Entry #22: After Death, Diving Deep into Life

In the wake of my mother’s passing, I am more aware than ever that life is a gift with an expiration date.

“April is the cruelest month.” - T.S. Eliot

After a brutal month of April taken up with the grim business of death and dying, I am back at my writing desk with a newfound appreciation for the miracle of life and the healing powers of work and routine.

My 93-year-old mother, the matriarch and beating heart of our family, passed away two weeks ago today, but not before giving up a heck of a fight. For twelve grueling days, my five siblings and I sat vigil by her bedside watching her waste away.

How a body can keep going for twelve days without food or water, I cannot fathom. I witnessed the same thing years ago with my maternal grandmother, who went a full two weeks on hospice before finally giving up the ghost.

The will to live is a powerful thing. Even when the body has nothing left to give, the spirit doesn’t want to let go of that last final thread of life, knowing how precious it is.

In the end, my mother lost her battle, as we all do. Fight though we will, death always wins. Always, always, always.

And yet, how admirable life is in its stubborn refusal to bow before the bully of death. Day after day, we stepped into our mother’s room expecting it to be her last. Day after day, we leaned down to whisper in her ear that it was okay for her to go.

Our father was waiting for her, we told her. Her parents too, her departed brothers and sister, all her cousins: they were all waiting for her. They were having a picnic at the lake. What a grand celebration it will be! You can go, Mom, we said. We will be alright.

Still, she lingered, her stout heart beating bravely in her little chest, until finally on a Sunday morning, at a time when in days past we would be sitting at church, she breathed her last, and, borne on the wings of her faith, went peacefully to her heavenly reward.

Yes, death won, but life is the miracle. Life is the rare and precious gift given to the living. And in the wake of my dear mother’s passing, I am more keenly aware than ever that this gift has an expiration date.

The gift of life comes with a timer. Death holds that timer in his hands like a grim referee. We steal satisfaction from him by living each moment to the fullest.

That’s what I intend to do. Even as I mourn the loss of this woman with whom I had such a close relationship, I know the best way to honor her memory is by diving deep into the stream of life that she brought me into.

Already, I am busily planning trips with the family. Rachael and I will be visiting my youngest son in Pittsburgh in a couple weeks. In June, we will be going to Colorado to spend time with my middle son and his wife at Rocky Mountain National Park.

In September, it’s off to Montana and Wyoming to visit Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks for the first time.

Life, life, give me life. Let me feel it, taste it, smell it, hear it, be swept away in it.

Let me walk through the woods and breathe deep the sweet aroma of honeysuckle and wild rose.

Let me stand in the glittering stream with a fly rod in my hand amidst a hatch of mayflies.

Let me step out into the storm and feel the rain streaming down my face.

Life gives freely of its gifts, and those gifts in both big and small packages.

Dinner at our favorite Mexican dive restaurant. Cuddling with Rachael while watching a ballgame on TV. A bowl of my favorite vanilla ice cream from our favorite farm dairy.

The play of light on the mountain. The wash of the wind at night. The stars glittering in the night sky.

It’s all a miracle. We are given a brief period of time in which to be part of this miracle, and I am determined to make the most of what time I have left.

And no politics, please. I have no patience for it after having seen death up close. Life is too short for silly political ideologies and other such nonsense that serves only to divide and enrage. I want connection with people and nature and the life force that runs through it all.

Work, too. Work, I’ve found, is the best antidote to the sting of death. It provides structure and meaning to our days and keeps us from dwelling on all of that we have lost along the way.

For me, that work is writing. Writing, for me, is a way of making sense of what doesn’t make sense. In the face of the void, I create story worlds and populate them with life.

I have more stories in my head than I will have time to bring to light. That is both my challenge and my opportunity.

And so I write on, defying death with every stroke of the pen, if only for a brief, shining moment.