In The House Of Mourning

When a loved one dies, as my father died last Wednesday at the age of 59, one often wonders what one could have done differently had one known how little time was left. Especially as was the case with my father, where neither my brother or I had the chance to say goodbye, there is a lot of unfinished business remaining for the living when someone has died. While I am in no shape at this particular time to detail many of the stories that could be said of him, I thought it would be useful, even at this time, to take some looks at what life is like of one who, like myself, is in the house of mourning. There are many others right now who are grieving the loss of loved ones as well, including a few friends of mine. Grief is an intensely personal matter, and it is difficult to determine if my experiences are like theirs. At the very least, though, talking about something means that it is no longer festering inside.

Reconciliation

My brother moved from Pennsylvania in the summer of 2001 after graduating from high school and never reconciled with our father. He had a difficult relationship with my father, and always thought (as we all did) that there would be plenty of time to make up, when it hurt a little less, when the wounds had healed. And often, in those intervening years, my father sought to reconcile with my brother. But time ran out, and it never came to pass. Instead, my brother and I cried while sitting in the funeral home swapping stories about our father with the open casket nearby and fellow mourners all around. As guilty as both my brother and I feel, my brother feels it worse. My father and I kept in close contact for many years, almost every week, and I visited on occasion (if not enough--there is never enough time). However, those five years my brother and father were estranged were the last five years of life my father had. That is a lot to live with.

Unfinished Business

Humans are creatures of drama. I do not mean this in the hissy fit or manipulative sort of way (though that can be the case as well), but in the sense that we like closure, and dislike when something ends without a farewell, without a fitting closing. After my father's stroke, I was able to communicate with him through my grandmother, who would relay messages back and forth, telling me my father's condition (gradually improving until the end) and telling my father what was going on with me. Still, even though I was aware my father was in rather poor health, he was gradually improving, so there was no goodbye. I said farewell to my father only after he had already gone, with my hand on his coffin, eyes closed, saying farewell. There was nothing more, at that point, I could do. Anything I could have done was in the past, and was closed off irrevocably.

Stories of the End

Of course, when a loved one has died, especially when one is not able to be at the bedside in the final days and hours, it is important to be able to visualize the scene, in order to give one some sort of peace. While at the funeral home, stories were told about how my father dealt with the nurses who cared for him around the clock. Since one nurse had cold hands, my father nicknamed her Frosty. Another nurse was hot, so my father called her Jalapeño. It was like my father to name things. My family is always naming things. He did his physical therapy willingly, seeking to recover as much function as he could after the stroke. He never wanted to be an invalid, and he couldn't stand anyone else taking care of him. He was always the one who had to take care of everyone else, do what needed to be done, no matter the cost. Such a cruel end inactivity and paralysis is to one whose greatest gifts were activity and physical strength.

What Remains For the Living

Only my grandmother remains in the old family farm, which for over 200 years has been farmed by my family line. Those days, to me at least, seem at an end. My uncle (by marriage) and my cousin (both of whom work full time at the state prison) still live in the area but are unable to devote full time to farming. Farming is a bad business anyway, with high costs for equipment and feed and low prices for farm commodities, be they milk, grain, alfalfa sprouts (a favorite item in the diets of deer and my own salads), or beef. My grandmother, at almost 83, is far too old to take care of a farm on her own. It looks like that part of my family history is rapidly closing as well, without seeming remedy. Whatever I may be, I am no farmer, and so it appears likely that the beautiful hills and creeks on what I affectionately call Miller's Crossroads (after my family) will soon be home to half a million dollar homes inhabited by suburbanites who care little for the history behind the farm. Nor would they care that I would walk down Nathan's creek (yes, it was named after me) and sit on hillsides by an old coal mine shaft and write nature poetry. Nor would they care that my family has been farming these hills since before the United States was independent from Britain. All of that history will be paved under driveways with perfectly manicured lawns inhabited by people with no sense of history and oppressive mortgages that keep them from buying furniture.

Closing Thoughts

I will probably be reflecting often in the coming weeks and months, and years, about the life of my father. Such reflection is natural and proper, even if it does make me very sad. My father always said that he would die young, and always careful to remind us about his life insurance policy. I know I never wanted to hear it. But he was right, a painful truth that is true for many members of my family (including myself). We specialize in speaking of bitter truths that no one wants to hear. My father died young, like all of his siblings. Those who have little time on this earth must accomplish what they wish without the ability to rely upon seniority or those other ways in which the mediocre rise through out-surviving the great. No, those who are set on this earth with but a little time to do their deeds must do what needs to be done at all times, because one never knows how much time is left to accomplish one's life work. And that is something I feel no less strongly than my father did.