Iron & Glue
Let me preface this post with a couple things. First of all, the subject matter is brutal. I won’t be posting too many of these depressing, downer type posts, but this is one that had to go up. It is the original blog that I was going to launch with, but thought better of it with the lunar eclipse being so popular, and this, well… not. I toyed back and forth after the fact of not posting it at all, for fear of opening up a little too much (see asterisk in header image). But, sometimes you get inspiration in the most unlikely places; and I’d like to thank my younger sister Tiana for having the courage to read a poem on the same subject to our family on Christmas Eve. It was beautifully written, and while that was a private forum for all intents and purposes, this one was written with others viewing it in mind. Hope you like it/can relate to it (well, actually I hope no one can relate to it). I’ll try to update again quickly, with something a little more upbeat.
It’s truly life-altering business watching someone die. Not just the final months or weeks, but the final seconds of life are especially fragile. Your mind plays tricks on you; makes you ask questions and think thoughts that anyone else not in your position would gasp at. Things you yourself look back on and gasp at. People change when they’re dying; if only because we perceive them differently. If you don’t recognize someone in the same capacity as you always have, is that not the definition of change? The sad irony of it all is that the only two constants to be known are change and death; only thing is, death doesn’t give us the satisfaction of change. Is it better to spend as much time with someone towards the end of their days, assuring yourself a proper goodbye, but experiencing their suffering yourself? Or do you try to keep that memory of them unaltered, remembering them in the capacity that suits them best for your purposes? Surely no one enjoys being an eyewitness to agony, just as you can presume the sufferer feels at their least flattering. These are selfish thoughts, indeed, but thoughts nonetheless. You might have them too, were you a spectator to the drama of death.
And it is dramatic. Traumatic, even. If you haven’t guessed, this is being written from the standpoint of a family member. The kind that gets to be in the room too; not the kind that gets a phone call. Well, you get phone calls; lots, actually. Sometimes they help. Sometimes you don’t answer. Sometimes you answer and they still don’t help. You just witnessed the people you’re closest with in the entire world like you’ve never seen them before. Ever. And you’ve known them your whole life. You’ve just witnessed a final moment of ultimate suffering, heartache, and pain, and the only consolation you get is the peace assumed to be experienced afterward. But where one’s suffering ends, dozens’ more are just getting warmed up. There are a multitude of subsequent goodbyes set to take place, and the hell of it is you don’t know (nor can you) which will be the hardest. But you know it hasn’t come yet.
At some point you realize: it hasn’t hit you yet at all. Your mind has such magnificent power that you can see the corpse of someone you’ve known, loved, admired, and adored your entire life, and your mind can delay any thought it wants until you’re forced to think it again. Everything’s changed. One life, now one death, completely alters the landscape of your entire world. It puts the butterfly’s wings’ across the world analogy into picture perfect clarity. You look around a room full of family, friends, the family of friends, all of whom recognizing and identifying immediately who is affected the most, and you see for the first time the new look of your family. That absence that you feel, that missing link, is no longer going to feel weird; or, at least, it’s not supposed to. Adjust accordingly.
The condolences help, and I would never say that they didn’t even if they didn’t. They come from people you’ve never met, people you’ve met but never see, and everyone in between. They feel sorry for you. That’s how you know that you were close with the deceased. And now you feel sorry for them, for not knowing him like you did; like you think everyone should. You hope you’re sad enough to meet their expectations, but also hope you’re strong enough to meet your own. After all, isn’t death just a part of life? You love life don’t you? To love life, we put up with death. All things die, that truly live. And you know your grandfather’s dead, if only because you know how he lived.
Your grandfather. The only true one you’ve ever known. The only one who you could call grandfather whose blood is your own; whose name you could only hope to live up to by having. Your father’s father. A lot of peoples’ father. A lot of peoples’ grandfather. The pillar. The strong-willed. Both iron and glue at the same time. The man who could in the same breath play frantically with a baby and out-stubborn anyone you could throw up against him. You know that, because he earned every right to be stubborn. He fought in six wars, and survived five of them (WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer). Both lover and fighter. You’ve never known life without him, but you know about life because of him; and you’re not the only one on both counts. You’ve still got more viewings, a funeral, and a burial. Now we’re up to five goodbyes.
Your focus has to be your grandmother, but you want to make sure you’re capable of focusing before you try. It doesn’t happen quick; but the quicker the better (which probably makes it go even slower). Anything you can do to help her, anything she could possibly ask, you’ll do. But the woman she is, she only has one request. Pall bear? It’d be an honor. Suddenly you have your first idea of when the worst of your goodbyes is going to come, but you could NEVER let on to that; it could ruin your chance. No one except your grandmother could take that away from you; and you’d hardly want to give her a reason to. Now all you can do is wait until your duty arrives; much like a soldier.
If there were ever a juxtaposition to avoid, it’s pall bearing. It is not for the faint of heart or will. There is a reason only men pall bear. Women, you should feel lucky; it’s not something you want to try. The casket may be the only thing in the world at that moment heavier than your heart. You carry what’s carried you so many times before, and you’ll carry it forever. You feel as proud as you ever have, to be associated with the celebration of this man’s life, and at the same time, hurt knowing that you’ll also always be associated with his death. At your weakest moment, you have to be your strongest. For your family, who at this point are breaking down one by one; sometimes by the two. The ones that aren’t are on the verge, or already have, and still could at any moment. You look for strength within others, and stop looking almost as fast as you start. If it’s not going to come from within, it’s not going to come at all. Tears are all this service well get out of you today. You couldn’t imagine breaking down. What if you were the one others were looking to for strength? Maybe not your grandmother, who is constantly broken, or your uncles and aunts, who break, then fix themselves for another, or your father, who you’ve never seen breakdown like that, or your little brother, who aside from breaking down is also standing next to you ready to take the weight of the casket in his arms as well, but surely there must be someone who is handling the death well enough, right? But when you present the casket to the Army’s representatives, and step back, you realize the two most daunting facts you’ll ever know: 1) no, in fact, there isn’t anyone strong enough, not one person, and 2) it has to be you.
There has to be someone. Even if just one person can ease some pain through your strength, isn’t it worth it? Even if it isn’t your grandmother? You’ll never be sure if it worked, but you’re sure of yourself. The soldiers don’t make it any easier on you. They fold the flag with the care and precision that only soldiers could; one fold, one tuck, one pause. Repeat. The pauses get longer as they do their best origami impersonation in slow-motion, or maybe that’s your mind tricking you again. You notice how long it takes, and realize it’s on purpose. This is your last goodbye. You could live in that moment forever if it meant that he was still technically there. You would listen to that horn play those familiar notes, that signify one of the best that America has to offer has passed, on repeat for eternity. Your back has never been straighter and your head has never been higher. Everyone else is saying goodbye to him, and you’re saying hello to yourself.
You need that moment to answer all those questions your mind conjured up; or to not care to ask them anymore. You’re ready to focus now; on not just your grandmother, but your whole family, your close friends, your own life. You’ve got the mold for it now tattooed into your memory. You’ll have another chance to say goodbye; as many as you want, theoretically. Maybe you’ll allow yourself to break down at another time, for fear of suppression. Or maybe you’re too stubborn; it does run in the family. Either way, you’re sure of the fact that somehow, after giving you so much while alive, he’s still teaching you more, and will continue to. That’s how one lives forever, isn’t it? You are him, his namesake, a reflection of his legacy. If that isn’t gift enough, then living solely to uphold its high standard should be more than enough. It’s a challenge you welcome with open arms. You hope you’re like him. You hope your funeral is like his; you’ll never know, but you just have to trust the process. You hope you inspire what he inspired in you. You’ve got your marching orders, and now it’s time to earn your medals. At ease.
