April 1: Wild Bob, Lazarus, Appreciating Loss

There were pictures of castles and lakes and pretty girls on the walls.  This was the rolling home of the railroad guards, men whose business it was to be forever guarding freight rolling from here to there.  The four guards went inside and closed the door.

A little while later they came out smoking cigars, talking contentedly in the mellow lower register of the German language.  One of them saw Billy's face at the ventilator.  He wagged a finger at him in affectionate warning, telling him to be a good boy.

The Americans across the way told the guards again about the dead man on their car.  The guards got a stretcher out of their own cozy car, opened the dead man's car and went inside.  The dead man's car wasn't crowded at all.  There were just six live colonels in there--and one dead one.

The Germans carried the corpse out.  The corpse was Wild Bob.  So it goes.

Vonnegut treats death very matter-of-factly in Slaughterhouse.  A lot of people die.  Billy's wife dies.  Wild Bob dies.  Later in the book, Dresden is firebombed.  Lots of people shuffle off this mortal coil in the book.  And Vonnegut's response is simple:  So it goes.  Death happens.

I went to church tonight.  The Gospel reading was the story of Jesus bringing Lazarus back to life.  Of course, this passage contains the shortest sentence in the Bible:  "Jesus wept."  I always find that line really moving.  Jesus, the Son of God, who has the power to bring His friend back to life, reacts in a very human way to the death of Lazarus.  He cries.  Allows Himself to be overcome with grief.

I find great comfort in Jesus' tears.  In becoming flesh and blood, Jesus understands loss.  When my sister died, I read the story of Lazarus quite a few times.  I almost chose it as a reading for her funeral.  Eventually, I decided against it.  I don't know why.  I think it was because it was too personal to me.  Every time I reread the story of Lazarus in the days following my sister's death, I would burst into tears when I came to "Jesus wept."  I didn't want to share that response in public.  Not then.

Now, approaching the two year anniversary of my sister's death, I'm still moved by Jesus weeping at Lazarus' tomb, but it's not quite so . . . present.  I'm able to control my emotions better.  I am not Kurt Vonnegut or Billy Pilgrim.  I can't just say "So it goes" and move on with my narrative.  However, I understand the beauty of a life well-lived.  I can be grateful for loss because it makes me appreciate my friends and family members even more.

Saint Marty is thankful for everyone in his life, even the people who drive him a little crazy.

July 27: Nothing Harder, Chalice of His Hands, Poet of the Week, Sharon Olds, "The Waiting"

I had drinks with an old school friend after work today.  We talked about our daughters, families, struggles.  I told him about my sister's health problems, and, when I was done, we sat in silence for a couple of moments.  Then my friend said something like, "There's nothing harder than love."

The night ended with bad news, however.  Dr Junk (I'm not joking--that's his name), my sister's oncologist at the University of Michigan, told my other sister that Sally "isn't responding to the treatment as well as he hoped."  He said, "Maybe it's time to take her home and make her comfortable."  Of course, my other siblings are upset.  They think Dr. Junk isn't giving Sally enough time to respond, that she is improving a little.  "How can he say that?" another of my sisters asked.

I tried to be a voice of reason.  I told them to ask for a second opinion.  I also told them to ask Dr. Junk on what evidence he's basing his assessment.  "But," I said, "we need to think long and hard about this."  I told them that, if the doctor who's consulted for a second opinion agrees with Dr. Junk, then we have a difficult decision to make.  "What's going to be better for her?" I said.  "I don't want my sister dying in a nursing home downstate, surrounded by strangers."

It's the first time I've voiced that thought to members of my family.  Both of my sisters nodded grimly and walked away from me.

I felt horrible saying what I said.  It feels like I'm giving up on my sister.  If I had some kind of divine Magic 8-Ball to help me, I would be shaking it like crazy right now.  But I don't.  I'm not going to do an Ives dip tonight.  I just can't.  Sorry.  This is the passage of which I keep thinking:

At a quarter to two in the morning, he allowed his face to slowly lower into the chalice of his hands, and he wept until he could not see.

I've decided to name Sharon Olds as the Poet of the Week.  I know that Sharon has held the post in the past, but I've been rereading her collection The Father, which is about the death of her father.  It has been speaking to me a great deal.

Saint Marty's friend was right:  there is nothing harder than love.

The Waiting

by:  Sharon Olds 

No matter how early I would get up
and come out of the guest room, and look down the hall,
there between the wings of the wing-back chair
my father would be sitting, his head calm
and dark between the wings.  He sat
unmoving, like something someone has made,
his robe fallen away from his knees,
he sat and stared at the swimming pool
in the dawn.  By then, he knew he was dying,
he seemed to approach it as a job to be done
which he knew how to do.  He got up early
for the graveyard shift.  When he heard me coming down the
hall, he would not turn--he had
a way of holding still to be looked at,
as if a piece of sculpture could sense
the gaze which was running over it--
he would wait with that burnished, looked-at look until
the hem of my nightgown came into view,
then slew his eyes up at me, without
moving his head, and wait, the kiss
came to him, he did not go to it.
Now he would have some company
as he tried to swallow an eighth of a teaspoon
of coffee, he would have his child to give him
the cup to spit into, his child to empty it--
I would be there all day, watch him nap,
be there when he woke, sit with him
until the day ended, and he could get back into
bed with his wife.  Not until the next
dawn would he be alone again, night-
watchman of matter, sitting, facing
the water--the earth without form, and void,
darkness upon the face of it, as if
waiting for his daughter.

Love--hard work even for Jesus