow. And believe me, she protested often because of the cost of the care. We also discussed the possibility of an assisted living facility, a very nice one nearby, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “I want to die in my own house!” I guess I couldn’t blame her.

We had two amazing women, two absolute angels, who took good care of her and gave her a lot of love. When they weren’t there, my siblings and I took turns spending time with her, chatting, picking up groceries, watching Jeopardy and Seinfeld, and doing the crossword puzzle. Gone were the days of her getting out of the house to do senior aerobics at the gym or visit with her friends. Most of them had died by now anyway.

When I was there visiting my mother, I’d have a cup of tea with her. She was a talker and I was a listener—for the most part. We talked about what was happening in our lives now and about wonderful memories of the past. We talked about her dad and mom, Steve, my dad, and my son Eric. Sometimes she would glance at me with a bit of a foggy look in her eyes and take a moment before she’d ask, “Did Eric die?” Those were the moments when the dementia became a bit evident. I’d tell her yes, and she would cry for a bit.

But often she was perfectly lucid. And she was quite funny. She’d make jokes, and then I’d joke back. She’d laugh at my jokes and I’d laugh at hers. She had developed a bit of a dark sense of humor as she approached death. On her bad days, where the pain was more apparent, she’d straight out tell me as I was leaving, “Well, I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow. So I’ll say good bye now.” And she wasn’t kidding! She wasn’t sad about it. She was very matter of fact. And I’d say, “Well I hope I do see you tomorrow.” I was pretty sure I would. Then the next day I’d see her and I’d say, “Well, you didn’t die,” and she’d say, “I guess I was wrong. But I’m rarely wrong!” Once she even was having a pleasant conversation with the handy-man who was doing some work in the kitchen for her. When he was done, he asked her if there  was anything else he could do for her, and without a beat she said, “Sure, could you kill me?” and then laughed about it. Honestly. That woman! I told you she was a firecracker.

My mother and I talked about death. She told me she was looking forward to it. She felt she had done her job and wanted to be with Steve and the others. She also reported seeing Steve and Eric, her parents, and my dad around the house from time to time. I had heard about this. As a person approaches death, they are often already beginning to become aware of the spirit world. They sometimes touch that space between this dimension and the next. This brought me much comfort.

She would slowly walk me around the large backyard to show me which plants were growing, which flowers were blooming, and which trees were producing fruit. The fig tree and the peach tree were her pride and joy. And then, as we sat again at the little circular stone table and two chairs in the patio area, she’d have another cigarette. She’d look around, enjoying the beautiful day, the magnificent trees and the blue sky, and on some days she would say, “It’s a great life.” This always gave me pause. She said that life was great!  After all she had been through, all the pain, the struggles, the fights, the losses, the death of her beloved son, the despair, the desire to take her own life, the grief…my dying mother, at age 87, sat in the backyard with me and told me that life was great.

Mom died on December 16, 2018. My sister told us that, just hours before, she had walked my mom to the restroom, even though my mom could barely make it. But she insisted. Then my mom asked for a cigarette, and though she could no longer inhale the smoke, she just held it to her lips for a moment. (A cigarette to the bitter end!) She then went to sleep and never woke up. She had done it on her terms. As difficult as she had been to deal with at times, I had to hand it to her. She did it her way. I had to respect that.

There’s always a lesson…in everything. My mom taught me how to live. Despite everything she had gone through - all the tears she shed, all the abuse she took, all the times she wailed about the unfairness of life, all the times she cursed this earthly existence - when all was said and done, she was able to look back over all of it and say, “It’s a great life.” I still am blown away by that. I am still awed by the deep wisdom in that. I still stop and ponder the truth in that.

Thank you, Mom, for this gift you have given me, you have given all of us. I will live my life on my terms. And when I join you where you are, we can have a cup of tea and a cigarette.

Happy birthday, Mom.

No Pain, No Gain

 

You’ve heard the old saying, “No pain, no gain.” The older I get, the truer those words ring. We spend most of our lives, if not all of our lives, resisting the hardships, the challenges, and the pain. And understandably so. Who wants pain? I’m not about to raise my hand when asked that question.  Short of putting up with the physical pain of a strenuous workout because we know the results will be worthwhile, or (for some women) accepting the pain of childbirth because we know the prize is miraculous, we do everything in our power to escape pain.

In recent years I have thought about this notion of no pain, no gain, in light of a blow from left field that struck me and my family in May of 2017. The greatest heartbreak I could ever imagine came to our family when my sweet, handsome, talented son was killed in a car accident. Boom. That was it. The pain was indescribable, gut wrenching, and brutal. We had no idea how to endure it.

These past 4 years have been a journey, and that is an understatement. I found myself, early on, deciding to figure out not only how this could possibly have happened to me, to my family, but how to stand up and live again. What do I do now? I had no control over this. I had worried about this worst-possible-thing-that-could-happen-to-a-parent since my first child was born, but all that worry didn’t stop it from happening. I was plunged into the depths of despair, floundering like a person without swimming skills who had just been thrown into the water, spitting and sputtering and gasping for air.

This is how it goes. This is grief. No one is expected to escape the pain. The grief fills every part of you. It holds you and caresses you, then pulls you under and back to the surface again. Sometimes the waves take you for a ride, and you are completely powerless to control your emotions as you are helplessly tossed and turned. Then the waves subside and you rest, catch your breath…until the next wave. No point in resisting. This is the expected tumult of unwelcomed change. My family and I went through this for many months.

During the rest periods, I voraciously read book after book after book about death, afterlife, near death experiences and spirituality. I listened to a multitude of podcasts about these same subjects. I found Helping Parents Heal, an amazing online support group for parents whose children have passed away.  I found a wonderful grief specialist and went to therapy once a week. I developed a newfound spirituality, an understanding of a God who does not punish and take away, but of a God who is the Creator and the Source of all Love. I found people, beautiful souls, who are beacons of that pure and loving light who could surround me and support me. And at some point, I began to find my sea legs and was able to stand up again, shaky, but upright.

And so now here I was with a choice. I could choose to suffer for the rest of my life. I could play the role of a victim, of “Why me?” and I could tell myself daily that I would never get over this, that I would never find joy again, and that life was horrible. I could hate God, hate my life, and hate all people who still had all their children. I could force myself to never laugh, or smile, and if I accidentally did either, I could feel guilt and become angry at myself for daring to feel good when my son was not here.  

Or I could choose to live. I could choose to find the joy in life that my son had found in his. I could choose to honor him by caring about others, helping others, and showing compassion to others as he did. I could choose to see the best in others, forgive others and love others, just as he did. I could choose to find adventure and joy in life. I could choose to look around and find the beauty, the amazement, the miracle, in everything around me. If I found something to be funny, I could choose to laugh wholeheartedly and full-bellied, just as he would have. And in doing so, I would feel him laugh along with me. Not that the longing in my heart for another hug from him doesn't bring me to tears on some days. But little by little, a new understanding of my purpose here began to unfold. Yes, no one is expected to escape the pain of grief and loss. But maybe, just maybe, one can grow from it.

Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote, "Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose that response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom." When I read that, I was struck by the depth of wisdom that resounded from those words. Here was someone who had survived the atrocities in and around the extermination of millions of Jews during World War II. Yet, Frankl found he had a choice in how to respond to that. Those words gave me great pause. As I contemplated this teaching, I found the truth in it. 

Dare I say that pain can be a teacher? My growth as a soul since the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life has been phenomenal. It is something I never expected, could never have predicted. But now I look back and I see. The perspective from where I am now enlightens me. I see a bigger picture than I ever could have imagined, one that I never was able to see before. And it is good. It is all good.

This is a world of contrasts. This is a world of opposites. If we don’t know the dark, we can’t know the light. If there is nothing but light, we eventually won’t even notice it anymore. Thich Nhat Hanh, the inspirational Vietnamese Buddhist Zen master, poet, scholar, and peace activist, teaches this same concept. He says, “If there is no left, then there can be no right. If there is no down, then there can be no up.” This is how it is on this Earth. That is why we have good times and bad times. If we only ever have good times, we would not be able to appreciate them. When everything is just the way we want it, there is no need to grow.   But when things are not as we want them, then we seek to make them better. And in that search, we become more of who we truly are.

Pain pushes us down a path of expansion. We can fight that growth, or we can flow with it. Grief is often compared to a river. We are pulled along, experiencing the turbulent waves along with the smoother rides. To fight the river would be exhausting. To flow with the river will eventually bring us to peaceful waters.

So my choice is to flow, to allow, to take what has happened to me and to see the rainbow. I choose to take the pain I am given and grow from it. I choose to surrender control.  I have learned to trust. And I have found that when I do these things, I find peace.

May you, too, find that peace which surpasses all understanding, even if only glimpses of it each day. In the words of 16th century Spanish mystic, Teresa of Avila, “It is there for each and every one of us.”

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

To write or not to write – that is the question.

It was suggested to me that I start a blog. I mean, I had written one whole book, so does that make me a writer now? I can’t say I feel like a writer. What does a writer feel like anyway?

I gave myself a pep talk and reminded myself that I am who I am and if I want to write, then dammit, I can write. However that didn’t eliminate the feeling that maybe I didn’t deserve to even begin to think I may be a writer. There are people who go to college and put in a lot of work to earn degrees so as to become writers of one form or another. I hadn’t done that. So, do I therefore not dare refer to myself as a writer?

I forged on with the idea. I knew there would be criticism, but I set that aside as I sat at my computer and realized I didn’t know the first thing about actually creating an online blog. Where do I go? What do I click? Which template should I use? How do I actually write my first blog? Why can’t I save this? What about including a picture? Why doesn’t it look right? What will people think? Will anyone even bother to read a blog from someone who is not actually a writer, except for one book? On and on and on…

It must be true. I don’t deserve to call myself a writer, a blogger. Who do I think I am? I have seen other people’s blogs, and I’m not nearly that good. Their writing styles are solid and interesting, charming and poignant. Their pieces are lengthy and compelling. My pieces are short, so far. Yes, I wrote a book, but that wasn’t much more than a report of my experiences before, during, and after the sudden passing away of my son from a car accident. Reporting on that doesn’t make me a writer. Does it?

I guess I worry too much about what people will think. Oh, the judgment we must endure here in this human life. Everyone feels they have the right to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, how you shouldn’t waste your time – or the reader’s time - if you don’t have the talent.

Hmmm… talent. Who decides whether or not you have it? Should I NOT do this because other people don’t think I have talent? Does my opinion matter? What if I just want to express my thoughts and feelings with words? Do I have that right?

Some will say I can express whatever I want, just don’t publish it.

Soooo…at what point does a person who takes dance lessons become a dancer? When is it okay for him or her to dance with elation and abandon in front of an audience? When is that earned? At what point is a young musician who performs with passion and joy at a recital, or concert, merit the title of musician?

I guess I’m trying to say - is it okay to suck at something and still put it out there for others to see, or hear? Or judge? Or condemn?

Whew! All this deliberation is making my head spin. Where was I?

Ah, yes, to write or not to write.

I believe I will do what I did as a kid no matter how fearful I was of the water. I would hold my nose and take a huge leap off the high dive, surrendering and freefalling, screaming and flailing, and just laugh and love every minute of it.

 

Hmmm…does that make me a swimmer?

Ready or not, here it is.

The Music/The Dance

When I am missing you,

I find you.

In the music.

You always said I could find you there.

I hear the drumbeat.

That is you.

That is where I find you.

In the music.

 

I thought I knew music.

But you taught me more.

The connection was made.

We shared the love of music

In our souls.

Our souls knew music.

I didn’t even realize that until more recently,

when I looked back at our past correspondence.

You’d send me something to listen to,

and I’d send you something to listen to as well.

 

The music.

 

I miss you,

so I find the music you appreciated,

you enjoyed,

you resonated with.

And I play that music.

And my soul resonates with it too.

I close my eyes, and I move.

To the music,

to the instruments,

to the drumbeat.

The dance in me comes out.

Interconnected with the music.

The dance I learned so long ago.

I feel it come alive.

As I hear the music.

Your music.

 

 I feel something as I move.

 I feel me.

 I feel life.

 I feel truth.

 I feel that all that matters is this moment.

This moment.

The music,

You,

Me.

The dance.

My arms reach and curve,

My legs support me,

step around, and turn me.

I am strong.

 

And then the music slows.

I see you. 

We come together,

and dance.

A slow dance.

Mother and Son.

The one I planned to dance one day with you

at your wedding.

Slowly stepping.

Slowly circling.

It is eternal. 

The love between us is there.

Is forever.

I know you are with me.

Because you tell me, “I’m here, Mom.”

I have heard you.

Time stands still.

I am fine.

I am peaceful.

I am with you.

And you are with me.

 

When I am missing you,

I know where to find you.

You are not far.

You are right here.

In the music.

Healing

(Excerpt from Look Around; A Mother's Journey from Grief and Despair to Healing and Hope)

Marianne Williamson defines a miracle as a shift in perception. If this is true, then the new perspective I have now gained on this journey of grief is a miracle. Healing is a miraculous process. And the way I now look at Eric’s transition, as well as at all the events that have since unfolded, is truly miraculous. There was no way for me to see the possibility of healing on the day the sheriff and coroner pounded on my front door. There was no way for me to understand when a few people told me that maybe Eric’s work was done (and I never recommend saying that to someone who is newly bereaved). There was no way for me to have any reason to believe I could ever climb out of the deep dark abyss when Joe, Nicholas, Jessica, Vanessa and I stood at Eric’s gravesite at the cemetery to bury his ashes. There was no way I could ever imagine feeling joy again when all the friends and family finally went back to their homes to continue living their lives, and we had no idea how to get through the next day.

But this is the miracle. And it doesn’t happen a week later, or a month later, or not necessarily even a year later. It is a gradual process, like the rising sun. This kind of healing cannot be learned in a crash course. It cannot be binge watched. It’s not meant to. It is meant to drop in like rose petals from heaven, one at a time, day by day, until one day you have a flower, then a bouquet, then a rose bush, then a garden. It is meant to be contemplated, and eventually, savored. It is meant for you to allow yourself, on the days where you feel like you’ve tripped into the abyss again, to just be, and then trust yourself to work your way back out. This is the shift in perception. This is the miracle. I can choose to stay in a dark pit forever. Or, I can choose to climb out of the pit, huffing, puffing, grimacing, and sweating, and stand on the Earth, with the trees and the sky above, with the sun warming my face, and begin to catch the rose petals that fall from above. This is what I chose. I chose to heal.

 

In My Mind's Eye

 

Photo by T. Preston

(Written a year and a half after my son's transition.)

Again.

I am here.

I am right here.

I see your dark eyes.

They watch me.

Your eyes smile.

You are pensive.

I remember that pensive look.

But you are not right here.

Right in front of me.

I reach out.

But my hand does not exist in the same world

as your face,

your eyes.

There is a space.

How do I cross that space?

How do I connect my hand with your face?

I long to touch you.

I long to run my fingers across the facial hair along your jawline,

or down the bridge of your nose,

or across your dark eyebrows.

I long to tug on your earlobe.

Just the gentlest little tug.

Just like I used to do when I drove you in the car

when you were younger.

You would look at me and ask me why I did that.

I would say, "That means I love you."

That space.

I wish to cross that space between the land of time

and the world of no time.

That beautiful place.

That place of bliss.

That place where we were together even before we came here.

Home.

That home.

The one where you are right now, 

and where I will meet you again.

Some day.

One day.

When it is time.

Until then, I watch you.

In my mind's eye.

I see you.

You look at me.

I smile at you and you smile at me.

You are quiet.

I am still.

We are apart...

Yet we are connected.

By that silver thread.

My heart to yours.

It is unseverable.

We remain linked.

Locked.

Together.

Forever.

I am here.

I see you.

I see you.

In my mind's eye.

Life as it "should" be

This is the preface to my book, "Look Around; A Mother's Journey from Grief and Despair to Healing and Hope."

Most of us have an assumption about life. We assume it will be a charmed life, despite a few challenges. We assume we will grow up, and maybe go to college. We assume we will get a job that we like, find a partner, and get married. We assume we will, if we choose, have as many kids as we want, and that they will be healthy. We assume they will grow up, play baseball, take dance and music classes, become educated, get married and have as many kids as they want. And naturally this means we will have grandchildren and spend years with them, enjoying them, watching them grow and graduate. We will grow old, and one day we will die peacefully with our loving kids and grandkids around us. It is assumptive. For many, we assume this will be our life. Despite the hardships – financial woes, breakups, job losses or unplanned career changes – we assume we will get past all that and continue on with our planned life. And anything really bad – plane crashes, natural disasters that wipe out thousands, mass shootings - those things only happen to other people.

Unless one day there is a knock on your door and you open it to find the county sheriff and the county coroner standing there to tell you that your son has died.

And, from one second to the next, the world as you knew it has ceased to be. The life you assumed you would have has shattered. Nothing will ever be the same again.

How? How could this happen? How could this happen to us?

This is the story of my journey through that assumptive world, and beyond, into grief, despair, rage, and eventually healing and hope. This is the story about the grief journey my family and I took since my son’s transition to the other side. This is the story of my own spiritual journey.

And this is the story of Eric, a model son, a loving sibling, a loyal friend, and a musician with a heart of gold, who left his physical body at age 24, and how he came here to change us, to affect us, to make us better, and to remind us to look around and appreciate the wonders of this beautiful world that we take for granted.