Gratitude, More than Grief

These postcards seem to announce one death after another.  I wonder if winter is a statistically relevant time for older people to make their exit. It feels like it.

Anyway, we just lost Jim's mother Mel. She is the grandmother of my beloved nephews and the first mother-in-law of my sister Anna. She was a most unusual, wise, loving, articulate (a poet), visionary woman who had a way of making everyone feel special.  Four children, eleven grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and a multitude of communities all claimed her love and attention.

But this isn't only about Mel, it's about what we keep learning from her.  Of course she didn't teach us everything we know but as we think about who she was and what she meant to us, we are all astounded by our feelings of gratitude. First of all, she exuded appreciation and love -- through easy tears and warm laughter and endless conversations and so much bald-faced adoration of life. She was one of the wise women of Blueberry Hill (my mother is another, and they were close friends) and in the last fifteen years, we have turned to her often for help with untangling snarls that we have created.  Her patient listening has remedied many situations.

Mel had been preparing herself and others for death for a long time, even though it wasn't clear to the rest of us that she was going to die anytime soon. It was on her mind, and recently she began to announce that she thought she would die soon. She ended up going into a steep cognitive decline in December and her family gathered around her for some truly joy-filled time with her, even as she lost her words. She did not lose her light or her humor, ever.  Her children and grandchildren felt transformed by the experience of her dying, and they will never be the same.

We had an impromptu but completely wonderful memorial gathering for her at the end of the day, the day that she died.  It was at the Common House and the announcement went out over various social media outlets. Only Jim was here, of her four children, but her two daughters had been here in the morning.  As it happened, one of Mel's dear friends had come to stay with her just the night before, and she is a hospice nurse so she was fully prepared to be of help.  She had planned to stay a few days but Mel died less than twelve hours after she arrived. The family asked her to be the facilitator at the gathering, and she was willing and more than able.  Mel was a Quaker, so naturally the event followed some Quaker traditions, with a long silence at the beginning and then people speaking as they felt ready, with silences in between. 

Two little neighborhood children, dear to Mel, sat so quietly and attentively, listening and watching with open ears and eyes. They did not make a peep, and they were perched on the knees of some neighbors, not even their own parents who were right there.  Adults around them were openly weeping.  They seemed undisturbed by this. Their mother took them home, although they did not want to go, after about an hour and a half. It was past their bedtime.

I felt my heart break right open when Mel's newest granddaughter (new to the family, a young teen who is part of Jim's family now) said quietly and slowly that Mel had wanted her to be part of the family, and the family puzzle pieces moved to include her and she is now part of the puzzle, even though Mel is gone. She said it better. Somehow that just hit me harder than any other thing that was said, and there were  plenty of stories and reflections and heartfelt appreciations.

I felt so glad that our community is able to host a beautiful event like this without any planning.  Our common house is just right, although the chairs are awfully hard, and we have had a lot of practice mourning and celebrating together. Just by chance, Jon and I had been scheduled to cook a common meal for that night so we made enough for everyone who came at the last minute. It was also Kenyon's birthday, but his birthday got overshadowed by Mel's farewell.  He and Michael sang the closing song together, one of the songs that Mel asked Michael to sing often in her last weeks, "Morning Has Broken."

An extraordinary woman, elderly and hard of hearing and hampered by poor mobility, who was a force of love.  One of our neighbors said, "I got the feeling I was one of her favorites." And we all laughed, because we knew just what he was saying.