The Right to Die

This is a follow-up to the previous post, Without a Sound:

There’s a lot that bothers me about the handling of the news about Brittany Maynard, the 29 year-old woman who chose to hasten the end of her life after she was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM).  Probably the thing that disturbs me the most is the confident way that so many people have commented on her story and her decisions, as if they have any idea what has really been going on behind closed doors in her life.

As someone who was there on the scene for most of the 75 days between my dad’s diagnosis of GBM and his death, I feel like I have a fairly good idea what was going on, but I also know as a result of my experience that there are some things – even in highly publicized cases like hers – that anyone on the fringe or further out cannot know, and that’s the way it should be.  Health issues are private and personal.  The fact of the matter is that even with as healthy as Brittany looked when her image appeared in the news just days before her death we don’t know what the cancer inside her brain was doing to her, and we don’t know the intricacies of her diagnosis or prognosis.

Another thing that disturbs me is the way the media has portrayed Brittany as a hero, as if she was a crusader of sorts because of a personal choice she made to make another personal choice public.  To me, it seem like this implies that a person who does not make the same choices that she made is not as important or as courageous.  I'm glad that Brittany and her family had the opportunity to make the choices that they made, but I also think that people in other situations need an equal amount of respect and compassion. And my bet is that she neither viewed herself as a hero nor wanted to be viewed as one; like the rest of us, she was probably just doing the best she could to get through life and the hand that she was dealt in life.

The tricky thing about commenting on such an emotionally charged topic is that logic often takes a back seat in such a situation, as does respect for the views of others. I have had a hard time figuring out exactly what I want to say about Brittany’s story because I see the irony in producing commentary about the error I think others are making by commenting about the case.  The potential for expressing bias as fact, judgment, condemnation, shaming, and labeling is huge; this is what we tend to resort to when threatened or frightened -- and there's not much, if anything, in life that's scarier than facing pain and the end of life. When I think about the many comments that have been made about how Brittany chose to handle her medical condition, most of which have seemed judgmental and harsh to me, I can't quite get past the hypocrisy of saying "Shame on you for shaming someone else" or the irony of judging someone for being judgmental.

Here’s a confession: when I read about Brittany’s success in doing some of the things on her Bucket List, I felt jealous and even a little angry.  My dad had a Bucket List too, but he wasn’t able to get to any of the items on his agenda because of what GBM took from him from the moment the condition revealed itself.  I also felt jealous that Brittany’s medical team seemed to have communicated with her clearly about her options … or maybe she was just more able to figure out what her options were because the cancer in her brain hadn’t impaired that cognitive skill in her … yet.

My dad’s doctors, especially his oncologist, didn’t seem to have an accurate view of what was happening when he went into a downward spiral.  It seems like an oncologist would be much better attuned to medical facts so as not to succumb to the attraction of denial, but that was not the situation in my dad’s case.

I honestly don’t know what my dad would have done had we had all of the facts, had he been able to adequately process things, and had he had an opportunity to make a choice that would not put his family in jeopardy in any way.  I know that it would have been nice to have someone – anyone – ask him, or us, about his priorities.  The medical team was evidently too rushed, too uneducated, or too something to think to ask him, and we didn’t know to ask (or what to ask or how to ask it) or to speak up on his behalf until the very end.

As I've said and written about, the diagnosis of brain cancer, especially GBM, is particularly devastating for many reasons.  As a result of the attention brought to GBM by Brittany’s case, NBC news wrote an article about the unique challenges with brain cancer:

Why Brain Cancer is So Lethal

The neuro-oncologist who called me to announce that my dad’s case had been accepted by Duke University is quoted in the article:  “Brain tumors,” he says, “particularly but not exclusively the malignant ones … are in such an eloquent area of the body that surgical intervention may not be possible and other interventions such as radiation therapy may come with a fierce price.”  Yet another thing I wish I wasn’t in a position to have to know truth of.

Recurrence of GBM, the article says, is inevitable, at least as the treatment options now stand.  As I wrote about in the last post, this is especially true in certain variations of GBM. 

Another thing that bothers me about the coverage of Brittany’s story is the overuse of the phrase “death with dignity.”  Maybe it’s just a weird point of sensitivity of mine, but I don’t like the fact that that phrase seems to imply that there is no dignity in making a different choice – or in not having a choice – about the specifics of an impending death.  That feels like a really sick kind of competitiveness: who did death better???  Even the phrase “the right to die” seems muddled to me: I’m pretty sure that dying is a natural process rooted in science, not a “right.”  I think better terminology is “to hasten the end of one’s life” or something similar that better captures the fact that one's time on this earth is not going to be long with a diagnosis like this, no matter how things are handled.

We can’t know what the specifics of Brittany’s medical condition were, and we can’t know what she thought or felt when the news of the prognosis and the path she would likely have to travel were delivered.  In an instant, though, her choices - and life as she knew it - were stripped away.  I think, like a lot of people with terminal diagnoses who consider “physician-assisted suicide,” that she was desperately trying to gain some control in a situation that was horribly out of control, and I get that.  If you’ve ever seen someone have a seizure, if you’ve ever seen the terror and confusion in the eyes of someone who is aware that their own mental state is impaired, or if you’ve ever seen the look of humiliation and angst on the face of an adult who has wet his pants because he couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time, then you might have a little bit of an idea of what she and her family were feeling.  If you love a person who is having to endure things like this, plus a significant amount of often unrelenting physical and emotional pain - and who is being told that death is imminent, then there’s a chance that maybe you can relate to what it’s like to feel such a desperate need to try to establish order and control. 

I wish I could say that I can’t imagine what it took for Brittany’s family to support her decision; I’ve tried thinking about what it must have been like on their last night with her or in the last hour they had together before what they knew was going to happen happened; it’s a different kind of horror, I would imagine, than what my dad and my family experienced – but, I would guess, the same kind of love.

 This is a song that my dad loved, played by a musician named

Bernard Stanley"Acker" Bilk who died earlier this week. 

Ironwoman

I recently read an article about a woman that I find to be very inspiring.  Her name is Kristin McQueen, and here's her story:

Ten years ago Kristin was diagnosed with metastatic thyroid cancer.  Since then, she has had fifteen major surgeries and has undergone various cancer treatments including radiation on her brain.  To date, she has finished seventeen marathons and nine full Ironman competitions.  She has continued to train during her fight with cancer, she says, because when she's out there on the road she is in control, not cancer.  I think that's pretty badass. 

“Ironman is so much more than an endurance race," she says. "It is not about simply propelling myself 140.6 miles for kicks, it’s about challenging my limits and seeing what’s possible. It’s about reclaiming my body after five neck surgeries, two rounds of radiation, ten brain surgeries, and a slew of acquired physical challenges. It’s about not giving into all the limitations that cancer and its buddies have imposed on me, but viewing them as challenges that ultimately make the race even sweeter by overcoming them. It’s about going from not being able to open my eyes without getting sick, having difficulty sitting upright and being too weak to stand by myself to completing one of the ultimate tests of human endurance. It’s about raising money so that nobody else has to go through what I have. It’s about remembering those who have passed and honoring those who fight every day to live a 'normal' life despite a disease that tries to tear them down.”

As anyone who follows Ironman competitions knows, the Ironman Championship is held in October each year in Kona, Hawaii, and participants in the race have to qualify to enter.  It's "the big one," the granddaddy of all triathlons and one of the most rigorous events in sporting.

This year, the World Triathlon Corporation is giving seven athletes the opportunity to race at Kona though a program called Kona Inspired.  Each entrant in the contest has uploaded a 90-second video showing how their story relates to the theme of the contest, which is "Anything is Possible," and those who get the most votes will get to enter the race.  Kristin wants one of those slots.

If you are also inspired by this Ironwoman, here's how you can help, in three quick and easy steps:

1. Watch this video.
2. Vote for Kristin every day between now and May 7, 2013.
3. Share the info on Facebook and Twitter and any other social media feeds you have - and email the link out to others who may not be into social media.  Ask everyone you know to vote for Kristin!

Kristin, sporting a "SUCK IT, CANCER" message during a race

For at least a dozen years before he got sick, my dad always called or emailed me ahead of time to alert me to whenever an Ironman triathlon was coming on TV so I could watch, and many times he called me on the phone during the race so we could talk about it.  Every single time I have watched an Ironman on TV, I have cried.  I don't mind admitting it; I find not only the talent but also (and probably especially) the dedication and just the raw guts that it takes to go the distance so awe-inspiring, but it's the stories of the back-of-the-packers that get me going every time.  Even if you're not an Ironman fan (an Ironfan?), you know the storyline: the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. I'm not sure which trumps which: the tears of the competitors who realize they will not be able to finish - or the tears of those who are crossing the finish line.  Either way, I can't imagine watching the race without being affected by those stories.

My dad wanted so badly to finish an Ironman competition; just a few days before he got sick - which was just a couple of weeks before his debut Ironman - he said he hoped to finish the event in less than twelve hours but that he would be happy just to finish at all.  After months of training and miles and miles on the road and in the pool, his chance to compete in the Ironman-North Carolina in 2010 was stolen from him by cancer, so unbelievably sad and so damn unfair.  As Kristin says, "Cancer is bullshit!"

Kristin has succeeded in finishing an Ironman - in fact, nine of them!  Most people feel they are giving their all when they finish a 5K, even if they are 100% healthy; Kristin has far surpassed that, while battling cancer. By any standard, she is already an Ironwoman, worthy of great respect and admiration for her athletic accomplishments.  The championship race in Kona, though, is within her reach, and I can't think of anyone who better embodies the idea that anything is possible.  With our help, she can make it there.

Good luck, Kristin; cancer can indeed SUCK IT!  I look forward to watching you amongst the other participants in the race on TV in October.  I can guarantee that I'll be watching - and crying.

Not Knowing: Grandmom's Story, Part 4

Continued from Part 3 - Grandmom's Story 

One of the things that my dad worried about the most when he was sick and even before then was his mom, who, since the death of my grandfather many years before, had been living alone in a small town in southern Alabama until she suffered a stroke at the age of 87.

My daughters and my dad, with Grandmom, Sept. 2010

For all of my life, I'd thought of my grandmother as one of the most fiercely independent individuals I knew, a person whose goal it was to leave the earth a better place than she'd found it, without asking for much help or (as she put it) "without burdening" others and without using anything as an excuse for not doing her part to help others in need.  Grandmom has perhaps one of the most interesting life stories I've ever heard, with lots of adventures and even more challenges faced along the way.  She pinched pennies, cut corners, and made due for all of her life, but, a deeply religious person, she never failed to tithe or to give of her time when her church or someone in her community needed assistance.  She was well-read, and maybe that was one thing that contributed to her acceptance of people from all walks of life, of all backgrounds and all races, which was not a practice often seen in that time.  From the way I saw things, Grandmom didn't concern herself too much with what a person's income or job title was or with how fancy of a car or house a person had; as long as someone seemed to have a good heart, seemed to be trying to "do right," and seemed to be genuine and kindhearted, Grandmom liked that person, and, like my dad, she extended courtesy and respect to most everyone she met.

Although the level of anxiety and extreme depression that Grandmom had been experiencing seemed to leveled off for the most part over the course of the weeks after she had been told about my dad's illness and subsequent death, her overall health did not improve.  On the afternoon of April 18, 2011, my mom got a call from the nursing home and was told that Grandmom's condition had worsened.  Mom called my sisters and me to update us as she hurried to get to Grandmom's side, where she stayed for the remainder of the day.  With Grandmom's breathing labored and her skin color changed, Mom talked to the nurses and decided to spend the night with Grandmom so she would not be left alone even for a minute.  The staff at the nursing home was kind enough to move Grandmom's roommate to another room so Mom could sit at Grandmom's bedside in privacy.  Throughout the night, Mom read to Grandmom, talked to her, and tried to reassure her that it was ok for her to go on ahead, reminding her that she was so loved and that my dad and my grandfather were waiting for her in heaven.  Grandmom seemed to be at peace, and, as the first light of day could be seen through the big window in the room and with my mom holding her hand, Grandmom took her last breath.

My sister Nancy joined my mom soon afterwards at the nursing home, and together they dealt with the things that needed to done, including calling the funeral home, packing up Grandmom's belongings, and saying their goodbyes.  There were some haunting similarities to what had had to be done after my dad's death just three months earlier, but at the same time this was a different situation for many reasons.  Given all that had happened to impact her quality of life and given her age and overall health, we all knew that Grandmom was prepared to go on ahead and that she very likely welcomed her own passing from this life.  From my perspective, it seemed that she had been leaning into the light for quite some time, dearly missing her husband of 50 years and many others who had gone before her - and feeling that her purpose on this earth had been served.  Personally, I will say that the news of her death hit me hard but that my mourning was much more for my own sake than for hers, and the grief from her passing and from that from my dad's was so enmeshed it was like pouring gas on a fire.  

I found a group email that my dad had sent out just before he'd gotten sick to update people about Grandmom, and I used that set of contact information to communicate the news to many extended family members and friends about Grandmom's passing and to let them know that we had decided to hold a memorial service for Grandmom in her hometown over Memorial Day weekend to give those traveling from out of town time to make the necessary arrangements.  Mom had the obituary run in the newspaper in Grandmom's town and contacted Grandmom's church to let them know as well.  

A couple of weeks later, a violent storm came through the area where I live overnight.  The noise of the thunder actually woke me up in the night, interrupting a dream that I had been having about my grandfather's brother Hilyard, whom I had only seen a few times in my life.  The last couple of times I remember seeing him, he was using a walker to get around; it had been many years since his passing and many more since I had seen him.  In the dream, though, he walked up to me unaided, looking younger than I remembered ever having seen him but so closely resembling my grandfather that it was easy for me to recognize who he was.  He looked at me and said very simply, "Your grandmother and your dad want me to tell you that they are ok," and then, before I could respond, he turned on his heel and strolled away.

When I checked my email early that next morning, I saw that I had a message from my dad's second cousin Carl, Hilyard's grandson, who had heard on the news that the storm had left damage to many homes in my city.  I was touched that Carl was checking in on us; I had not corresponded with him in the past except for the recent message about Grandmom - but I was stunned at the timing of the communication, just about an hour after I had had the dream about his grandfather.  I emailed Carl back and told him that we hadn't sustained any damage in the storm, but, not knowing what he would think if I told him about the dream, I didn't mention it then - but I did a few weeks later at the memorial service for Grandmom.

To be continued ... 

Part 46 – Paving the Way

Continued from Part 45 

Dad and his league of protectors, November 2010

There were lots of surprises during the time that Dad was fighting cancer, from the first announcement that he was sick to the rapid downward spiral that brought hospice into the picture much sooner than I had ever thought could be possible.  But one thing that did not surprise me was the way those of us in the inner circle handled things.  Time and time again during the hardest ordeal any of us had ever gone through, we pulled together in support of not just Dad but of each other.  To be clear, though, we didn’t need a terminal illness, a phone call with terrible news, or a surgeon in the Room of Doom to remind us of how much we meant to each other; we were already very well aware of the preciousness of love and of life. 

But when I think back about the collection of things, both little and big, that my mom, my siblings, their spouses, and our children did to care for Dad during that time, it warms my heart; it reminds me of the bond that we share and the fierce love that we have for my dad and for one another. 

It stands to reason that a person’s spouse and adult children would make every effort and go to extremes in a life-threatening situation; one of the things that stands out in my mind as being exceptional though was the devotion of and the way that my husband and my brothers-in-law cared for my dad, which is something that I think exemplifies my dad’s relationship with the three of them, each of whom played a very important role in caring for my dad during the course of his ten-week long illness.

I suppose having a good relationship with the spouse of your adult child can be tricky, maybe especially between a father and his daughter’s husband.  A father is always supposed to look out for his “little girl,” and certainly Dad always did that for my sisters and me, but maybe in a less traditional way than some other fathers.  Dad wasn’t a hold-your-hand kind of guy in his parenting style; he always expected us to do the right thing, and he didn’t flatter us unless the praise was earned and well deserved.  Looking back, I see his method of “fathering” us as adults as one in which he trusted us to be able to take care of ourselves based on what we had learned while we were growing up, and that included his having confidence that all three of his daughters chose to marry good men, men with whom Dad could be friends and with whom he could share a mutual respect.

Another thing that held true for my dad was that he could always take a joke.  He wasn’t one of those people who could dish it out but couldn’t take it; in fact, he seemed to enjoy being the target of a prank or having people poke fun at him.  There are many examples in my memory bank of this, and some of these involve my husband, Nancy’s husband David, and Jennifer’s husband Peter.  One of their ongoing pranks on Dad over the years was dumping cold water on him when he was least expecting it on family vacations; there was great strategizing and even greater laughter each time they pulled this off. 

Photo 1 of 2 from Water Dump #1 (notice Peter being sneaky in the background)

Photo 2 of 2 from Water Dump #1 - Dad's response: "Man! That's cold!"

Result of Water Dump #2 (off the top of a houseboat)

Sometimes the laughter came from conversations between Dad and his sons-in-law, talks during which Dad always played the role of the dizzy-blonde.  During a family vacation about six years ago, our husbands were discussing computer programs they used in their jobs and the subject of needing support from their companies’ “I.T. guys” came up.  Dad thought they were spelling the word “it” and asked what the job description was for an “it guy.”  When they told him what “I.T.” stood for, Dad got really excited and proudly announced, “My company has an I.T. guy too!  We’ve all got ‘it’ guys!”  And of course that became one of the frequently repeated phrases during that trip and from that point forward.

Other times Dad’s own actions resulted in some friendly ridicule, and sometimes these incidents involved Dad’s fashion choices.  On at least one occasion, when Dad got ready for the day, one of us recognized that the jeans he was wearing weren’t actually his – they were my mom’s!  (We could tell because of the tapered legs of the jeans, which apparently escaped Dad’s notice when he put them on.)  When this was pointed out to Dad, he laughed at himself and said in a mock-confused sounding voice, “Huh?  Are these my pants?”  This became the standard statement in my family when someone was caught doing something scatterbrained, an expression that we use in my house to this day.  Another humorous exchange occurred at my house when Dad pointed out his new shoes to my husband; my husband took one look at Dad’s footwear and then asked, “Do they sell men’s shoes where you got those?”  It took Dad several seconds to process the fact that Kevin was implying that his new shoes looked like women’s, but once he did he couldn’t quit laughing about it; in fact, for years afterwards, Dad often asked Kevin, “What did you say about those new shoes I got that time?” and the two of them would crack up as they relived the conversation.

Sometimes Dad intended for what he did to be funny; he loved to get a laugh from others and obviously didn't mind it being at his own expense.  A few years ago during the SuperBowl, Dad evidently got bored and told Mom that he was going to take his Diet Coke and take a bubble bath.  (I'm guessing that she thought he was kidding, but he wasn't.)  When he got situated in the tub, he shouted for her to come in and take his picture so she could email to his sons-in-law, all for the sake of getting a laugh.  Here's the result:

On some occasions, Dad tried to reciprocate the pranks that were played on him, although it was a challenge because, like me, he typically had a hard time telling a joke, scheming without being detected, and executing his plan while keeping a straight face.  On one Christmas about seven years or eight years ago, Dad gave each of his three sons-in-law The Perfect Push-up (“As seen on TV!” he exclaimed when they opened their gifts.) and then sportingly challenged them to a push-up contest with the new gadget.  (I must report, to the chagrin of the three men who were roughly half Dad’s age at the time, that Dad was the champ of the Perfect Push-up Challenge that day!)

But for all the pranks and fun-poking that went on during the course of their relationships with my dad, Dad’s sons-in-law were as fiercely protective of him as we were while he was sick.  The respect and the love that they had for him were so evident and so touching, and it’s something I will never forget.   During the first few days after Dad got sick, as we waited for the green light for the surgery that would give us the diagnosis, it was mainly just my mom, my sisters, and me there in the hospital room with Dad.  On the day of the surgery, my husband drove from out-of-town to be with us as we waited while Dad was in surgery, and then he helped to hold me together when the neurosurgeon handed down the diagnosis and the prognosis.  From that point forward, my husband and my brothers-in-law became part of Dad’s league of protectors, a role in which they excelled because of their strong relationship with him from over the years.

On the night after Dad’s surgery, my mom, my sisters, and I were completely exhausted.  Kevin volunteered to take the late-night shift with Dad in the ICU.  As was par for the course, Dad slept “zero” that night.  Whether it was a tough-guy act or a state-of-mind from after the surgery that he had been dreading, Dad seemed less anxious with Kevin around that night; in fact, when Jennifer and Nancy got to the hospital in the early morning hours to relieve Kevin, Dad and Kevin had all the lights on in the room and were laughing, watching football, and discussing politics.  Not the sleepy-time setting the females in the family would have thought to provide, but just the right thing for Dad at the time, an oddly-placed sense of normalcy and some great male “binding time” (as Dad called any bonding experience while I was growing up.)

Later that day, my brother-in-law David arrived on the scene; like my husband and my other brother-in-law, David is one of the most compassionate people I know, and, also like Dad’s other two sons-in-law, he was perfect for the role that he played during Dad’s illness.  On the day after the surgery, Dad was still consumed with worry about time and somewhat disoriented about what time of day it was.  Over and over, Dad looked at the clock on the wall of his ICU room and incredulously asked if the clock was right; he just couldn’t believe how slowly time seemed to be passing. David came up with a strategy that helped Dad right away: he covered the wall clock with a shirt to cut down on Dad’s anxiety about what time it was. 

From the moment on the day after surgery that Dad was given the go-ahead to eat whatever foods he wanted, through Dad’s struggle to take in more calories despite his lack of appetite, to the last foods that Dad ever ate, his three sons-in-law were at-the-ready to get whatever Dad wanted to eat for him, at any time of the day or night.  They made countless trips around the clock to get foods Dad was specifically requesting from restaurants and the grocery store and served as short-order cooks when Dad was able to eat food at home.  They didn’t guilt or pressure Dad into eating, but the second he mentioned that he might like to have a certain food, they found a way to provide it for him, just in case.

When my brother-in-law Peter took a red-eye flight to join my sister Jennifer, my parents, and me in Durham on our second day of appointments at Duke, he served as the logistics guy, helping to get Dad ready and out the door on time so we could make it to our early-morning appointment at the clinic, figuring out that Dad was safer and more efficient using the wheelchair instead of the walker during the trip, driving all over town to find a hotel that wasn’t already booked for the night before Thanksgiving, finding a set of safety bars and borrowing tools from the hotel to install the bars on the toilet in the bathroom for Dad since the hotel was not handicap accessible, and then  driving the whole way home with Dad riding “co-pilot” that hectic Thanksgiving Day (with the two of them eating all of the gummy candy they could for entertainment along the way).  His presence was definitely calming for Dad and for us, and having him there for that part of our stressful trip was so helpful.

One of the things that Dad worried a lot about during his illness was having his face shaved.  (He wanted to have his head shaved like he usually did too, but, due to the staples and then the scar from the surgery, that wasn’t an option, and so Dad just focused on having a clean-shaven face.)  While something like that would not be of any concern at all to some men who were so sick, Dad was impeccable in his grooming; all my life, I can remember him shaving at least once per day, even on weekends.  Without a doubt, he was precise and proud – but not at all vain – about his appearance, a fact that did not change during his illness.  Many times both in the hospital and after he went home in between hospitalizations, Dad got help with his shaving routine from one of his sons-in-law because his dominant left hand still wasn’t up to par. 

At first, it seemed like having them help him might take away some of his dignity, but right away we could tell that, with the way they handled it, their support actually gave some dignity and a sense of independence and routine back to Dad.  The day before we left to go to Duke, we were all running around getting things ready for the trip.  Dad kept saying he needed to shave, and finally I asked him if it couldn’t just wait.  “I just need to shave,” he said insistently. “It just makes me feel better.  Hell, I even shave on vacation, and this certainly isn’t a vacation.”  Point taken. I didn’t trust myself with shaving him, and so Dad was so glad when David took care of it before we left on our trip, as he was when David helped him with it again in the hospital on the night before Dad came home on hospice. 

Peter, shaving Dad

My husband and my brothers-in-law were the muscle and the strategists behind the equipment and the furniture that needed to be set up or rearranged at my parents’ house during Dad’s illness.  They installed grab bars by the toilets and in the shower, moved couches and tables, and rolled up area rugs to make the environment as safe and as convenient as possible for Dad.  I will never forget the way they moved the hospital bed from the den to my parents’ bedroom and then so carefully and tenderly moved Dad so that he wouldn’t be scared or hurt.  Part of the peace and the comfort that we were able to provide for Dad once he came home was due to their presence, and, knowing the three of them so well and seeing how much they too loved Dad, none of that was a surprise.  Like my mom, my sisters, and me, they were paving the way, doing whatever it took to care for Dad, and that is something I will always treasure and value more than I can adequately express.

Up Next ... Part 47 – Rose-Colored Glasses

Symbols and Signs

Recently I went to visit my dad’s grave for the first time since his funeral.  I’ve actually never visited anyone's grave before, except to stand beside it as we laid to rest the remains of another family member.


I’ve heard some people say that it can be peaceful or healing to visit the grave of a loved one.  Because it’s the location on this Earth where the last bits of cells of that person are, it seems logical that one would be likely to feel some kind of connection there. 


My dad's body - or his ashes, rather - is buried next to the plots of my maternal grandparents.  The cemetery is a beautiful place in the country, with big trees and rolling hills.  Their headstones are very nice, and they have colorful silk flowers in the grave marker vases. 


I vaguely remember meeting with the guy from the funeral home (Mortician? Undertaker? Funeral director? Salesman?) with my mom and my sisters the day after Dad died and being asked what inscription or symbol we wanted on the front of the Dad's tombstone.  “How about ‘What the hell just happened?’ ‘Hell, no, this isn’t happening!’ or ‘Cancer sucks!’?” I remember thinking at the time.  I was holding on so tightly to the conviction that the night before - and, actually, the entire 75 days before - had all been just a really bad dream, one from which I would awaken and be shaken by but then go on with my Real Life.


Many of the big decisions about the burial had already been made:  Dad and Mom had made most of their own “arrangements” (what a freaky term) years in advance, and Dad had said for as long as I can remember that he definitely wanted to be cremated when he died.  The three things we had to decide on that terrible day were about the urn, what would go on the tombstone, and what would be written in the obituary. 


For the urn we chose a basic wooden box; we thought that Dad would think the vase-type urns were too “girly,” too fancy for his taste, or - as he sometimes termed things - "a waste."  We convinced the funeral home guy to let us use his computer and then we somehow found a way to type up the obituary for the newspaper.  Once that was done, the decision of the grave marker was all we had left to do there, and, for some reason, it seemed like the most important of the three to me. 

We flipped through the “Marker Manual” and, in much the way Dad picked out many of the things he bought for as far back as I can remember, we were able to make the decision because we knew what we wanted when we saw it:  a winged foot, which is the symbol of Mercury, the messenger, the Greek god of trade, and a commonly used logo for the sports of track and field and cross-country running. 




The day I went back to the cemetery, I stood for a while in front of my dad’s grave and waited.  I looked around in search of some kind of Sign.  I found myself thinking, “Come on, Dad!  Give me something!”  Finally, I sat down on the grass in between the plots of my dad and my grandparents and decided I would try to just breathe, just take in the scenery, just sit there and pay my respects to them.  A little voice in my head kept butting in and saying, “This is crazy!  Dad’s not dead!” but I kept at it anyway.


After about 10 minutes, I decided it was a little crazy for me to be sitting there waiting for something; while the cemetery is a pretty piece of property, it certainly isn’t where I spent any time with my dad or my grandparents, and I didn’t feel any special pull or connection to them there.  As I stood up to leave, I felt tears forming in my eyes and then spilling over to fall down my cheeks. I looked around one more time and then started walking towards my car, feeling lost and alone and so, so sad.  I don't think the cemetery is a place of peace for me right now; I don't think anywhere really is.