I’ve learned a lot about death recently. Well, not death exactly – only those who have died can know what death is – but I have learned way more than I want to know about the practicalities and obligations of those who are left behind. I considered writing a manual, sort of a Death for Dummies, then I realized when a person is caught in that horror, the last thing one wants to do is read a how-to-guide. Besides, one learns soon enough what needs to be done.
My life mate/soul mate of thirty-fours years died at the end of March, and in between unbelievable bouts of pain and agony, I have been dealing with the practical issues. One thing that came as a surprise to me, though it shouldn’t have, is how heavy a person’s ashes are. They are not ashes, actually, which I already knew. (And so would you if you had read Daughter Am I.) What remains are the inorganic compounds – the minerals, the part that was never alive in the first place – and most minerals are heavy. Those in the funeral business don’t call them ashes. They call them cremains. Sheesh. I could do without the cute name. “Ashes,” at least, connote an offering, or perhaps a resurrection of sorts.
A friend – a minister who has had extensive experience with the dying and the bereaved – suggested I keep the ashes, or some of them, anyway. I had never considered it, but since I couldn’t figure out where to scatter them, and didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding out the local laws on the matter, I followed the minister’s advice. And having the urn with me brings a bit of comfort. (Urn is a misnomer, as is so much in the funeral business. The urn is simply a sealed plastic or brass box.)
Another friend sent me this poem:
Support From Others
Author Unknown
Don’t tell me that you understand.
Don’t tell me that you know.
Don’t tell me that I will survive,
How I will surely grow.
Don’t come at me with answers
That can only come from me.
Don’t tell me how my grief will pass,
That I will soon be free.
Accept me in my ups and downs.
I need someone to share.
Just hold my hand and let me cry
And say, “My friend, I care.”
I’d like to make an addition to the poem:
Don’t tell me to “hang in there.”
Makes me wonder: Hang from what? And where?
What meant the most were those who cried with me. Not enough tears had been shed for him – no amount of tears will ever be enough – so those tears gave me comfort. I don’t mean to be maudlin, but this is a trauma – an amputation of sorts – and it shouldn’t pass lightly.
***
Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Unfinished, Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare, Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.





















Even Comment Spam Can Sometimes be Tasty
February 4, 2010 — Pat BertramSpammers have discovered one of my more obscure blogs, but some of the spammers got wise — instead of the usual gibberish (which I was going to post here to show you how totally giberishy it is, but decided I’d better not attract their attention) these spammers post quotes, and it works! I don’t delete them. Just goes to show that not everything is all bad, not even comment spam. So, here are a few of the quotes left on the blog, author unknown (at least to me):
I’m all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let’s start with typewriters.
The ‘Net is a waste of time, and that’s exactly what’s right about it.
God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.
Memory feeds imagination.
To avoid situations in which you might make mistakes may be the biggest mistake of all.
Let us so live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.
Quotation, n: The act of repeating erroneously the words of another.
The whole dream of democracy is to raise the proletarian to the level of stupidity attained by the bourgeois.
Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.
Being in politics is like being a football coach. You have to be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it’s important.
Get pleasure out of life…as much as you can. Nobody ever died from pleasure.
In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are. They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be.
On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down.
The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.
Temptation rarely comes in working hours. It is in their leisure time that men are made or marred.
I write because I’m afraid to say some things out loud.
As long as you derive inner help and comfort from anything, keep it.
The first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: Decide what you want.
Part of being creative is learning how to protect your freedom. That includes freedom from avarice.