Werenskiold, "The Funeral"
Three Funerals
The first funeral , July 29,was for a woman named Joyce, a coworker
whose husband is also a friend. Joyce died at age 70 of a brain tumor that was
first diagnosed in January. She probably had it longer than that, but the
dizziness she experienced kept being
misdiagnosed as other things. I actually went to her wake, not her funeral,
because the second funeral took place the same day as Joyce’s; both persons
died the same day.
And the second person was a man named Louie, who was my
cousin’s husband. Louie died at age 72 after
years of living with Multiple Sclerosis.
Louie had been a star athlete in his youth, and was diagnosed with MS
when he was 40.
The third funeral took place the following week, August 6. This was
for a man named Ron, the husband of one of my college classmates. Ron died at
age 75 of pancreatic cancer. He had survived this cancer for 13 years – much
longer than the usual survival rate, due to the skill of his surgeons and
oncologists at Hopkins, and to the wonderful, vigilant care of his wife. In
those 13 years, he got to see his only daughter marry and give him two
grandchildren.
All three of these funerals were graced occasions for me to
see friends and family members I hadn’t seen in a while, and to pray for the
consolation of the grieving loved ones.
I believe all three of the deceased are in heaven; not so much a need to
pray for them.
It made me
more aware of my own age of 68 as “ready for retirement” or as on the way to
the great beyond. Really, how much longer on earth do I have? I have said a
number of times that I don’t want to live to be 90, as my parents did, when I
would be blind, demented, and incontinent. Even though my legs and feet and
back and hands and arms still work well and work without pain, and I can still
read and drive and climb stairs and week the garden on my hands and knees, I am
partly blind and occasionally incontinent already. And a “brain test” I took on Facebook showed
me that my reaction time is already below normal. So maybe I have twenty more
years, or ten more years. That’s all in the mind of God.
Do I have a poem to end these ramblings?
The Future
by Rainer Marie Rilke
The
future: time's excuse
to frighten us; too vast
a project, too large a morsel
for the heart's mouth.
Future, who won't wait for you?
Everyone is going there.
It suffices you to deepen
the absence that we are. (Translated by A. Poulin)
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