Fifty-Nine Days

 

Living 59 days longer than his 2nd daughter, Chris made it almost to 90. Almost. At 4:45 am CST he legally ended his time here. Finally beating the game of life. Winning his fight against city hall. In truth, his life ended months ago. He’s been a crumbling husk for… well long enough that I’m having a hard time remembering him any other way.

What an inglorious death. To waste waste waste away into the ether with a whimper. Where is the rage against the dying light? Maybe that’s something you are supposed to do now while you still can. Before sickness hobbles us. Like traveling to Spain or France or driving around the country instead of warming this spot in on one’s study and marinating in sadness.

And rage.

Between the loss, the relief and the guilt, it is it difficult to know which is worse. For my life-partner, it is the loss. She has accepted this long ago but the shadow of her sister’s death is far more powerful. It’s a shame really that Deb’s loss will darken the coming weeks and what would be a celebration of a long life well lived will instead be sidelined by our thoughts of her. We'll be confused about this. What are we sad about? His loss, her loss, our loss? Missed friends? Spurned lovers? It will all boil and froth to the top and we'll have to confront it. Or numb it.

But, numbing only delays the inevitable.

At least my father-in-law doesn’t have to worry about losing his little girl any longer and she’ll never know the loss of her daddy. Silver linings.

This phase of life, the taking-more-than-giving part, comes to us all. And it sucks. For some of us, life starts taking a little sooner. Some fewer still—a lot sooner. But it comes to us all. It’s part of the journey we all take on the way to the long house of our fathers.

In spite of it being universally experiential, we just aren’t designed to confront this kind of ongoing load and loss. And so we flail and flop, grasping for meaning and wanting to feel whole. To be loved completely and not piecemeal. But it seems that’s just not something we can have now, the feeling of wholeness. Being complete. But, as I said, it seems that it just isn't something we can have now. Instead, you and I are getting a PHD in patience.

It becomes a fight against bitterness and disdain.

It’s getting hard to see the clarity and beauty of life through all the tears. It’s hard to heal from ongoing assaults. I’m praying for the peace of God that excels all thought… but at night, when I am quiet in bed… a burrito on the edge of oblivion, I only have the specters of loss with me. I only have my amputated soul.

And so I want to escape and just walk in the woods for a while. To sit by a fire side and a waterfall and not think. That place of solitude that through my own life has been the restorative respite I need so desperately right now. Deb was my first experience with that respite. She introduced me to my first waterfall and my first peaceful night beside a fire. And Chris introduced her. How serendipitous.

But, i have a feeling that 'not thinking' is just not something I can do. Maybe the demons I keep locked in the bottles on the high shelf can help.

They at least offer the brilliance of numb. Then again… I think it’s the dance that lets us forget.

But what do I do with all of this… electricity? Surging and coursing through me is the fuel of a 1000 generations of drunken Scott’s, Irishmen, Danes and Indians fighting and flailing through their funerary rites. But here’s little ole me, civilized and proper—speaking words of quiet and comfort in whispers when I really want to shout and flail and dance.

What is the right way to grieve? Quiet contemplation? Shouting? Tears? Rage? Death is quiet, but getting there sure isn't. It is loud and noisy. Muddy and fun. Maybe this is the time to burn and shout and rage in the face of the dark night. Making love and writing books. Painting and sculpting. Running and dancing. Talking—in whispers, and in song. When I go, please make your grieving a place of healing in whatever form that needs to be.

A walk in the woods will be good. I can howl at the moon that lights us all.

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

BY DYLAN THOMAS

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.