THE GIFT OF MORTALITY
Anna Quindlen has said that the knowledge of our mortality is a gift from God. Some would disagree, claiming that we should hide that fear by total immersion in whatever activity provides us the greatest satisfaction. Pursuit of goals is important in life, but if that is all there is, it can be as ephemeral as the proverbial search for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
For my wife, June, and me, one of the most profound events in our lives was the evening that we discovered each other. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that we began to discover each other. Each of us had come from confining backgrounds. My own handicap had been a religious background that placed an excessive emphasis on preparation for the hereafter, while minimizing the value of the present life. We recognized that such an emphasis has been only a camouflage for the fear of death, the dread of our mortality. The tunnel vision of our backgrounds had resulted in each of us having been in marriages that had caused years of pain. We each were in the process of divorce and in the recovery stage when we met.
Both of us recently had become members of Parents Without Partners and I had corralled June into editing the newsletter. The old Gestetner had refused to work for her, so she called on me for help. After we had printed the newsletters, we sat and talked. Time went by unnoticed and we talked till 3 am. We covered significant events of our childhood and our religious backgrounds and how it had affected our decisions. We described the pain of the death of our failed marriages and we wondered why we had been so blind. Throughout our conversation, we were discovering each other's attitudes and values. What was most significant, we found that we each loved life. That has been a strong tie that has held us together. We could not have known it then, but it was that common tie, our love of life, that led us to our years as volunteers, being with those who have come face to face with the hard reality of their mortality, their death. I have a deeply held belief that it is the love of life that makes it more possible to understand and accept the fact that though life is transient, it still is wonderful and beautiful.
Rabbi Kushner, in his book, When Bad Things Happen To Good People, describes a passage from Homer's Odyssey. In the story, Calypso, is a sea princess and child of the gods, and therefore she is immortal. She encounters Ulysses, who is a mortal. Calypso had never met a mortal before, and as she learns more about him, she becomes envious, for she perceives that his finite life span requires him to make choices and decisions that have a meaning and significance for him, something that she cannot experience. Calypso cannot know the poignancy of mortality, for she cannot know death.
Rabbi Kushner had known and experienced the pain of human mortality through the suffering and death of his son, Aaron. Aaron had been born with the rare disease, progeria, commonly known as the rapid aging syndrome. While he had appeared to be normal at birth and was a bright and happy child, his parent's joy, -- early on, the aging process set in. He died at the age of fourteen. It was through the pain and suffering of the loss of his son that the rabbi was able to find a meaning and was able to write his book, When Bad Things Happen To Good People. He does not deny that bad things do happen, for he has recognized from experience that suffering is a part of our reality. Because of his own personal knowledge of suffering and death, he has been a source of comfort for the grief-stricken, and he has found a meaning by helping others.
June and I have learned, in our being with the dying, that they have stories that are waiting to be told and each has its own significance. There is a real need for thoughtful, intent listeners. When the final pages of a life's story are being written, it is important that there should be the opportunity for that individual to share that story with another. This can be most meaningful and affirming to the patient, the family and/or the hospice volunteer, for death throws a clearer light on the pages of life.
An acceptance of our mortality and our common destiny enables us to see each other as remaining whole, even as death approaches. Too often we communicate to the critically ill or terminal patient that they have become less than whole as persons. We do so unconsciously. Rarely will the patient speak of how that feels, but if the patient is perceived as diminished by the illness, it serves to block communication, and adds to the grief and sense of loss. Dr.Elisabeth Kubler-Ross describes our personhood as being within a circle, having four quadrants: the physical, emotional, cognitive and spiritual, with each of the four making the circle balanced and complete. With severe illness and approaching death, two quadrants, the physical, and cognitive are diminished, but still the person remains whole and complete, for it is then the person's emotional and spiritual aspects come to the fore. This insight is one of the great contributions of Dr. Ross, for it helps us to see that the patient is not lessened by the approach of death, but instead is spiritually preparing for death. It is so very important to recognize that, even to the last breath, the person remains whole, for it is the emotional and spiritual qualities that have become ascendant.
Jean was a patient at a continuing care hospital, and she was always an inspiration, a beautiful example of such wholeness. It was clear to me that she had come to terms with her completely disabling physical condition of multiple sclerosis and with her own mortality. Perhaps it was that acceptance that gave her a customary radiant smile. It is a mystery how the human spirit can transcend an affliction, such as hers, and still have that radiance. Jean had flashing eyes and she could smile, but that was all. She was not one of our hospice patients, but she was on our list of patients with special needs. Multiple sclerosis is unpredictable in the manner in which the disease progresses. Sometimes there can be a long pause, but eventually it causes death. I had known Jean for about four years. During that time there appeared to be little evidence of change in her condition. I always made it a point to see her when I was making the rounds. She could scarcely whisper, so we had to lip-read, but it was her smile that would light up her face. In fact it seemed to light up the room. Always, when she would look up and see me by her bed, she would flash that smile. And I would say something like, "Jean, you have the most beautiful smile ever! What is it that makes you that way? Do you have a secret the rest of us don't have? Just being here and seeing your smile makes my day!" Of course she couldn't answer, but she would try to whisper. I did learn that she had a son in a distant city and that he would call on occasion. That must have been painful, for she would be unable to speak to him. I would play something for her on the harmonica and give her a kiss before leaving.
In September of '97, we moved to California. When we returned for a visit a year later, I went to see my friend, Jean. She was still in the same room, and she still had that smile! I was moved to tears. There is no way to explain such an invincible spirit except that it is a miracle. She has shown how the human spirit can transcend whatever comes our way, even the interminable, prolonged death of the body.
Our mortality was on the mind of Richard Wong when he gave us this prayer that we often say when we have guests for dinner:
Bless Our Home Father,
That we cherish the bread before there is none,
Discover each other before we leave,
And enjoy each other while we are here,
While we have time.
At this time when the seasons change, and we welcome new growth, -- budding leaves and the sound of birds, -- may each of us learn to value in a new way, the great gift of human life and the gift of mortality, too!
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