3612 What to say

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Folks who rejoice that "The system works!"

are usually referring to another's parking ticket, not their own.

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I have a friend whose mother has been declining steadily for the past five years.  His older sister died about two years ago after months in a coma, and they never told the mother that her daughter was even ill because they didn't think she could handle it.  Although she doesn't have Alzheimer's, she's far enough into dementia that they figured she wouldn't notice.

He called me the other day to say he's headed for Florida, because they figure there's not more than a few days left.  She's on morphine, and that has a habit of easing people out.

He'll call me when she's gone.

Of course I've been thinking about what to say when he calls.  That's always so awkward.  When his sister died it wasn't difficult because her death was a relief.  She was basically vegetative after multiple strokes.  The doctors recommended taking her off life support, and everyone agreed except her son, who started legal action to prevent it.  So she lingered for almost a year, until someone "found" her living will and health proxy among her files.  (It was my idea, by the way, that if they looked for it, maybe they'd find it, or "find" it if necessary.  I don't know the details, how they managed it.)  So when he called to say he had pulled the plug, I said good, I'm sure she appreciated it, and that was the right thing to say, and it wasn't difficult because that was his attitude.

This is going to be much harder for him.  He's the only son (several sisters) and was/is very much an Irish Catholic momma's boy. 

I never know what to say to friends and coworkers.  "Sorry for your loss" seems so trite.  Mostly, I'm afraid, I don't say much of anything.  In most cases, I didn't know the deceased person, so it's hard to "share memories" like all the columns suggest.

There are a few times when I went further than the simple sympathetic nod, and I don't know whether it was good or bad.  I have a tendency to miss, or ignore, that sometimes people know things, but are avoiding or hiding it.  Then I go and point it out.  I draw attention to the elephant in the room.  I do that a lot.  It's seldom appreciated.

The Hairless Hunk's wife had a miscarriage.  H.H. told me that she was having a lot of difficulty with it, and he didn't know what to do about it.  I told him that I understood, that I'd had three miscarriages and a stillbirth, and it's a very private anguish because no one else understands.

Now, at the time, I didn't know her at all.  The only time I'd ever seen her was on the road.  She walked a lot.  One day shortly after my talk with H.H., she was turning at the end of the road as I was pulling into the driveway, and she waved for me to stop.  I rolled down the window, and she said that H.H. had said I'd had some miscarriages, and that she should talk to me.  She said she was having a lot of trouble getting past it, and that everyone says she should just get pregnant again as soon as possible, and how that just makes her feel worse, like the baby didn't matter, and she doesn't want another pregnancy.  She asked how I'd got past it. 

I told her that the problem is that to everyone else, the baby was just an idea.  She's the only person who actually knew the baby.  To her, and only to her, the baby was a real person, with preferences, likes and dislikes.  She knew when he was asleep and when he was awake.  She knew his nap/exercise cycle.  She felt his arms and legs moving.  She knew whether he was a runner or a kicker.  She even knew what kind of music he liked, and how he liked to be rocked, and when he had hiccups.  Nobody else knows that.  To them, the baby was just potential, just an idea. To them, starting another baby is just getting on with the idea.

She burst into tears.  "Yes!  Yes!  Exactly!"  She cried so hard it scared me.

I advised her to write up everything she knew about the baby's personality, and then either tell H.H. and her parents, or let them read what she'd written.  Make the baby real, as real to them as he was to her.

H.H. wondered what I'd said to her.  I guess she was a mess after that conversation, cried constantly for days.  I don't know whether she "made the baby real" to others or not, but she was pregnant with twins within a year.

For a long time after, I wonder if I'd helped or just made it worse.  Maybe the elephant would have wandered off on its own.  I can argue either side.

Another time involved a classmate in a law class.  She was an IBM Director in her late 40s, I think, single, no children.  Her mother died unexpectedly.  She and I were sitting on a bench outside during a lunch break one day about a week or two later.  She seemed to be handling it well, so I was surprised when she brought up that she couldn't sleep, felt very depressed, like why bother with anything, nothing matters.  She just didn't want to do anything any more.

I asked if she had any other family, and she said no, that she was an only child, and that her father had died several years ago.  Her father's death hadn't bothered her so much and she couldn't understand why, because she was actually closer to him.

I said maybe it's because now you feel like an orphan?

Her eyes got huge, and she turned slowly to me.  Yes!  Exactly! Orphan!  I'm an orphan!  And the elephant sat on her and she cried.

I don't think consolation, condolences, are supposed to make people cry.  They're supposed to smile wanly and say thank you.

Sympathy.  I'm doing it wrong.
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2628 Sex in the 60s, and the relief of death

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

There are no stupid questions, just stupid people.
-- South Park --

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On Hoda & Kathie Lee this morning, a woman was talking about menopause, what happens and why. She mentioned that women in their 60s and 70s report that sex is better, that they're having the best sex in their lives.

My immediate thought was "Hmmm. Yes. But I thought it was him, The Man, that he was doing it so well. Hey, maybe it's me!"

My second thought was that again, this is a self-selected sample.  The only ones who would report are those who are having sex, and they would be the ones who always liked it anyway.  Women in their 60s and 70s who don't like sex have long ago figured out how to avoid it, and menopause is the perfect excuse. 

My third thought was that women get shafted again.  For those of us who like and want it, it's better, it's wonderful, our libido is ramped up, but where are the capable men?  How does one go about finding a compatible man who can keep up with us and not leave us hanging?

Younger men, and their staying power.  That's the solution.  I lucked out in finding The Man, but (those red flags again**) I don't think he'll be good for the next decade and a half, and what do I do after I lose patience with him? 

Sigh.

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** In The Man's defense, the red flags don't involve sexual infidelity, believe it or not.  That's the one thing I am not at all worried about.  The flags have more to do with attention, interests, propinquity, intimacy, keeping secrets, differing values, a resistance to sharing lives, and on and on.  Things that at my age perhaps shouldn't matter so much, but I guess they still do.

On the other hand, if I were involved with a man who lived close, whom I saw a few times a week, who wanted me involved in his life and wanted to be involved in mine, who dragged me to family functions, who shared his problems with me, who wanted to advise and direct me, who MEDDLED!, I probably wouldn't be happy either.  I'd feel trapped and smothered.  I'd want some distance, some independence.

So.  Damn.

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I observed to a relative recently, when her daughter's diabetic cat died while in her care, that sometimes when someone we love, or a pet, is old and ill and caring for them has become a burden, when they die we may mourn them, but we are also relieved.

I didn't realize how much that was a part of my crash after Jay died.

People have asked me, if he were still alive, would we still be together, and I've always answered yes.  That's true whether he were healthy, or left ravaged by the brain cancer.  At the time he died, he was hemiparalyzed, unable to stand, sit, move himself or feed himself, incontinent, blind, sleeping no more than an hour at a time, and with absolutely no short-term memory.  But I still loved him, and if we had been able to stop the brain cancer and control all the other potentially fatal conditions he was prone to, even if he was left in that condition for decades, I'd have stayed with him and cared for him.

When he died, I was relieved.  I realize and accept that now. 

I didn't realize it then, because I mourned the loss of him in my life and all of what could have and should have been.  That was on top.  Underneath was the relief, and I think the inability to accept that feeling contributed to the multi-year depression that followed.

I think he was relieved, too.  So it's ok.
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1425 Losing Parents

Friday, August 10, 2007

I have two very close friends who are worried about losing their parents. We're at that age, so they're at that age. Roman lost both his parents within four days of each other last January.

People assume that I would understand their feelings, because both of my parents are gone. I've been through it.

Actually, maybe I don't understand fully. I didn't have the relationship with my parents that most people have.

When my father died, thirty years ago, the "on top" reaction was merely relief. I wouldn't have to be afraid of him any more, and I wouldn't have to worry about my younger siblings any more. (Which actually was wrong, because the damage done lingered for decades.) I thought we were all finally released.

That was on top, the rational part. Deep down was different.

I never saw him dead, so deep in the dark places I didn't believe he was dead. Daughter was very sick and in the hospital when he died, so I wasn't able to go to the funeral (which was moot anyway, since no one told me he had died until a week later. I don't know why).

Deep in the dark places in my mind, I was convinced that people were just telling me he was dead that so I wouldn't try to kill him. That he was hiding, and would come after me or Little Brother as soon as I got comfortable. I had nightmares for over a year in which I was hiding Little Brother from him, and he kept finding him and beating him. I'd wake up screaming and shaking. During the day, any unexpected movement glimpsed from the corner of my eye would have me shaking. It took a few years before the dark places relaxed.

My mother died seventeen years ago. I was holding her hand when she died. At first, for maybe two days, I felt like an orphan. Like my safety and support were gone, and I was alone. And then that dissipated, and I felt nothing. It took another five years for me to realize that I felt nothing not because of depression, but because there was simply nothing to feel.

She was never our safety and support. She made no effort to protect us (other than shouting "Not the head! Not the head!" when we were being beaten). She never gave us any advice or guidance. No praise or encouragement. She pretty much ignored us. We kids grew up competing for our mother's attention, and learning to deflect our father's anger away from ourselves and onto each other, which doesn't lead to good sibling relations. Our mother was really nothing more to us than the quartermaster, the person we went to for necessities.

We wanted to love our parents, we tried very hard, we wanted them to love us, we tried very hard, we convinced ourselves there was some connection, but it in actual fact, it just wasn't there. If my parents had been rich, we kids would probably have been in year-round boarding school from the age of five. That might have been better.

So, no, I probably don't fully understand how my friends feel when they lose their parents, certainly not the depth and breadth.

I wish I did.
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