The Dwindles
Two elderly friends died this week. Neither death was a surprise, but all deaths are a surprise somehow. Both were in hospice care, so we all knew that our days with these friends were numbered. You never quite know how numbered, but you know that you are counting down.
When my Grandma Hiu died at age 102, her doctor wisely said that she "died of the dwindles." She even said she had eaten everything she wanted to eat and she didn't need anything more. That instantly became my own goal, to die of the dwindles, a long time from now. This was such a comforting thought, that some day I might be allowed to fade away. When my father died at 49, it was so horribly shocking that I found that I was unable to think about dying myself. If the thought came into my mind, it brought a jolt of fear. While we had small kids, I just couldn't face the idea that I would ever die.
So, I started to do what I prescribed for myself, spending time with old people who were finishing out their time. They were not fighting to stay alive, they were just enduring the doctor visits and hanging out with family members and watching their world get a little bit smaller all the time. They seemed pretty peaceful and very glad to have a young visitor. I went to their funerals and heard their stories told by people who loved them. Death got less scary as I sat with live people who were okay with dying.
If we can all have the good fortune to die with warning, to die old, with people nearby, then we are so lucky. I still can't face the surprise deaths, the tragedies, the children who are killed unexpectedly. I can't even think about war, really. Truly, I can't watch a movie or a TV show with any guns or gore.
I completely understand the need to believe there is more after we die. And since no one knows, I don't think it hurts for people to have those beliefs. What does hurt is if we threaten people with all kinds of punishments after they die if they don't do what we say -- this is an absurd abuse of power. If we cannot know what happens next, then how in the world can we torture people with our own version of the afterlife?
In the last few days, I have heard it said over and over that the people who have passed on will all be together, in a comfortable space. And so they should be.
We spend our whole lives telling ourselves stories that help us to feel better about the mysteries. I think that's what I really like about Judaism -- it doesn't depend on those afterlife stories. It really asks us to do our best while we are here; it is our chance to leave things better than they were. And I have to say that just about everyone I know has left the world better somehow. This is precisely why there is hope.
A 52 year old woman once told me that she didn't have anything more to learn. She had learned enough. That stopped me in my tracks. I didn't even know what to say. I wondered why I had ever thought she was interesting. At the time, she didn't have any grandchildren yet. I bet if I asked her today if she still had nothing left to learn, she would have a different answer. Maybe her life was just really boring when she was 52.
Over the years, there have been many defunct farms in this area waiting to be sold, or waiting for the zoning changes that will allow houses to be built. When you drive past a field or a farm and the grass is getting long and the brambles are growing over the fencelines, that farm is dying of the dwindles. By the time it is finally transformed to its next purpose, most people have stopped looking at it. It has ceased to exist when no one mows it. When we were growing up, our parents rented lots of fields all around this area. And when the property was sold, they were told not to plant another crop on it because the new buyer would want to be able to get in there and start bulldozing. But my father used to plant short season crops because nothing ever happened that fast. Sometimes it took years for the zoning to be changed. Sometimes it takes a long time to die.
It's not exactly the same, being a human who is in hospice. But people stop making plans for you, they don't really expect you to get up again. It was a little different with our friend Betty Ann. We did have plans. She was going to go out to lunch with Karen tomorrow and on Sunday the choir was going to go to her house to sing for her. We all thought she had more time than this. Her death is extra sad because of all that she did for other people, and how little she was able to do just for her. I hope she was ready to go and she wasn't afraid.
The liturgy says, life is a journey and death is a destination. I don't think of it that way, exactly, except that it is unavoidable. It gives us a deadline for getting stuff done, for giving and creating and building and learning and sharing and leaving our mark. And then when we have eaten enough and had enough of our creaky old bodies, we can settle down to dwindle away. If all goes well.
When my Grandma Hiu died at age 102, her doctor wisely said that she "died of the dwindles." She even said she had eaten everything she wanted to eat and she didn't need anything more. That instantly became my own goal, to die of the dwindles, a long time from now. This was such a comforting thought, that some day I might be allowed to fade away. When my father died at 49, it was so horribly shocking that I found that I was unable to think about dying myself. If the thought came into my mind, it brought a jolt of fear. While we had small kids, I just couldn't face the idea that I would ever die.
So, I started to do what I prescribed for myself, spending time with old people who were finishing out their time. They were not fighting to stay alive, they were just enduring the doctor visits and hanging out with family members and watching their world get a little bit smaller all the time. They seemed pretty peaceful and very glad to have a young visitor. I went to their funerals and heard their stories told by people who loved them. Death got less scary as I sat with live people who were okay with dying.
If we can all have the good fortune to die with warning, to die old, with people nearby, then we are so lucky. I still can't face the surprise deaths, the tragedies, the children who are killed unexpectedly. I can't even think about war, really. Truly, I can't watch a movie or a TV show with any guns or gore.
I completely understand the need to believe there is more after we die. And since no one knows, I don't think it hurts for people to have those beliefs. What does hurt is if we threaten people with all kinds of punishments after they die if they don't do what we say -- this is an absurd abuse of power. If we cannot know what happens next, then how in the world can we torture people with our own version of the afterlife?
In the last few days, I have heard it said over and over that the people who have passed on will all be together, in a comfortable space. And so they should be.
We spend our whole lives telling ourselves stories that help us to feel better about the mysteries. I think that's what I really like about Judaism -- it doesn't depend on those afterlife stories. It really asks us to do our best while we are here; it is our chance to leave things better than they were. And I have to say that just about everyone I know has left the world better somehow. This is precisely why there is hope.
A 52 year old woman once told me that she didn't have anything more to learn. She had learned enough. That stopped me in my tracks. I didn't even know what to say. I wondered why I had ever thought she was interesting. At the time, she didn't have any grandchildren yet. I bet if I asked her today if she still had nothing left to learn, she would have a different answer. Maybe her life was just really boring when she was 52.
Over the years, there have been many defunct farms in this area waiting to be sold, or waiting for the zoning changes that will allow houses to be built. When you drive past a field or a farm and the grass is getting long and the brambles are growing over the fencelines, that farm is dying of the dwindles. By the time it is finally transformed to its next purpose, most people have stopped looking at it. It has ceased to exist when no one mows it. When we were growing up, our parents rented lots of fields all around this area. And when the property was sold, they were told not to plant another crop on it because the new buyer would want to be able to get in there and start bulldozing. But my father used to plant short season crops because nothing ever happened that fast. Sometimes it took years for the zoning to be changed. Sometimes it takes a long time to die.
It's not exactly the same, being a human who is in hospice. But people stop making plans for you, they don't really expect you to get up again. It was a little different with our friend Betty Ann. We did have plans. She was going to go out to lunch with Karen tomorrow and on Sunday the choir was going to go to her house to sing for her. We all thought she had more time than this. Her death is extra sad because of all that she did for other people, and how little she was able to do just for her. I hope she was ready to go and she wasn't afraid.
The liturgy says, life is a journey and death is a destination. I don't think of it that way, exactly, except that it is unavoidable. It gives us a deadline for getting stuff done, for giving and creating and building and learning and sharing and leaving our mark. And then when we have eaten enough and had enough of our creaky old bodies, we can settle down to dwindle away. If all goes well.
So many thoughts, tears, feelings....if only we all got to dwindle like Grandma Hiu. "I still can't face the surprise deaths, the tragedies, the children who are killed unexpectedly." So so true...
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