Death, Birth, Memories and Moving On

It’s been two months since my last post and although I am physically feeling better and still in remission, some days are challenging.

Recently, a close family member passed away. Although he had a very long and wonderful life and was able to die in his own house with other family members present, it was a difficult time.

I’ve never seen anyone die and although the conditions of his death were as ideal as one could make them, it was an eerie feeling to see that last breath. A few days before he died I saw him open his eyes and reach his arms up. Was he submitting to the forces pulling him away from his body? I was told he could still hear us praying and talking to him and apparently a tear ran down from his eye, but I didn’t see it.

After that last breath, I wanted to feel and see something holy, like the soul of the body leaving, but I didn’t feel anything except a lot of mixed emotions. Sadness because of loss; relief because there’s no more suffering; yet there was the satisfaction of seeing a long life come to a peaceful end.

Honestly though, I also felt like a voyeur, closely watching for the unearthly signs of holiness and uplift under the guise of being a compassionate and supportive family member.

During my treatments at the hospital, I saw people lying in their beds close to death; I knew they were tired of fighting and ready to give up. I could see and hear family and friends coming to visit and saying their goodbyes.

So selfishly, I needed to witness death just in case I don’t get the keys to a longer life. I want to have faith in an afterlife.

But through this struggle to find holiness and courage, I discovered that faith can be found in other ways. While I was keeping vigil at this family member’s house, I saw albums and boxes of pictures gathered and sorted from his childhood, courtship, marriage, and the birth of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. How fast his life went, if you were to contrast the youthful towhead in the small black & white photos to the old man lying in a hospital bed in the nearby bedroom. But there was joy too: you could sense the enormity of what he accomplished after 67 years spent in one house.

Perhaps I didn’t feel his soul leaving or the beckoning call of his departed wife, but I felt the weight of all the memories from 1952-2019 and of each generation. Admittedly you gloss over the struggles and complexities of everyday life, but you remember the beauty and simplicity of the first steps in the kitchen; the first walk down the street to Kindergarten; patent leather shoes and purses for church on Sundays; baseball games at the local park; weddings in the backyard; first grandchild in the hand-me-down high chair and first great grandchild held on the living room couch.

Shortly after his death, a great-granddaughter was born and became the eleventh child to join the fourth generation. The roots and growing branches continue to create multiple family trees.

During this time, my daughter and her husband moved into a new apartment nearby. They took some of the furniture, along with their own dreams and the excitement that comes with setting up your own household. Another root, another branch.

My faith is restored if I redefine the meaning of afterlife: it comes in the form of the younger generation, rising from birth, maturing and holding onto the memories through pictures and some belongings, infusing their dreams and hopes to create their own life.

God willing, I’ll move along to my own trajectory, continuing to create memories and reaping the joys of future generations.