The River Flows

Our neighbor passed away yesterday.

Some will say that she had a good run.

She celebrated her 100 birthday last year. She still attended class reunions up to that point back in the small Midwest town she grew up in. She was up to her 60th some odd class reunion, and was the only one in her class. She would celebrate the weekend event with groups from much younger classes that all got together at the same time. She would tell us about the time she had when she got back. It was a point of pride for her.

Some will say that it was a mercy.

She had lived past her 100th birthday in her own home, only going to assisted living this last year after she had a couple of bad falls. Our house shares a driveway with hers, and our north side windows face her south side windows. My wife would look over each morning to check for lights on and look to see if she had made it out to her usual place in her living room chair.

But even watching as much as we did there was a day when Gladys had been going back into her house after taking out her garbage (something she insisted on doing), and found herself suddenly unable to stand when she was at her front door. She crumpled to the floor there on her enclosed porch, and not having the strength to stand again, she sat there for hours before we discovered her.

She was loosing her sight, too. And her hearing. Her family had gotten her a bigger T.V. set last year so the picture was bigger and the volume could be turned up much louder. She took numerous pills everyday.

Some people will that she's in a better place now, or that it was her time.

But no matter the truth of anything people will say, nothing can really prepare you for the loss of a loved one, or a friend. And it's hard to console or be consoled at times like this. The awkwardness of this impossible dance seems to amplify the feelings that loss brings, of being aimlessly adrift in familiar surroundings.

When we moved into our first house in as a family in 1998, we were renting it at the time, it was so good to find that we had a neighbor like her. She seemed quite frail even then, but she was kind and pleasant to talk to. My wife had many good conversations with her over tea or lunch and we found out a lot about the history of our neighborhood and our house. She had lived there most of her life after marriage, many years.

We would help her with her grass, raking her leaves, cleaning gutters, moving snow and changing light bulbs. We always insisted that she ask us anytime she needed anything. We were more than happy to help. I was glad when she watched the new T.V. because it meant that while she was watching it the volume would drown out the lawn mower and I could do the work and get away without her insisting on paying me.

She would always say how much she appreciated our help, that she didn't know what she would do without us there. She was concerned that she wouldn't be able to live in her house anymore if we weren't there. It was our privilege to help her as much as she needed, as much as we could.

My wife would take her on errands to get medicine from the pharmacy, or to the bank. Gladys would often buy lunch so the two of them could sit and talk for a bit. Gladys was reluctant to come over and sit at our house or share meals with us despite our frequent invitations. I think that the chaos generated in a house with 4 kids, 3 of them boys, made her nervous. In the summer it was better. She would come over and sit on the porch while the chaos swirled on the lawn, a safe distance away.

When I arrived at work yesterday I flipped the calendar and eerily the quote under the picture was "Time does not pass, we do. ---Lorado Taft". That's seem to resonate so much truer at that moment that it would have otherwise. The prevailing attitude toward time is that we mark it simply a unit of measurement like a yard or a pound. The unspoken truth is that it gains it's greater importance than those because it marks our place in the journey. And the place of those around us.

At times like these I experience a quiet shudder inside. I hear the tromping of the boots of future days that I don't want to face or even think about coming nearer. I don't fear my own passing half as much as I do the inevitable passing of those around me I love. People whom provide a foundation and a mooring, so that no matter what else is going on in life I have a sense of stability and the strength to weather the storm. The sting of difficulty is lessened because they are there, and good times are sweeter because I can share it with them. It scares me to realize that these people, the most important things in my life, will someday evaporate in an instant.

The thought of losing my parents, my brother, my wife. Even now it seems almost more than I believe I could bear. I've watched my parents lose their parents, and my wife lose her father. This type of loss leaves a hole that doesn't fill. Like a surfer with a shark bite, they get back on the wave and ride. But underneath the wetsuit is an empty half moon, the skin grown over but you can still trace the outline of teeth.

That's when I stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes tight and hum the happiest tune I know to try to drown out the sound of the impending and force it back off my radar.

The saddest and most painful irony to me is the thought of the grievous hurt for which I will someday be responsible. That my passion and devotion to my children silently and secretly is authoring what will someday be their greatest sadness. I don't want to have anything to do with creating pain like that in their lives, but I am powerless to prevent it.

But time does pass. Robo crossed over from cub scouts into boy scouts last weekend in a special ceremony. Lemur is home with the chicken pox. Kitten proudly carries her learner's permit. At each event we note the milestone, with an unspoken realization that it also marks a moment gone.

And so the river flows.