The cold of spring--on the death of a friend

 A dear friend died last week. Her death didn’t shock anyone; we’d been watching and waiting for several months. Hospice joined the team a few weeks ago and we knew our time with her was precious.

Harriet was 104 years old when she died. For most of the last seven years since we became friends, she was mobile (if a bit slow), alert, curious, and possessing a great gift of friendship. I benefitted from that gift.

We first met seven years ago in the retirement community’s health center. We were both there to get our flu shots. We introduced ourselves and began talking. Shots finished, the nurse suggested I accompany Harriet back to her room as she was visually impaired. I was certainly willing to slowly guide this dear blind lady, but I soon discovered how mistaken my perspective was. Without a cane or walker, and with vision that was blurry at best, this lady knew how to maneuver the halls and elevators of this building. She had all the routes memorized. And she did it briskly. So, instead of “helping” Harriet I walked alongside and enjoyed extending our conversation.

When we got to her door, she invited me to come back another time so we could continue getting to know each other. I took her up on it and thus began a rich and delightful friendship. We decided we were “kindred spirits” (shades of Anne of Green Gables). It was true.

Mostly we talked. We shared life-stories. I loved hearing about her growing-up years as a missionary kid in the Philippines, her adjustment challenges moving back to the US, and her adventures in marriage, child-rearing, and as a kindergarten teacher.

Harriet was a good listener as well as a good story teller. She wanted to know all about my life and my family, of course. We both loved sharing about our kids, grandkids, and, in her case, great grandkids. We learned a lot of names!

We read books together—or, rather, I read aloud and she listened and responded. Our favorites were Spring Wind by Gladis DePree, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, and Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Alice, the last book we read, was so clever and  funny that many times I had to lay the book in my lap so we could laugh out loud together.

The grief I’m feeling now isn’t the same as the grief experienced at the death of a beloved spouse or child, or the untimely death of a loving parent. Several of my friends are walking this grief path where the life changes and emotional hurdles are profound. This is a grief that takes time to live through.

But grief at the death of a friend is real, and I’m letting myself live into the sense of loss, knowing that my friend is home safe, with perfect vision, reunited with family and friends of years past. I still miss her here where I live.

A poem that helps me understand and walk this sadness is one C. S. Lewis wrote at the death of his dear friend, Charles Williams:  

Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard
To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change,
Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky,
To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens.
The slant alters. I can’t see the old contours. It’s a larger world
Then I once through it. I wince, caught in the bleak air that blows on the ridge.
Is it the first sting of the great winter, the world waning? Or the cold of spring?

A hard question and worth talking a whole night on. But with whom?
Of whom can I now ask guidance? With what friend concerning your death
Is it worth while to exchange thoughts unless—oh unless it were you?

I’ll finish with a short liturgical poem from the book of liturgies by Douglas McKelvey, Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2, Death, Grief, and Hope:

I would rest my sorrows in you, O Christ.
In time let the long bearing of them
make me more empathetic and available
to those around me, who in their lives
will also greatly suffer and greatly grieve
the loss of those they love.

I will acknowledge my sadness and be open to the good work God is doing in me as a result of my friendship with this marvelous person.

 

The kaleidoscope of change

It’s a cliché to say that change is the one constant in life. Of course it is. We all know that. And we know that it’s our attitude to change that makes the difference. That’s common conventional wisdom.

But it’s easier said than done.

I sometimes think that the changes brought about by aging are the toughest to adapt to. Some days I don’t have a good attitude at all about those changes. I wonder who I am now.

This reminds me of a passage in Alice in Wonderland. I’m currently reading this book aloud with my friend Harriet who lives down in the Health Center. Harriet is 104 years-old and has been through more life changes than most of us. The time she’s in now is especially difficult. But she loves Alice and laughs in all the right places.

The passage describes some strange changes and their resultant identity crisis. Alice was a little girl, not an old woman and her dilemma had to do with magically changing sizes as she swallowed potions and ate cookies. She wrestles with change like most of us and wonders who she is now. In this scene she has just come in contact with a caterpillar.

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence; at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

“Who are you? said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”

“I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.

“I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”

Being so many different sizes in a lifetime is confusing. Sizes, shapes, roles, tasks, relationships, responsibilities, circumstances—it’s a kaleidoscope and its constant spinning makes me so dizzy somedays that I can’t stand up straight. (Is that why so many of us use walkers and wheelchairs?) Which of all these selves and sizes is the real me? Is there such a creature? Is it even important to know?

The tiredness aside, most days I feel almost young and vital on the inside, much the same person I’ve always been. But then I look in the mirror.

I was startled this morning
to see a strange old woman
staring at me from the bathroom mirror.
Who is she? How did she get here?
Should I pull the emergency cord
by the toilet? Am I safe?
Such white hair!
Those lines around the eyes!
Those spots! Poor thing.
Even as I pitied her,
something about the pathetic look
she gave me made me laugh.
She laughed back.
In that very instant, I recognized
her, accepted her, and loved her.
Just as she is.

I realize that all the changes of my life come together to help make me who I am today. The changes are real and I’m at a different phase of life with its own challenges, but I’m still me. I’ll keep changing, but my core self, the essence of the person created by God, stays. It’s like the woman in Lisa Genova’s novel, Still Alice, who suffers the drastic changes of Alzheimer’s, but her family recognizes that she’s still the person they’ve always known and loved. She’s still Alice. And I’m still Nancy. And you are still your own unique self.

Joan Chittister in her book The Gift of Years writes that “We don’t change as we get older—we just get to be more of what we’ve always been.”

I love that passage in the book of Revelation that says that the person who remains victorious in all the challenges of life will receive from God “a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (Rev. 2:17). I’ve wondered if that personal name is God finally telling us the essence of our identity.

The search for identity, extending through the later years, is ongoing, perhaps until God tells us who we are. In the meantime, there’s a better way. We are to love our neighbor as ourself. Maybe these retirement years give us the leisure to appreciatively explore and affirm the essence of our neighbor—whether spouse, adult child, grandchild, or friend. Although we will never know the secret word written on their stone, we might come closer to genuinely knowing another person. What a good way to spend our time.

That’s a challenge for any age. 

Curiouser and Curiouser

 

One of the secrets of graceful aging, so we’re told, is being what is known as a Life-Long-Learner—maintaining a curious spirit and actively seeking to learn more about ourselves and our world. Curiosity may kill cats (a dubious proposition in itself) but it seems to add spice to the aging process. “Curiouser and curiouser” as Alice in Wonderland puts in, as she follows the White Rabbit, looking in amazement at the wonders around her.

Sometimes growing old feels like going down a rabbit hole, wondering where we’ll end up (or down). But paying attention to the experience helps keep us young in spirit for a longer time.

This retirement home offers many opportunities for learning experiences. A Community Life Director, plus a residents education committee make sure there’s always something going on. This last month we had weekly Bible studies, an ongoing (six weeks) college level class on the geology of the Northwest, art classes (card making and book binding), regular musical recitals, various book club meetings, a weekly movie, a lecture on hummingbirds, and an informational presentation by a member of the city council. The fact that a university is right across the street also helps; retirement community residents get special auditors rates. And, of course, we have a library full of copies of The Great Courses. Hal and I have taken the 24-lecture course on particle physics, and now I’m going through How To Play the Guitar.

In other words, there’s no excuse for mental stagnation. There’s no end of new stuff to learn.

Even so, I’m often brought short by my ignorance. There are things that I should know by this time in life but that I’ve never even wondered about. For example, what my name means. Oh, I know the meanings of my first and middle names; Nancy means grace and Jane also means grace. I’ve called myself God’s double-whammy grace child. Hal’s first name means warrior and his (our) last name, Thomas, means twin. Put that all together and it seems like we are alike, going into battle but depending on grace to sort it all out. OK—now I’m being silly.

But not too long ago he asked my what my maiden name, Forsythe, meant. And I didn’t know. In fact, I’d never even wondered about it or tried to investigate it. Of all things, that’s something I should have figured out long ago. So I wrote a poem, of course.

Thinking about My Name

This morning Hal asked the meaning
of my maiden-name, Forsythe,
and I realized that, not only did I not know,
but that I had never even thought about it.
Me, the lover of words and their meanings,
I had never wondered about my name,
a name that might have hinted of my destiny.
I guess there are many things
I’ve never thought about,
important things, things deep and surface,
thoughts that could impact my life
if only I would think them.
I’m tempted to shame at my thoughtlessness
but I choose excitement instead.
I anticipate all the many thoughts out there,
teasing me, inviting me, awaiting my curiosity.
I will think them all.
I will investigate and ponder.
In fact, this very day
I will google my name.
Find out who I am.

(Note: I found out that Forsythe comes from Gaelic roots and means “man of peace.” Being an equal opportunity believer, I can convert that to “person of peace” or even “woman of peace.” Great name.)

Here are some things I want to learn this year:
--the names of the trees on the Hess Creek trail and in Champoeg Park
--some new recipes
--more life stories of the people around me
--a new poet
--new (to me) hiking/walking trails in this county (experientially know)

I hope to be like Alice in Wonderland, growing curiouser and curiouser as I follow the White Rabbit of new knowledge and experiences. I will chase new thoughts. A world of wonders awaits.