Thoughts on Life and Death and Dying

I don't think this is as maudlin as the title suggests, but give it a read and you be the judge ....

We have had three deaths in our little circle of friends this past month, and, as happens, it’s gotten me thinking — not always a good thing, sometimes, as I tend to think too much — about death, and dying. And when you toss into the mix the fact that my mother’s birthday was September 27 and that always makes me ‘what if’ and ‘I wonder,’ and that my sister’s birthday, the first since she passed, was October 1, well, it’s been death-a-palooza up in here for me.

One of my very best, very best, friends in the world, Laura, lost her husband a few weeks back. Bob had been diagnosed with Non Hodgkins Lymphoma in 2009 and struggled and fought so valiantly; he got better, he was better, and then came a setback and he was back in the hospital where he passed away, with Laura at his side, last month.

I cannot imagine how it feels to lose the love of your life; I’ve lost friends and relatives, parents, a sister, but this has got to be the hardest of all. It sinks me to places I don’t want to go to, making me think about what would happen if I lost Carlos; how would I survive; would I survive. But then, scarier for me, is what might happen to Carlos if I died; I so don’t want him to be alone.

But then I realized you have to take what life gives you and move on as best you can, one foot in front of the other, and hope that, while it won’t get easier, it will get better. You have to wake up; you have to get out of bed; you have to continue on because that’s what Bob would want for Laura; that’s what those who’ve gone on would want for us, those left behind.

We had cocktails Bob and Laura last August when we were in California and visiting my sister, who had her own battle with cancer. And the one thing that struck me about Bob was this: he’d always been friendly to Carlos and me; nice, and friendly, and just a lovely, lovely man. But this time, as we were saying out goodbyes, he grabbed each one of us and hugged us Goodbye.

It was a few weeks later we learned that he was sick again, and I thought about that hug. At first I thought maybe Bob knew that he was getting sick again, and maybe this was his own personal Goodbye to us; but then I thought that maybe, because of all he’d gone through for over five years — tests and treatments and procedures and hospitalizations — that he knew you had to cherish each and every moment because you don’t know if you’ll ever get that moment again.

So he hugged you so that you knew how he felt about you in case he never got the chance again.

A few days after Bob passed, our friend Cody had suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep. His partner Bruce woke up and tried to revive him, but Cody died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. They had been together 42 years; forty.two.years.

And again I wondered, how do you survive after losing your love; what do you do to carry on. How do you wake up in an empty bed for the first time in four decades?

You just do, I learned. We attended a memorial service for Cody, and spoke with Bruce, who, as most people who lose a loved one do, seemed more intent on easing our grief, our sense of sorrow, than allowing us to help him.

And so I realized  that you go on because, yes, you had your partner, spouse, husband, wife, for years and years, but you also have your family — your biological family, and the family you’ve made for yourself out of friends. You carry on because you have those other people in your life that can light the way when you feel as though you’re slipping into the darkness.

Then Carlos learned that one of his former co-workers was in the hospital. His name was Carlos, too, Carlos S. He and my Carlos worked as a team for a local healthcare company a few years ago. That Carlos was a black man, and since he and his teammate shared the same first name, people at the office took to calling them Salt-and-Pepper, or Black Cloud and White Smoke.

My Carlos visited that other Carlos, who was unconscious in the hospital, and he chatted with him for a while; said his piece, so to speak; and then he left. Carlos S. passed away that same afternoon, alone. He seemed to have no one; no one to claim the body; no family that Carlos could find. I was thinking about what that might be like, to die alone, no family, a handful of friends, or even less, who didn’t know that you’d gotten sick.

But my Carlos wasn’t having that; he called people; he checked in with people; he did some research. He found the estranged son of Carlos S., who wanted nothing to do with his father, even after death; but then he found more friends, neighbors, former co-workers; he found that Carlos S. had been in the military and because of that he could be buried with a military funeral at Fort Jackson herein Columbia.

Carlos, my Carlos, and a couple of others, made some arrangements with Fort Jackson; my Carlos wrote a beautiful eulogy for his friend that he posted to Facebook, and friends of Carlos S. found it and responded to it.

This tiny group, tied together because they knew this man who died alone, attended the service even if no one else could, or would. But then people did; other co-workers, friends, and even his estranged son paid their respects; the flag that draped the coffin was folded into that ceremonial triangle and given to his survivors. Carlos S. may have died alone, with scarcely anyone knowing anything about him, but he was buried in honor, with friends, and even family, at his side.

And so I realized that, while it may seem that sometimes we die alone, we don’t. There are those who remember, those who visit as you lay dying, and those who pay their final respects.

And even when you think that, after death, people are forgotten, they aren’t; you remember the soup your mother made on cold winter days and you smile; you remember the trouble you got into with your sister, and you smile. You remember that last hug from a friend; that last joke; that last time you saw them, and you smile.

And you go on ….

Happy Birthday Jeri

Life is strange; I’ll start there.

My mother passed away from lung cancer on February 17, 2007, and this past February 15, 2014, my sister passed away from the same disease. I somehow knew my sister, who had been in failing health, would go right around the same time as when my mother passed. I took a psychology course in college called “Death and Dying” and was amazed at how many terminally ill people wait until an anniversary, or birthday, or significant day has passed, or has come around again, before they, too, pass on.

It should also be noted that on February 14, 2009, my Aunt Pam also died from lung cancer, so February is not a happy month in my family, but I digress ….

My mother’s 77th birthday was last week, on the 27th, and naturally, though she isn’t here, I spent a great deal of time thinking about her because we’d celebrated that day for so long and just because the person is no longer here doesn’t mean the day doesn’t matter.

All of that leads me to today, which is my sister’s birthday, and the first one to pass since she died. I am reminded that my sister died a couple of days before the anniversary of my mom’s passing, and that their birthdays are also just a few days apart. It seems fitting, and still unbearably sad.

Still, I 'll think of good times, happy times, big sister stories. Today is about my big sister, older than me by just fifteen months. That’s not a lot of time, really, and even though we were a couple of grades apart in school, we were very close in age, but that’s about it. We were very different people; very different, even though I learned a lot from her, about myself, about my life, about life, and today, on what is, and will always be her birthday, I’m remembering all she taught me.

My big sister; my very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My big sister; we were very different. She was gregarious and out-going and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, almost petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My big sister; she could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

My sister has cancer, had cancer. Now she doesn't, now she's safe and free and doesn't hurt and has her hair, and might be sitting with my mother right now, talking things over, and reminiscing some. That makes me feel a little better. My big sister and I have like minds on death: there is no fear of it, though there is also no anticipation for it. There is just this sense that death is part of our journey and, naturally, a necessary step.

My big sister; she taught me all sorts of things, even though she wasn’t all that much older. But she gave me life lessons, some which took, and others which took a while.

This story is about a basketball game, and a pair of high school mascots. Our school team was the Cougars and there were a pair of Cougars who stood on the sidelines during football and basketball season, riling up the crowds, playing with the cheerleaders and generally just having fun.

One night, one of the mascots couldn't make the game, and she asked my sister to take her place. The other girl also begged off, and, well, my sister asked me. I said, 'No.’

As a young closeted gay kid, I did not draw attention to myself; I stayed in the shadows as much as I could, but when my sister asks, well, sometimes it feels like an order. And so I thought about it; I thought it might be fun to not be me for a while. So, I relented.

The costumes were big, furry, heavy, and hot, but I kept my cougar head on all night so no one knew it was me. Still, it gave me the chance to act in public like I wanted to act, and not like I thought I should. I learned that it was okay to be different, to march to a different drummer, to act the fool, to have fun for fun’s sake. To not care what people thought about you.

Again, it was a lesson that took a while to stick; there were other lessons that needed to be learned first, like accepting myself, coming out, and allowing others to accept me, too, but for those couple of hours on a Friday night in November, 19fumphity-fumphy, I was my one true self … under a fur covered head, yes, but my one true self.  I learned from my sister that it was okay to be yourself, because she knew who that fool in the cougar costume was, but she still loved him, no matter how he acted.

I've been thinking about more of those times since today should have been cake and cards and phone calls, but is now, mostly silent.

I’ve been thinking about all of the lessons my sister taught me ... and this is another one:

My sister joined the Air Force many moons ago and began moving around the world — Spain and Germany — and back again; Delaware, and I think New Mexico was in there, too. But soon enough she came back to California where the family lived and we got to see one another more often.

She was a mountain girl, living in a small town in the foothills outside Sacramento, while I lived smack dab in the middle of our Capitol City. We were quite different; she enjoyed gardening, I enjoyed nice dinners with good wine; she was garage sale, I was Macy's. She was married, I was gay.

Different. But this story isn't about that. This story is about the day she taught me what I think is the greatest lesson a person could learn: how to say I love you. See, I was good at writing those words on a card, or signing them at the bottom of a letter, but I wasn't too keen on saying them out loud for whatever reason. 

But, one day, many years ago, she called to chat — my sister loves to chat on the phone and I loathe it ... yet another difference — and we talked about all kinds of things, from what we were doing to what the world was doing. At the end of the chat, as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

I said, Thanks. And I hung up.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it? So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all just felt we didn't have to 'say' it. 

Also, I thought, subconsciously, that I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't gay; what parent wants a gay kid? No matter how much you love them, as a parent, you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'son' that had been expected.

My sister, however, thankfully, thought differently. Just saying I love you so easily and simply, without force, made me realize that I was worth it.  And I thank her for that. See, after that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. And, I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me, but it got easier and more natural.

And, I think it helped push away some of the Old Bob who might have been fearful of love and being loved. I think, having my sister teach me that lesson made it all the easier for me to tell Carlos I loved him, and to hear him say it back to me, and to keep telling him and telling him and telling him.

It wasn't that my sister loved me, I always knew that, and I always will know that, it's that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero. So while today hurts, for so many reasons, I want to think back on the laughs. The time we had a party at the house while my mother and father took our little brother to an A’s game in Oakland, and how my parents never caught on; at least until we told them, years later, after the statute of limitations was up.

I want to think of my sister who was a wonderful mother, to four wonderful girls; she instilled in each of them her independence, her sense of self, her sense of worth, her joy, her love.

I want to think of my sister with her husband, Tom. It took her a while to find him, but when she did it was the best thing she ever did. No one made my sister as happy and loved and comfortable and peaceful and filled with life, as Tom.

So, I'm gonna sit for a while and think about the last time we were all together and stood still long enough for a picture. I'm going to laugh and smile, and feel loved, and feel love ...

For my sister.

In Indiana, A Woman Is Dying To Have Her Marriage Recognized

Does anyone else see this as completely bassackwards?

In Indiana, The Gays cannot get married, nor can gay folks living in Indiana, but married in a marriage equality state, have their marriage recognized. But, last week a federal judge approved an agreement for Indiana to recognize the marriage of Veronica Romero and Mayra Yvette Rivera while the state appeals a ruling overturning its gay marriage ban.

And they did so because Rivera has advanced ovarian cancer.

The agreement stipulates that Indiana will recognize Romero and Rivera’s marriage and, if Rivera dies, the state will issue a death certificate listing her as married and recording Romero as the surviving spouse. The Indiana State Department of Health has also agreed to assist local health departments, funeral homes, physicians, coroners and others involved in completion of a death certificate to understand their duties in the couple's case.

So, these women will be considered married because one of them is dying. How in the hell is this right, fair, equal, American? It reeks of Well, if one of you is dying then we’ll call you married.

So, let me get this queer: do I have to die to have my marriage recognized? Is that the next step?

Earlier this week, a friend of ours stopped breathing in the middle of the night; his partner tried to resuscitate and paramedics were called. Sadly, he never awoke and passed away en route to the hospital. He and his partner have been together for forty-two years. True, they never legally married, but if they had, would South Carolina then be forced to recognize the marriage after death, while fighting not to recognize their marriage while both spouses are alive and well?

I’m glad Romero and Rivera filed their lawsuit; I’m glad anyone, anywhere, files a lawsuit fighting for marriage equality. But to have a state government basically say that they’ll recognize the marriage, and assist with all the details, if one of the spouses dies is the height of insult.

Recognize marriages now, while we’re living, and don’t wait for some symbolic, and truly meaningless, gesture afterwards. I don’t want to be recognized after I die, I want my recognition now.

source

Random Musing: Joan Rivers Has Died

"It is with great sadness that I announce the death of my mother, Joan Rivers. She passed peacefully at 1:17 p.m. surrounded by family and close friends. My son and I would like to thank the doctors, nurses, and staff of Mount Sinai Hospital for the amazing care they provided for my mother. [My] son, Cooper and I have found ourselves humbled by the outpouring of love, support and prayers we have received from around the world. They have been heard and appreciated. My mother’s greatest joy in life was to make people laugh. Although that is difficult to do right now, I know her final wish would be that we return to laughing soon."--Melissa Rivers.

I loved Joan Rivers. I love snark and sarcasm and I love shocking people into fits of laughter like she used to do to me every single time I watched her. I'm going to miss the laughter, most all, but from now on, every time i do, I'll think of her.

Thanks Joan, for making me laugh, at the world, at you, at myself, for all these years. You will be missed.

RIP Lauren Bacall

Lauren Bacall; classy dame, quite a broad; never one to mince words, she always told it like she meant it. Starting with her appearance alongside future husband Humphrey Bogart in To Have and Have Not, when she uttered one of my favorite film lines …

“You know how to whistle, don't you Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.”

Bacall married Bogart in 1945 and they stayed married until he died of throat cancer in 1957. And though she had affairs with the likes of Frank Sinatra, and married again, to Jason Robards for eight years, she had made it very clear back in 1957 that Humphrey Bogart was the one true love of her life.

On the day of his funeral she slipped a whistle into his coffin.

RIP Lauren … Bogie’s whistling.

RIP Robin Williams

The late Robin Williams, from Inside the Actor’s Studio, on what he hoped 'God' might say to him when he reached the Gates of heaven:

“It’d be nice to know that there is laughter. That’d be a good thing.”

i'm not a firm believer in Heaven, but if there is such a place I'd imagine there'd be a lot more laughter now.

RIP

Elaine Stritch 

February 2, 1925 to July 17, 2014

One of the great ballsy, funny, sassy, outspoken, showtune singing broads.

She will be missed.