I love that we get to purposefully celebrate the dead on November 1st--feed them, nourish them, tease them, talk about them, celebrate them, care for them, make things beautiful for them...or really, for us. Instead of the memories of the dead sneaking up on you in an ambush at inopportune times as they are wont to do, you get to plan and consciously celebrate them. I live in the Southwest in a predominantly Hispanic area, so the celebration of El Dia is forefront. A dear friend of mine created the beautiful alter, pictured above, in her home. The boys' school is celebrating El Dia in really sweet and age appropriate ways for each class. The pre-K/kindergarten classes talk about Heavenly Birthdays and are invited to light candles and share about any losses. The first grade related it to the life cycle of an insect, from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly--a transformation of body and form. They made an altar in the class and the children brought in photos of lost ones and offerings, seen here to the right.The decorating of sugar skulls, the dressing up of skeletons and putting them into lively situations, the vibrant hues of magenta and orange, the paper flowers and strands of dried marigolds, the tissue paper flags cut into skeletal designs and hung like prayer flags; they are all so beautiful, fun and even a little daring. The photos put onto the altars give the living permission to feel joy in remembering the dead when they were alive, upright, walking, eating, laughing. It's a day to imagine the dead there in the living room or kitchen, drinking a cuppa, laughing at you, allowing them to haunt you just a little. The comfort of an imagined conversation, some advice dispensed, a practical joke, even just a presence, relieve the loneliness ever so slightly. That part in yourself made up of joy and life force that is chipped away when the permanence of death sinks in and you're left to just live the rest of your life without that beloved person, you get to forget about that part for just a little bit. You get to focus on creating external beauty in the midst of death as well as create internal beauty within your soul in the remembrance.
As a doctor, I see people die. You know, it's inevitable for us all. It is an unsought honor, in a way, to shepard someone through death. It can be a beautiful and spiritual experience, it can be gruesome and traumatic. It is never a happy occasion, though sometimes it is a relief. It is hardest, of course for those left behind. I chose my specialty because I largely deal with adults, and seeing the elderly die is much, much easier than seeing pretty much anyone else die. I found in my training that witnessing the death of a pregnant mother, a child, a teenaged boy, was really too much for my heart to bear and I could not draw boundaries that would protect my psyche. But seeing a long suffering, elderly cancer patient who has finally lost the battle, and being able to relieve his suffering and be a midwife to a peaceful death gives me a sense of spiritual satisfaction. I was fairly tender as an adolescent but my soft underbelly has softened further with the birth of my boys and motherhood, and I'm more glad than ever that I chose adult medicine.
Coincidentally, three weeks after the birth of my eldest (now aged 7), a series of deaths in my husband's and my circle of family and friends began that left us reeling and feeling not only profound grief but a heaviness that comes with truly growing up. I'm starting to think that we've just entered "that phase" of life, the one where we begin to lose people on a regular basis. In honor of those departed from us, I'd like to say a few words about our friends now gone.
Harriet, my mother's mother, was the one who kicked off the whole kicking off binge. She was a ripe old 86 with multiple medical problems and it was not entirely unexpected though I'd been preoccupied with my first pregnancy, being 10 days overdue and recovering from an unexpected C-section. I'd just had the most profound experience of my life in becoming a mother, and was in the nadir of a rapid exodus of estrogen from my brain. Needless to say I did not handle it well. She had been the unlikely, unsentimental rock in our family. She was practical, kind of boring, reliable, thrifty, and judgmental--really a product of her Mid-Western, German upbringing through the Great Depression. She lived to become a great-grandmother twice over. By her 70's, she was so deaf she couldn't hear herself fart, which she did frequently and publicly.
Darren, my husband's beautiful 23 year old cousin was next. He'd just graduated from college. He was vacationing in Mexico with a group of friends and his girlfriend, was a blossoming young lovely man who played rugby and raced triathlons. We still have no clear reason why he suddenly dropped dead in the middle of the night. His mother's heart irreparably broke that day, and the golden unwritten book that lay unfolding before him slammed shut. The cream of American youth, as my dad would say, spoiled.
Pat, one of my husband's dearest friends, died in one heckuva bizarre accident. He was 41 and riding his bike which he crashed, knocking himself unconscious and landing in the unfortunate spot of 2 feet of ditch water, causing him to drown. His two young sons and wife plow on, the wife now entering a PhD program in grad school, the eldest son now entering his freshman year of college, the youngest son now in high school. He was a shaman, a wizard: small-framed, bearded an long haired. My husband used to attend mushroom conferences with this fellow ER doc, toxicologist, and kindred spirit. They would wander through the mountains for hours to see what they could find, identify and safely and tastily eat. Pat used to call my husband "The Golden Boy." You'd have to know my husband to understand it completely.
Mike, "Pops," my beloved father-in-law who died three and a half years ago, was next. He'd been an immigrant from Ireland and built a life in California as a carpenter, raising five children. He was 74 and ruptured an aortic aneurism. Much better for him to have gone quickly, save for the fact we didn't get to say goodbye. I could go on volumes about this one...he was by far the hardest to lose. I think the loss of a parent shakes the very foundation upon which we walk. In brief, he was a brilliant person, untethered by formal education. He'd been a fallen man, a drunk, who redeemed himself and his life. He was pure joy, and I loved him so. He was quick with a quotable gem, such as "It's like trying to shove 10 pounds of shit into a 5 pound bag." In fact most of his quotable gems would be bleeped by the FCC.
Father Bernard, the family priest went only 3 months later. He'd done all of the family baptisms, many family weddings, and the funerals of Darren and Pops. He was a hoot, and had devoted his life to not only the ministry but served the most outcast among us--those in prison. He had a funny sounding voice for a priest, kind of whiney. He thought all of our kids names unfortunately difficult to pronounce.
Tim, my sister's brother-in-law, died at 36 of a horrible traumatic crime. It was one week after my second son was born and my sister had to rush home from her visit with her new nephew to attend to her family. He was young, strong, beautiful. We attended the funeral with our newborn and again, in a hormonal tumult, I was profoundly shaken.
Pablo, a little boy just days shy of his fourth birthday, died next, while I was pregnant with my youngest baby. He had a brain tumor and died 3 months after it was diagnosed. Again, in my hormonal, fragile and vulnerable state, this one hit me particularly hard. But then who isn't hit hard by the death of a child? He was a little boy at my son's school, his sister in my oldest boy's class, his dad a teacher at the school. My two older sons were fully present and participatory for this passage and showed me beyond any doubt that young children are still in touch with the other side, having just recently come from there themselves.
Dave, just a few weeks ago, was a dear friend and local architect who was working on some plans for an addition to our home. Just 58, with the sudden rupture of a cerebral aneurism, he left us quickly and way too soon. He was a local activist and had a great sense of humor--always quick with a joke.
And these were just the people central in our lives who we lost. There were also others, more peripheral.
So here today I build my little altar out of words for our dear departed. I put here a pinwheel Christmas cookie and some spatzle for Harriet. Here, I put a rugby ball and jersey, and a pint of Guiness for Darren. Pat, here's a primo piggy, a King Bolete for you. For Pops, a cup of coffee and though I know I shouldn't, a cigarette. I mean, he's already dead, it's not going to hurt him. Oh, and heck, he gets the full fry too. Father Bernard I'll light the candle you gave me when you baptized our son. Tim, I'll crack open a Bud Light. Pablo, this donut is for you. And Dave, here's a nice plate of spaghetti bolognese. I lay here some brilliantly bright and colorful paper flowers. I have a picture of each of you, really lovely ones, happy smiling ones, here in my mind. I hear Pops singing away, cracking jokes and giggling. What a lovely little party. And next year...next year I'll make the time and space for a beautiful, visual, tactile altar to bring these folks back for another fiesta.
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