I’m sorry I laughed when you died. The last month of your life was both too long and too short. You came back from the hospital in hospice care, which meant our care. We were with you, day and night, as you became weaker.
Coming home to a hospital bed was confusing for you—you didn’t know where you were, yet you were in your own bedroom. You allowed us the gift of caring for you in the most intimate of ways.
When they heard, people came to visit you. You were loved and respected by so many. You had 80 visitors that last month. Friends drove from Colorado just to tell you how much you had meant to them in their lives. Everyone who knew you wanted one last chance to be with you. You asked to see the workers you had given jobs to, bringing them from picking lemons to working for the city with good pay and benefits. When they visited, you became peaceful and satisfied. You were respected and loved.
You slipped quietly away. Mother was holding your hand, as I sat close by. We heard your last gasp, and we knew. We held you as our tears fell on your body, its warmth slowly fading. There you lay, a broken shell, so empty, completely gone from us. All that was left of you became ours to keep and hold. What you believed about life and how it should be lived became ours to understand and nurture.
We were tired. All of us were sick. Ted had pneumonia. Caroline and I had the flu. Ted was the one who had been there always, living just a few steps away. He was the one who called the funeral home, somehow knowing it was time for us to let you go. We watched over you until they came, thinking about what you had meant to each one of us and wondering what it would be like without you as our centre.
Laughter like lava
Two men arrived to take you away. They were dressed in polyester tuxedos, complete with slick bow ties. Why did they feel it necessary to be theatrical? This was not a play. This was real. This was not the time for Hollywood. They looked like actors in a bad movie. They went through their well-rehearsed scripts. You would have been humiliated. Your lips would have stiffened, and you would have turned away.
My eyes met Caroline’s, and in a fleeting glance, we shared our disbelief. We quickly looked away when an uncontrollable wave of laughter gurgled up in our throats.
Ted and Mother listened intently as one of the men provided the information we needed to have about what would happen next. Where would they take you? When would we see you again?
Caroline and I sat on the bed, watching and listening to what was being said. The second “tux-man” stood next to us. He kept nodding, parroting the empty words someone had coached him to say. “I’m sorry for your loss,” “my condolences.” He repeated these meaningless words over and over—a carefully scripted routine—distracting us from the gravity of the moment.
My eyes met Caroline’s, and in a fleeting glance, we shared our disbelief. We quickly looked away when an uncontrollable wave of laughter gurgled up in our throats, causing us both to choke. You would not have understood. You never laughed at other people. We prayed you didn’t hear.
We were asked to leave the room where you were lying, so they could prepare to take you from your beloved home. Once we stepped away, uncontrollable laughter erupted from deep within us, flowing like lava: cooling, then heating up again. Laughing ourselves to tears, then back to laughter.
Ted and Mother were bewildered. They had been focused on what they needed to know. There was no way to explain to them why we were laughing. Even we didn’t understand it.
Little space
There is little space between tears and laughter, and that space is made smaller when grief and exhaustion intrude. It was laughter that overwhelmed us in that moment. Ted and Mother couldn’t understand. You wouldn’t, either.
Through raw bodies and aching hearts, we felt every emotion surrounding deep love, newly lost. You were precious to us all. The simplicity and honesty of your life were violated by these well-meaning men who simply had a job to do. They couldn’t understand the dishonesty of their script. They didn’t understand that it violated everything you valued in life.
You didn’t deserve this charade. You would have been confused. You didn’t deserve our laughter. I’m sorry we laughed.
«LECTURE CONNEXE» MY WAY OF COPING WITH GRIEF: “Is this one of those Buddhist meditations?”»
image 1 Photo by Piermanuele Sberni sur Unsplash 2 images par Роман Никифоров de image: Pixabay
