Death, dead and dying – what it means to feel alive

This unexpected personal blogging  journey began recently when my mum was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Lung cancer that has spread to her bone.

That was just two months ago, and now that the initial shock has passed, I think anger has set in. I wasn’t expecting that.

My earliest experience of death was when my pet Chihuahua Jonnie got hit by a car when I was in grade 4. I remember it very clearly, as it was before school on the day of my school photo shoot, and my sad face is immortalised in my photo album alongside my other school memories. I can remember how it felt to gently touch his small still body that dad had wrapped in an old yellow bed sheet, and the surprise when he didn’t stir as I placed my hand on him to say goodbye.

The first funeral I attended was when I was eight or nine years old. The dad of a family of longstanding friends had passed away from complications of diabetes. I recall it was an issue, because they had not wanted medical intervention due to their religious beliefs and had prayed for his recovery. God had different ideas. The image in my mind is of his daughter Joanne, about 12 at the time, desparately trying to hold back her tears of grief as his life was celebrated. How difficult that must have been for her.

The first time a close friend passed was when I was 19. He was an old boyfriend from school and had been a talented musician with a great future. This was the first time I experienced anger around a death. At the time I was living in Queensland, and he in Sydney, and I arrived unannounced, only to discover he had taken his own life the day before. I was devastated! If only I had phoned to let him know I was coming. He would have had someone to share his sorrows with. I may have been able to prevent his suicide. I cried buckets of tears at his funeral, along with hundreds of others. It was a big event, with many musical celebrities present. What a waste. He felt he couldn’t measure up. That was a lie, and it made me angry.

My last death experience was my dad’s. He had early onset Alzheimers, and due to complications of his disease, contracted pneumonia. His death at 69 was bitter sweet.  Just 2 weeks before he passed he completely lost his ability to play the trumpet (the love of his life), and had all but given up living. The day he died, mum had planned to put him into respite care, but hadn’t told him yet. She was spared the task of doing so, as he passed away before she needed to say a word. Mum, my brother and I were all in the room when he took his last breath. Oscar Peterson Trio jazz  was playing on the CD player – he fell silent during track 8 entitled “Things Ain’t What They Used to Be”. You got that right Dad – you got that right!

So here I am at 46. Mum’s diagnosed with lung cancer having never smoked in her life. It’s spread to the bone. She’s pissed. I don’t know what to say, how to act, who to turn to! At some point my stilted relationship with my brother is destined to crack open. We are waiting in anxious anticipation for what is going to happen next. The silence is deafening!

Yep. That’s what it means to be alive. No longer numb. Feeling angry, sad, resentful, thankful, uncertain, fearful……all at the same time!  I need to tell myself it’s okay to feel. I need to be okay about mum being and acting angry. I need to allow all of those affected by what’s happening right now to process it their own way.

I need to F….E….E….L…..

Perhaps that’s what it means to be alive……

Graciously…

Krishna