Journal

May-June 2005

Having an elderly parent who isn't well completely redefines the concept of mood swings. One minute day you're in a state of quiet elation because the doctor's delivered good news; the next you're stifling grief because your own observations lead you to realize that what the doctor's really saying is that this is as good as it gets, that really they're just running out of things to offer, that this weakened shell is all that's left of my Dad and that's the new reality. The scariest thing to watch is his disconnection from basic biological functions; he doesn't seem to register hunger or thirst, seems unaware that he's lethargic and sleeps most of the time. When asked how he is, he invariably answers, "Fine," which is good, I'm glad he feels fine, except he so obviously isn't fine. Maybe the brain gently lulls us closer to shutdown to reduce fear.

During my Dad's recent hospital stay, my eldest cat, the last of my Peterborough cats, Skye, died. He'd just turned twenty-one and had been failing for some time, but when it happened it was still quite quick. My friend James came with me to deliver Skye's body to the vet's for cremation and I commented that it just didn't seem right to encounter death in the spring; that spring is a time of regeneration, a celebration of life and that death at this time just didn't seem to fit. His response was that spring was a good time for transformation and yeah, he's right. And I find it interesting that we ritualize death with flowers, with the living, the blossoming, the ornate, the perfumed.

Birds come to me when I encounter death, delivering the message of safe arrival in the Summerlands, somewhere it seems only birds can access from this plane. Each time the bird is different, somehow appropriate to the personality of the deceased. Each time I recognize the messenger because it behaves in a most unbirdlike manner, as if it's addressing me personally, making sure the message has been received.

My Dad would be the first to say he's had a good life, a long life. And let's face it; there are no options here, so we might as well face the inevitable. I've been working hard at acceptance, repeating the word in my head obsessively whenever I get too anxious, asking for "the serenity to accept the things I cannot change" (Reinhold Niebuhr's "Serenity Prayer") and finally understanding what that really means.

One of the most upsetting tombstones I've ever seen quoted Dylan Thomas's "Go not gentle into that good night, rage rage against the dying of the light." Written by a son on the death of his father, but still, selfish rather than wise counsel, especially when you're counselling an old man, oblivious and willing. All we can ever do is delay the inevitable.

Various quotes keep popping into my head. The mantra of Neil Gaiman's Sandman comics character Death: "You get what everybody gets. You get a lifetime." And that might be ninety years or nine seconds. It just happens. And although we can make wiser or less so decisions that can affect our mortality, although there can be more or less medical intervention, all we can ever do is delay death. Sorry if that sounds morbid or overly dramatic, but in fact for several days I felt like I was walking around with a Buddhalike smile on my face. Bigger picture stuff, you know?

Soon, my Dad will be leaving and that will be catastrophic for me in ways I can't yet comprehend. We've always been very close and it will be a "Stop all the clocks" time (W.H. Auden's "Funeral Blues"). But I also know that although he'll be harder to see and communicate with, he won't be very far away. I know he'll still be part of me, be there for me in some way when I need him, smile and feel proud at the growing success of my life and writing career. I know that.

Father's Day's coming. I just bought the card that brought me closest to tears in the shop. Love your parents while you can. They won't always be there in the flesh. The wheel turns, we step into the darkness so we may step again into the light, venturing to the Summerlands (or wherever you believe) in the interim. We the living experience the dead not only as ghost and memory, but also as "the swift uplifting rush / Of quiet birds in circled flight" (Anon).

Catherine Jenkins 2006