The loss of my last brother

As my readers know, I come from a large family, with four brothers and two sisters.

We were seven. Yesterday, February 25, we buried my last brother, Max. 

I have not lived on the farm where I grew up since 1995 when Barry and I moved to North Carolina. Yesterday as we drove down Fleming Road to the family cemetery on the farm, I saw the damage done by the horrendous tornado that raced through the area a few years ago. The wooded areas I knew are now flat grassy fields with small pines popping up. 

I was happy to see the clean fence rows on the farm that had been neglected so long after my father died. He was a stickler about keeping the fence rows clean. That was the work he and his sons did in the winter when no crops grew.

I made a mistake by going back to the five acres which Daddy had given me when we married. We built our dream home there and I thought we would never leave. But we did and lived the happiest time of our lives in the mountains. In the past twenty-five years, when I visited the farm. I refused to go back to see that house. I couldn't bear seeing others in it. The first year after we sold it, I had horrific nightmares about it. In those dreams, I went into my house and it was filled with people I didn't know. They were having a party, laughing, dancing, and I screamed at them, "Get out of my house. What are you doing here? This is my house. Get out!" but no one left. They looked at me as if I were the intruder, not them.

I had heard from my nephews how the former owners let the yard deteriorate. I had grown the most beautiful azaleas and many other plants and trees when I lived there. I couldn't stand to see the damage those people had done to the house and place I loved.

Barry in front yard of our dream house

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Since those owners died and sold the house to a couple that my nephews like, I learned that it had been remodeled and the yard was now in good shape. So, yesterday, before going to the cemetery, I bravely asked to be taken to see my former house. 

Before I saw my house which sits in the middle of the five-acre tract, I was totally shocked! The first thing we saw as we approached was a junkyard for old automobiles. I was horrified! 

My brother Hal and his wife, Yvonne, had lived on an adjoining five-acre tract. We had beautiful grounds around our houses and she and I mowed all summer to keep everything neat. I wanted to cry when I saw what the owners of my "dream house" had done. I don't know why they had all those junks in front of that beautiful house, but I do know that I will never go back there again.  

Again I am reminded that "You Can't Go Home Again."     

That all added to the grief I was already feeling. But as the family gathered at the graveside to honor my brother and send him on to be with his wife, his brothers, his sister and his parents, I had to gird my loins for strength and read words I had written about the man I knew and most of the people there did not know, not even his sons. He was ten years old when I was born, fifteen years old when I was five. He was unique in that he played with his little sisters, teasing us as well as telling us stories from the books he read. He loved nature and enjoyed showing us and telling us about birds and other creatures of the wild. He was an artist, creative in so many ways. He made a difference in my life that others did not know about.

I already miss him but I am glad he is not suffering. His last year was very hard with illness and the loss of his wife of 67 years. He had asked that I read at his funeral the poem Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant. Thanatopsis is a poem of encouragement and reverence for life and death. It informs us of the fact that everyone dies, no matter how great or small one is in life. We all share this ending and should, therefore, embrace death with security and comfort. 

Every person who has ever lived is in the ground ("the great tomb of man") and everyone who is alive will be soon dead and in the ground too. This idea is meant to be comforting, and the poem ends by telling us to think of death as a happy, dream-filled sleep. 

That is what Max wanted his loved ones to think.

His son, Gabe read selected parts of that poem.

So, my dear readers, this post is about my going home again and what happened there. It was sunny and warm with spring popping out everywhere. That is the good thing about South Georgia, spring comes early.

             

Her child's pain is over, my friend begins the long journey of grief

I attended a funeral today. The service was for my dear friend's 50 year-old daughter. Although we have been friends for two decades, and I've heard much about her family, I didn't meet her daughter until a few weeks ago.

At the time, she was under Hospice care and living with her mother who was 24/7 caregiver. Although Penny was taking morphine for pain, still she had suggested to her mother that they begin having a friend over for a light meal once a week. I was the first friend invited. Sadly, as it turned out, I was also the last friend to come over for a meal with Penny and her mother.

But I will cherish that evening. The food was good and I always love being in my friend's house, but that night I really enjoyed getting to know Penny, the strongest and most determined person I have met in a long, long time. She had been fighting cancer for seven or eight years, working and raising two children. She also cared for her husband who is disabled until she could do no more. That was when her mother brought her home to live out the time she had left. 

What I learned about Penny that evening is that she had no qualms about talking about her illness and right away she made me comfortable. We discussed what she had been through in a matter of fact way with no emotion from her. She had endured some of the most embarrassing moments and periods of indignities, but she took it well.  She had a wry sense of humor and I am sure she kept the nurses on their toes when she was in the hospital. She had been dealing with this so long that she could tell them what she needed and when she needed it. Her doctor had told her she had a few months to live and she said she told him she would see him next year. That was the kind of attitude Penny had about living. 

She said she had the best Mom in the world and when I asked what growing up with her talented Mother was like, Penny said she was just an ordinary mom, who kept house, took care of the kids and was always there for them. "She didn't get into painting and all the other things she does now until after we were out of the house."

Seeing the struggle Penny had over the past few months and the heart-wrenching pain of a mother watching her child die, has affected me in many ways. How do you do that day after day, month after month? How do you sit with her and do something so mundane as play chess and then put her to bed and  try to make her comfortable with the morphine required to stop the "sawing pain in her legs?" 

How do you have any semblance of a normal life when your child is lying in the next room and any moment could be her last? You don't. But you have to find a way to live with it and continue to take care of her the very best you can. My friend said something I will never forget. She said she had stopped thinking "what can I do?" She stopped thinking of the sadness and pain and turned her mind to appreciating the joy of every moment they had left together. She tried to make each day as good as possible and to let herself think of how good it was to still have her there.

How do you ever rest when all night you wait for her movements that mean she needs more chemicals to block her senses. My dear friend cared for her husband until he passed away, and then her father who was diagnosed with cancer and died soon after with her lying on his bed beside him. Now her child is gone. Today at the funeral, which was such a loving and lovely service, it hit me so hard I could not talk to my grieving friend without breaking down. Within two years she lost three loved ones she had devoted herself to caring for. 

Within four years, I lost my husband and three siblings. All that pain came rushing back to me when I looked at her sad face as she walked down the aisle carrying her daughter's urn cradled in her arms as if it were a baby. Yes, it was her baby girl and the last time she would ever hold her. 

I pray for peace for my friend and all her family. They are loving people who will be there for each other. One day all this pain will lessen and one day she can smile and feel normal again, but it is a long journey and I hope that in some way I can be there and help her along the way. 

Another post you might want to read. It is the most popular post on this blog.

http://profilesandpedigrees.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-do-you-want-to-be-remembered.html