Mortality

     By the time we're eight or ten, most of us figure out that we are not immortal.  And, if we still think we're immortal, we've run smack into the realization that at least some others are not.  But, beyond that, we don't give it a whole lot of thought.  In fact, if we DO give it a whole lot of thought, we'll have been told not to be so morbid and to be happy.   So we toodle along, content in the notion that while death may indeed exist, it exists only for the old or those far away from us.  For the most part.

     There are a few words out there that can change that in an instance, a prime one being biopsy.  Biopsy, along with it's fellow traveler cancer, can bring mortality, personal mortality, into very clear and immediate focus.  There you were, toodling along with your life; working, playing, laughing, loving, wasting WAY too much time on the computer and WHAM you are pulled up short by a six letter word and all the baggage it carries with it.  No more, "don't worry, be happy" because worry has just taken up residence in your brain and whether that residence is permanent or not remains to be seen.

      And so it begins, the biopsy, the inconclusive results, the referrals, the scheduling of surgery, the pre-op check ups and the terror.  No matter how calm, cool, collected, even sanguine one thinks one is, there is a time around 2:45 in the morning when the terror is undeniable.  No one else may see it.  You may even try to convince yourself that it isn't there.  But it is.  And no one, not your mother, not your spouse, not your friend, not even the very nice surgeon that you just met, can say anything to make that go away.  Because while they hope for the best, and can quote statistics, and can assure you it will be fine; ultimately, they can't know that to be the fact until you've moved through the entire experience.

Of course, all of this takes time.  So you have a lot of time to think.  And think. And think.  You realize rather quickly that you are not where you'd always thought you'd be by whatever-this-point is in your life.  You then begin to wonder IF making plans for the future is some sort of magic you are invoking to get through the situation.  Or if, perhaps, you are just whistling past the graveyard and which graveyard is it going to be.   One sinks to the forbidden morbid regions rather quickly.

Before too long, you realize that even IF this isn't going to be whatever it is that will spell your demise, something will and that every day lived is a day closer to that day.  And you begin to wonder what that means for your life going forward.    Between blood tests and CAT scans and this and that, you have quite a bit of time for reflecting.  

And, if you're me, you wonder if any insights you garner through all of this reflecting will be carried through should the surgery and the pathology reports say that the end isn't coming in that particular way in this particular year.  

Mercifully, the pathology reports came back "negative for malignancy."  Now it's time to see how many of the insights remain and where they lead.

Cemeteries

You may think I'm odd, and you wouldn't be the first, but I love to walk through cemeteries. By walking I do not mean taking a casual stroll and enjoying the breeze through the trees. I mean spending hours tramping up and down looking at the tombstones. It isn't out of a sense of morbid fascination with death. Rather it is a fascination with people. When I go to a cemetery, I don't so much see markers and tombs, I wonder about the people who were laid to rest beneath them.

A dear friend and I have been exploring the older cemeteries in the area. The oldest cemeteries here only go back to the mid-1800s and, thus, are relatively new as cemeteries go. There are local notables from the founding of Oregon in the pioneer cemeteries, even a few folks that are known further afield. Those are interesting to search for. But I much prefer wandering among the unknown, lesser lights and speculating about their lives. And, on occasion, I'll do research on my findings, if the tombstone provides an interesting tidbit to follow up on.

Several years ago, I was on a kick of reading about the so-called Wild West and noticed that Wyatt Earp's brother Virgil was buried here in Portland. That piqued my curiosity. How in the world did he end up way up here? I researched Mr. Earp to a fare-thee-well and made a mental note to track down his grave someday. Much later the topic came up, somehow, and I babbled on about it as I am wont to do when I learn something that fascinates me. My friend suggested that we go find him and we were off within a few weeks. And find him we did, in the largest cemetery in the area. We had to walk all over the place looking for him on a hot day. We had a general idea of where to go, but if we hadn't stopped at the cemetery offices, we would have never found him. Now the gravestone wasn't all that interesting, but it was kind of neat that we found it. During however many hours we spent there, we found many interesting names which led to some reflection, some confusion and some research. All in all, a very worthwhile trip. So worthwhile, in fact, that we planned on another one.

Next we traipsed up to a smaller, old cemetery in Vancouver, Washington. We weren't hunting up anyone in particular, but we do keep track of which date on the stones is the oldest. Now into a comfortable routine of poking around, clearing off moss and looking for interesting things, we wandered around for a couple of hours. I had the find of the day not long before we were planning to leave. I almost walked on a nondescript stone that was flush to the ground. On it read: Edward Gallagher, (dates) and "executed by legal hanging." I made note of it for further research. My friend and I then spent a little while wondering if there had been any 'illegal hangings" up there. I found out later that day that we'd found the only person to be executed in Vancouver. His attorney attempted an insanity defense, and truth to tell the records certainly read like Mr. Gallagher had some screws loose. But such a defense was pretty hard to establish back in 1890 and he was executed about 8 months after the murder had been committed. Alright, I'll admit that one did grab the less noble parts of my curiosity, but it was fascinating.

Most recently we investigated one of the pioneer cemeteries here in town. It was beautiful with over a thousand trees and dated back to 1846. It houses the resting places of most of the families whose names grace the streets around town. The place was so interesting that we were surprised when we realized that we'd been there for four hours. We found children and their families, a madam and a prostitute, firemen, Masons and Odd Fellows, new Russian graves and old Japanese ones. Every bit of it provoking speculation. There is the corner where the Chinese workers from the turn of the century "used to" be buried. There had been a government building erected over it and when the building was razed, they discovered that there were still many graves there. There is an entire section of tombstones written in Japanese. And, being me, I can't stop wondering how Seizo Furukawa, aged 22 came to be buried here in 1900. I also find myself smiling when I think about the big stone with the proud name James Gray Flowerdew. He just HAD to be a very nice gentleman with a name like that. Or, at least, that's what I want to believe.

For me, the cemeteries are the historical record for the average person. I want to recognize them and learn about them. When I read the stones, I give voice to names that have not been spoken in 100 years. I make note of the interesting epitaphs and touch history with a small 'h', connecting with those who have gone before. I notice the contrast of recent stones nestled up beside stones that are 100 years old and wonder what I think about that. Does it mar the historical continuity? Or is it just a reflection of the reality of it making no difference to the dead who they lie beside?

Oddly enough, all this tromping about doesn't make me dwell on death itself. But rather on life. And although I don't much care what happens to my body when I'm no longer using it, when the time comes I very much hope someone puts up a stone. I kind of like the idea of someone reading my name a hundred years hence and wondering about me for a moment.

The explorations will continue with Pere Lachaise in Paris definitely on the agenda. And while the people and the people who knew them are long gone, their names have been heard and may turn up in one of my stories someday.

Passing

"No man is an island... any man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind...Therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." -- John Donne, Meditation XVII.

In general, I agree with John Donne's thoughts here, although I probably understand it in a different way than he did. It seems evident to me that all life is connected in some way, and to varying degrees. Whether it be humans' connections to the various animals who are serving as the canaries in our mine of global warming or the common experiences of all people around the world, everything is connected and has some effect on everything else. Perhaps more than some, I tend to feel that connection deeply. I regularly go on news boycotts because I feel overwhelmed by the pain and tragedy it presents. I feel empathy when anyone dies. I've even been known to cry for strangers, and some fictional characters. So it came as a bit of a shock when I had to acknowledge that I had a few exceptions to that sense of connection.

Yesterday word came of the death of a person that I used to be related to. This person had disliked, maybe even hated, me almost from the minute we met. There was seemingly nothing I could do to win her over, so in time I simply withdrew. I learned later that her hatred for me continued for decades, long after there was no tie between us. But when I was told that she had died, I felt absolutely nothing. I wasn't happy that she had died nor was I sad about it. There was just a void where any feeling might have been.

This was only mildly shocking because I had an even more extreme case of it years earlier. Then it concerned a family member who was chronically abusive and actively looked for ways to harm her nearest relatives. When she died, the only way to describe my feelings would be a huge "Who Cares?' The only pain that I felt then was the horror of acknowledging just how terribly she had treated me and others.

In both cases, I managed to say all of the expected things and resist giving voice to what I was thinking about the individual. But I also couldn't help but analyze this seeming disjoint between how I thought I was and these glaring exceptions. It is a testament to my personal growth that I didn't feel that there was something wrong with me for not feeling sorrow. And I didn't try to force myself to feel something that I didn't feel. I was more curious about whether these examples were the exceptions that proved the rule or if many people respond in a similar way, but it goes unexpressed because we aren't supposed to speak ill of the dead, no matter what.

I also wondered a little bit if I have provoked the same lack of connection in others. And I am certain that there are a few other people, who used to mean something in my life, for whom I will feel nothing when they pass. And when it happens, I will say the appropriate meaningless words so that no one knows that I feel nothing. But now I know that it does not indicate something lacking in me. And as long as I don't tap dance on their graves, that is all right.