DO YOU STILL LAUGH?
DO YOU STILL SING?
Words and ways to ease your heart
when a parent dies.
Author: Melinda Augustina
Copyright 1999, 2009
ISBN 1880567-01-6
Sound Communications
6230 Wilshire Blvd., #1791
Los Angeles, CA 90048
melindaaugustina@yahoo.com
This book is for pleasure and entertainment purposes only. The author does not claim to be a counselor or psychologist. The stories are simply an accounting of events, as they appeared to be happening to the author and are not scientifically based observations. Recommendations are made purely as a friend to a friend and are not to substitute for professional counseling and/or psychological assistance.
Dedication:
For my brothers and sisters and our extraordinary fortune-
being born into Gus and Jeanne’s story.
PRELUDE TO THE LETTERS:
“Isn’t she beautiful?” I would ask my friends when I brought them home to meet my mother. Always. Even after I grew up and she was much older. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I would ask them - right in front of her - and she would laugh and shrug it off, be a little embarrassed and love every minute of it.
And my friends would answer, “Yes. She’s beautiful.” That was the right answer.
It is 1999 and both of my parents have passed away and there is nothing special about this. But there is much I would share with you about my experience so you may be open, curious and have more ease when it is your parents’ time.
Maybe you have already been through this or perhaps only one of your parents has passed away or you have not yet faced their mortality. Whatever the case, come closer and I will tell you about what I noticed.
There are three things…
1. The grace and dignity with which they lived is the grace and dignity with which they died.
2. Their spirits moved into the world after they died.
3. Their spirits continue.
That is what I noticed.
Daddy was a big man, with a big voice, a loud, spontaneous laugh and splendid storytelling ways. He was a lot of fun. Quick, strong, bold, big, decisive movements were the patterns of his being. He walked with an east coast vigor and purpose as if he had the most important agenda in the world. His was not an energy of self-importance - but rather the crispness and clarity of a man of service and purpose. He was a man of business.
He could listen to a problem, sum up the situation in a few words, and spit back the best possible action to be taken. He wasted no time “dilly-dallying” as he would call it. Life was here, life was now, and you had best get on with it.
And so, for those of you following in similar footsteps what I’ll say is - at the end of his life he saw it a little differently.
I sat on his bed two weeks before his death, helping him sign Christmas cards and decorating them with red and green drawings of holly and evergreen boughs and he said, “This is fun. You know, we never had time for this when you kids were growing up.”
I felt his truth in that statement. To me it seemed inaccurate. He was an extraordinarily generous man, a devoted father, and had spent plenty of time with us as we were growing up - there were just so many of us (nine children) and only one of him. I imagine at that moment, no matter how much time it had been - it seemed like not enough to him.
We were not neglected in any way, shape or form (spoiled would be more accurate). My mother had created a very magical childhood for us. As our wild, busy household of eleven people grew even busier and the children grew into young adults things changed. I remember saying to myself, “But nobody sees! They all move so fast and nobody sees.”
After his death I would wonder how many millions of men there were in the world, of his generation, who had laid the tender corner of their heart on a sacrificial altar and had not been able to blend their drive for success and their desire for closeness with their families.
Two weeks later, maybe ten minutes before the actual moment of his death, the strongest man I had ever known, weighing maybe 95 pounds now, motioned me out of the room. He could not speak, but his hand motion was obvious.
A few minutes later I felt a pull to go back in his room and he was in the last moments of his struggle to stay. In the instant his spirit was freed from his body, the energy shot straight up on the air, flew to the foot of the bed where I stood and shot a bolt of power and strength through my body - from the top of my head, through my spine, my arms, my legs and all the way to the ends of my toes. It was an electrical shock. I felt the power and strength of his entire life inside my boney frame. It was one of the most awake moments of my life.
Daddy lived with the biggest bang he could create and died precisely the same way. It didn’t look like any death scene I’d ever seen in any movie or play and I became very interested in this energy. The sadness and sense of loss, the reality that he was actually gone would come later. At that moment I was given a surge of life force and a very different perspective of death.
I had studied theater at a college that was well known for their nursing graduates. I recall a moment when I was listening to two nursing students speak quietly about a dying man they both were tending to. As a ‘civilian’ listening in on the world of nursing, it all sounded pretty horrible to me. A few minutes later I was sitting alone with one of the nurses and I asked, “What do you do when someone is so close to death and you already know that nothing you do will help them live? What is the point?” Her answer was quite poignant, “You just try to make them as comfortable as possible and create a little pleasure for them.”
Years later it would occur to me that that would be a good thing to do all the time, instead of waiting until someone is dying.
“When a man is tired of pleasure, he is tired of life.” These words were written on a shaving mug that Daddy used for mixing the lather for his morning shaves. At the end of his life there was very little pleasure remaining and so, he was tired of life. How do you suppose our lives might be different if one day we all woke up and decided pleasure is the point?
Daddy had cancer for two and a half years. With Mother’s death we had almost no preparation time - two days. I say "almost" because although she appeared healthy, she had been dropping subtle hints for a while. My capacity for denial is larger than most people’s.
Growing up I always sensed my father would pass away before my mother. And my mother, well, I have to say it never occurred to me that she would die. Not really. Even with her subtle hints, even with the mothers of friends passing away - not my mother. She had always been here - always.
Surely she would always be here.
Always.
Surely.
Always.
Or at least for another ten years.
At least.
She was simply too beautiful to die - wasn’t she?
Well, little one of great delusion - no,
she was not too beautiful to die.
For us, Mother’s passing was very different than Daddy’s passing.
When Daddy died we were all so strong - just like him. As my mother quietly and seamlessly slipped from this life, we all softened. I don’t know how else to describe it. My eldest brother sobbed like a little baby. “My mommy’s gone!” he cried. It seemed to be harder on the boys than the girls.
In the room, as she lay dying, her energy was only love. She could not speak, yet I could feel her words on my heart. In the room there was only the largest, roundest, fullest sense of love.
I have loved and I have been in love, and I thought that I had loved at times and I have actually loved at times but in this experience I realized that none of that was it. This was the Big Love.
Like any human being, my mother had her opinions, prejudices and weaknesses. My mother was also full of love. With nine children, sixteen grandchildren and countless voice students - she had chosen the path with the biggest heart.
There was a certain quality in the room that night. My sense of it is that wherever the source of the river of love comes from - through her - in those moments it had found a pure channel of delivery.
“Life is completely connected. Only consciousness divides.” I read that once and have experienced it several times. In that room, on that night, was my most complete experience.
She had turned into pure love. Free of any earthly illusions her heart was truly free. Free to love larger than earthly cultures and consciousnesses will allow. I wonder what would happen if people loved that way all the time. It was so beautiful.
A sense of softness and magic filled every cell of me and expanded through every wave and current of my consciousness and then expanded even further. There was no “me” anymore. There was no anything.
There was really only... nothing.
And then after the nothing there was softness.
Then there was only softness and then the softness softened its way into everything.
And then she softened her way into everything.
Into me,
into the floor,
into the walls, everything -
into the family , into our hearts,
into our house,
into everything in the house.
Into everything.
“How do you do that magic thing
That makes you a part of everything?”
from the musical "The Wizard" c 1998
My flat vision was replaced with depth, and roundness, and wonder. The invisible threads of connection were profoundly obvious.
When we arrived at her home I could see out the dining room window - the beauty of the magnolia tree. I saw how she had planted it so it would fill the dining room window with blossoms by day, and how she had placed an outside light “just so” as to shine on the tree at night. It is a living painting, framed perfectly by the window frame. I could see, not just the petals on the blossoms, but inside the infinite depth and layers that create one petal. I was not just noticing how thick the bark is on the tree, but that every fold and indention is a universe in and of itself. Not just how deep the sky - but I was in the sky and on the earth at the same time.
This sense of wonder lasted for several weeks.
Was that profound level of beauty and softness her daily experience of life? That depth and that magic and that profound beauty?
Was it always like that for her and was I just now seeing it?
I have no way of knowing.
If so, I am the daughter of an even more extraordinary woman than I imagined.
I’ve read about the pulling back that people do as they are dying. You can see it in their behavior sometimes months before they die, sometimes only days. They are quite irritated, they might stop creating conversation - can’t be pulled into ideas or thoughts about the world - getting ready for the transition. My mother did some of that before we even knew that she was ill. But in the last moments of her life she stayed connected. Her consciousness was brave, present and alert, connected. And I begin to wonder now if there isn’t a different way to die. A way that maintains the energetic connection. A way that lifts some of the veil between the two worlds. I don’t know - I’m just curious.
She was born on what astrologist Gary Goldschneider calls “The Day of the Blissful Wizard”. She carried a gift of many synchronous, magical, beautiful qualities through the lives of hundreds of people. Her power combined with mine was pretty fun at times. We could bring in telephone calls, create great acting performances, career opportunities, blow open heavy doors . . . oops!
I notice now that anything we united on, we accomplished.
My mother died as she had lived - soft, magical and full of love.
My friends, clients and colleagues meet my mother now in articles and photographs, and I notice that I still ask, “Isn’t she beautiful?” and they say “Oh my God! Yes! She’s gorgeous!”
-and that is still the right answer.
The letters.
Three days after her passing I began a spontaneous writing of letters to her that would last for several weeks. For her funeral, I was put in charge of working with the choral conductor and choosing music. In our house if you were put in charge of something, all that meant was you were in charge of listening to everyone tell you what they thought you should do. It was easy for me to choose the songs, but “we” were having difficulties about those choices. (It can get rather taxing when a musician dies.) The music became the place everyone funneled their emotions and there I was in the middle of the war.
So, like many times in my life, I wrote to her. It was 4 am, the morning of the funeral when I began the first letter. Several pages and sobs later it was 6 am when I finished it. I did nothing else to resolve the conflicts - giving it all up to fate, or whatever, or whomever takes over when you give it all up.
By 10 am, with no more effort on my part, everything was worked out and each student got to make the contribution they wanted to make.
Most of the letters are reprinted here. You'll notice that in my own round-about path I pass through many of Elizabeth Kubler Ross' stages of grief. And so will you. In your own time and in your own way. All I can say, is continue to create peace for yourself as the drama plays out.
Denial
Dear Mother,
It’s so hard to know at this moment whether I’m doing the right things. Spontaneous, right action is beautiful when people allow it and trust. Everything else is pure hell.
I can only imagine how many times you wanted to express the depth of your love for us, your beautiful intelligence and how our family culture made fun of that.
I hate that part of our way of interacting. The chorale director wants his idea of a musically perfect funeral, which is his fine, and yet the family must be honored. I’m wondering how to do both so everyone is happy. Father Tank said, “Well, you can’t.”
What should I do? I want your love expressed. Period.
Artists are so temperamental. Even Michele falls to competition when Dean arrives.
I remember your perfect example to me - to ignore unfair things and to take “the high road”, knowing it will all work out in the long run. I have done that many times - that “high road” seems a little overrated to me right now. Right now I want to fight for what seems right.
I remember a few times when I saw you treated badly by your peers or by our family. I remember the hurt in your heart. You pretended you did not care and I know that was not true. No one can ignore that sort of hurt. Genius rarely has a comfortable home.
How many times I put off sharing myself with you until I had accomplished more - until I could surprise you with something I felt you would be really proud of. Bad strategy. How was I to know you were curious about every little detail up or down?
I love the soul of who you are. I love the woman I looked up to as a little girl. You were so beautiful and perfect (well, to me you were perfect). Like a movie star in a most beautiful movie.
Thank you.
Thank you for the beauty in so many forms - the food, the furniture, the flowers, the happiness, the magic, the love.
Thank you for taking me to Italy. Thank you for noticing my talent and for believing in me. Thank you for the
love and the most splendid example of softness you showed me in the last moments of your life.
I want to make sure people feel that now. That they don’t have to wait for a death.
I never felt that before. That was the real thing. Nothing else mattered. The fullness of your love finally expressed. The fullness finally expressed with no fear, no worry, nothing - only the fullness of life for the sake of the fullness of life.
I see now that I wasn’t who you needed me to be at times. I’m sorry for that. Why do we withhold our love from others? A bargaining chip perhaps. Pppllllbbbbbbbbbbbb.
A Buddhist nun once told me that I was born to learn to keep my heart open no matter what - that that is my big lesson in life. When she told me that I wondered, “If that’s what I’m born to learn - what happens after I learn that - then do I die?”
Some people say you die after you learn all the lessons you came here to learn. Hmmm. That must be why I always learn the hard way. I don’t want to die. I want to love forever. I don’t want to be noble in those moments - I want to be real.
And I want to show the world what you showed me in those last few minutes.
I have always wanted to show the world what you and Daddy created. You showed me that freedom and love were possible at the same time. I always felt my role in life would be to share our story in the biggest possible way with millions of people. I simply thought you would be with me while I did it.
I know you are here - I feel you. I could always feel you in Chicago, in Austin, in Dallas – everywhere. I imagine this will be different. I keep thinking how I wanted to show you off to the world.
You are so beautiful. Thanks for letting me sing so softly in your ear - thanks for letting me say I love you. Thanks for letting me love you. What a gift.
Thanks for singing to me - thanks for filling our house with music - thanks for filling my heart with harmony.
Thanks for all of your support, belief, disbelief and laughter.
Thanks for showing me your power that day when the door blew open. Just think what else we can do - just imagine. It’s going to be fun.
It’s my favorite time of the day - early, early morning. Precious time before the world wakes up. Remember how I would get up early in the morning to have breakfast with you and Daddy? It was the only time I could have you both to myself and I loved that. I’m sure you figured that out. Thanks for letting me be there.
Uh - oh - here it comes. Everybody’s waking up now - time for the rambunctious part of the day. Including children, there must be about 15 people in the house right now. Our version of normal.
Thank you for helping me to see the rhythms of natural law. Thanks for helping me to respect them - and thanks for your patience while I tried to defy them all.
You are a genius. You are the blissful wizard. I am honored to be your daughter. I love you. I’m looking forward to the future.
M.
Mother,
Brutality as a communication style is hardly what I would have expected within days of your passing.
And I see it is simply a patterned way we all have of relating - ugh - too bad. I remember it causing you pain many times.
When everyone is gone the house is peaceful - as if you had locked the doors yourself - turned out the lights in each room as you have for the last 30 years - straightened and ordered what had been moved during the day . . .
There is no peace when everyone is here - people speak and do not hear each other - ask for things and do not get them - it is a quick trip to hell - like a Fellini film. The dark side of Italian chaos.
On Monday, the day you died, we came home - 2am I think - and though we were laying in beds and on sofas, I don’t think anyone slept. And then the daylight came. Funny – even when I don’t want it – daylight always comes. The whole day everyone was soft.
The softness of your love continued on through the day. Everyone spoke gently to each other and I thought “wow” we got it. Everyone sees now how delicate life is - they really do. How we must tend to each other, work for each other, do for each other.
What a relief - just enjoy the rest of the time here. No one has to say anything. Thank God. It’s already done - it’s a miracle.
Or not.
By Tuesday, people were rough with each other again. It seems the brutality comes with the daylight and softness returns with the night.
Why is that?
Do you remember when I was about nine years old I asked you what is it like in heaven? You told me that it was very beautiful there and when you’re in heaven you’re with God and you are very, very happy. And absolutely all of your desires are met. As soon as you want something - it appears!
Do you remember that? And remember I said, “Even ice-cream?” and you said, “Yes. Even ice-cream.” Isn’t it funny what nine year olds think of? You must have had to fight hard not to laugh.
So that is for me, the difference between heaven and hell. People are making either heaven or hell for each other right here on earth.
I remember hundreds of times you made heaven on earth for me, and everyone in the family. And I want you to know how powerful that is for me now. I think that is the ultimate game to create heaven here and now. I would like to show many people how to do that.
M.
Mother,
On Monday, we looked out the sunroom window and there was a red bird couple sitting in the evergreen tree.
A male and a female together. Suzie saw it too and we said, “There they are.”
How many years I watched you watching the birds in your garden and in your trees. From the house and while sitting outside. I know how rare it is to see a red bird couple and I know your spirits are together - and I know you are happy.
You two belong together. You did a great job of being strong when Daddy died - making sure we all stayed happy. Over time I could feel you wanting to be with him. Eleven years is a long time to be without your love.
M.
Mother,
We go through your things too quickly. Thousands of objects in this house - big ones, little ones, your hands have touched them all.
I learned recently that the hands and arms are part of the energy of the heart circuit. That means your heart has also touched everything.
Everything feels so soft when I touch it. It seems to have your love on it. Everything and everywhere. How do you do that?
Everyone thinks I cry because you are gone - and that’s not it. I cry because our expression of love seems so meager compared to yours. Ours is so hard compared to your softness. How will we ever learn?
M.
Mother,
Efficiency and love are definitely NOT the same thing.
I remember reading that speed is not of the devil - it is the devil. I don’t know if that’s true (I enjoy lots of fast things) but I find my curiosity for efficiency is almost completely gone. I am giving way to the curiosity of the Big Love.
Thank you.
M.
Mother,
Right now everyone is gone - it is evening and I sit in the living room in the middle of the sofa and I feel only a fraction of what you must have felt every time the troops arrived and departed.
There is a lump in my throat, a sadness in my eyes, a breaking open of my heart, a tingle in my stomach.
Now a curiosity enters my eyes and a sense of excitement. So I imagine that sad moment would translate into freedom and excitement for you, too.
You were so brave! I know to you it was nothing, but to me you seem so brave. To let nine pieces of your heart loose in to the world for better things and sometimes for worse things.
And my first desire is to sit at the piano and play. How can that be? Is that your spirit in me? I’m happy to play for you - just remember I don’t play as well as you - I only stumble.
I feel your stance, your nobility, your way in me as I consider it so I know it is your desire…and so, I will play.
Love,
M.
Mother,
We were going through your jewelry - costume and otherwise. There were your five girls and two grand daughters.
We sat on and around your bed as we have done so many times in the 42 years you were our mother and you were present.
We laughed at your earrings remaining from the 70’s, the chandelier earrings and bundles of beads.
Theresa mentioned how she had tried to convince you to pierce your ears. I’m glad you didn’t do that. It hurts!
We gave Aunt Donna most of your “wild side” jewelry and of course there is the question of what to do with “the rings.” The diamond ring is so soft. I can feel your love in it. I asked if I could wear it and everyone was easy with it at the time.
I wore it for a day and a half and I could feel your presence and your love. I could feel Daddy’s love and your love. I could feel the love of two well-matched people who loved and learned together. How something so hard - a diamond - can feel so soft - well that can only be the magic of love.
When I took it off , I felt some energy drain from my heart. It has so little to do with it being a ring - it has everything to do with feeling your love.
The story of your and Daddy’s love has inspired my life and I’m curious how anyone could want me to have less than the adventure I was raised with.
Catherine and Theresa said, “Just pick one and be done with it.” - a husband that is. Pick one and be done with it. Pick a vegetable, pick a fruit, pick a man. Sounds simple enough.
Love,
M.
Mother,
And now is the overwhelming feeling that I’ve done everything wrong. I suppose this moment was inevitable.
Like many daughters I was sure there’d be time to do the rest of the things I wanted to do with you and for you.
Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything here. Everything will be done as it’s supposed to be done. Somehow, it’s all perfect. Even my wrongness is perfect. There’s a good laugh for you.
Love,
M
Mother,
No one wants the things of yours that I want. I noticed that. And that’s sort of perfect too, isn’t it?
The linens - the napkins and tablecloths, the tea cups and the tea pots. The Mrs. T Tea maker. The Mrs. T Tea maker - a very appropriate tea pot for you.
And you are the picture of gentility and manners when tea is set. Thank you for letting me share that with you - thank you for sharing that aspect of your happiness with me.
Love,
M
Mother,
Your “review” came out in the paper on Sunday. Ha, ha... not a review really - you know - an article on your contribution to the music community.
And I am experiencing again as if it were just this Sunday - maybe 15 minutes ago when we ran outside on a cold, December morning to get my first newspaper review of my first play in the “real world”. How funny - the play was Sylvia Plath’s letters to her mother and here I am writing you letters.
We were both in our pajamas and we sat on the steps in the front hall and squealed with delight as we read how they loved it. And yes, even more happy at how they praised my performance. Well come on now, I had the best teacher in the world.
You were so proud of me and I was so proud to hear you say you were relieved it was a good review. Not for the sake of a good review (those are easy enough to come by), you didn’t care about that. You said you wanted to be sure your love of me was not interfering with your professional observations of me as a performer. Both of our consciences could only be satisfied with absolute truth in that arena. That was the highest praise I would ever receive in my life. And I thank you for that objectivity.
I have only wanted to make you proud. To take my talents as far as they could go in honor of you who passed them on to me.
This article about you, your contribution, makes an impression on another piece of naiveté in me. Why are they surprised that a music teacher would attend all of her students’ recitals?
Why are they surprised that you would continue to read and educate yourself on every aspect of performance?
Why are they surprised by your true love of what you do? I thought every teacher was like that -- oops -- wrong again.
M.
Bargaining
Mother,
Today is the “if only” day. From what little education and preparation we’ve had for death I do remember they said there would be times like this.
If only Mother and Daddy had saved some of their energy for themselves instead of giving it all to us. . .
If only I had paid attention to my instincts when I could sense you were not feeling well . . .
If only I’d known what it was all about when I could feel your energy in my body . . .
If only I had gotten sneakier and more insistent upon the things I wanted to do for you . . .
There is no “bouncing back” from this one. It is a long road that I have no interest in speeding up. I can feel the ignorance that shoots up every once in a while and says, “Come on now - let’s go back to the real world, back to work - back to life . . .” I see the inaccuracy, ignorance and foolishness of such a thought. There is no going back.
M.
Mother,
How very strange. At night now I get scared. Every sound seems to be something of danger. Every shadow is someone lurking in the dark. What causes that? I don’t recall being scared like that before now.
I read that when you are vulnerable, you’re vulnerable to higher powers of goodness as well as darker powers of destruction.
I don’t care much for that system.
My chest feels tight with fear.
M.
Mother,
When I returned to Dallas I slept soundly the first night and then in the morning - I don’t recognize anything. I walk into my living room and I do not know where I am. The colors are so bright – not bright, really – more like all white. Light upon light upon light. The tiniest of sounds are so very loud. I can hear everything happening for what seems like miles.
I don’t recognize the furniture, I don’t know what these things are on the desk - I don’t know what the papers are - or the markings on the paper. Everything looks like mush or something. What is all of this? I don’t know why I am here or even where I am. Is this how babies see when they are first born?
Everything sort of glows - there are no hard edges - only softness folding into softness and at the same time I am
confused by this and have no idea what is happening, another part of my intelligence realizes - I think I am being shown something. Something about how the world works. Something about how we work with different currents of nature to create every piece of matter in our lives. I have a funny feeling that if I were to simply walk out of here right now, all of this would disappear and I could go anywhere and dream up anything I wanted. And if I was clear in my intent, then it would appear. What a wild experience.
And I say to myself, “If you are observing the point of creation - what do you want to create?” I don’t know. I don’t know anything about anything that I am seeing and I wonder is this you seeing my world from wherever you are now and wondering what am I doing?
After several days like this, the furniture slowly begins to have hard edges again and I begin to recognize things. Some of it I like and some of it I don’t like. It’s all just stuff.
I can feel the mind again trying to pull me out of the softness and the magic back to “the world” or whatever - and it appears this will be the fight of my life - to cultivate and perpetuate the softness.
M.
Mother,
There is a little fear that things will go back to “normal.” I hear it in everyone’s voices already.
Life sort of sweeps people up and I wonder - can they still feel you? For a small while today everything felt flat and ordinary and I thought oh God - it’s back. Where is the lightness, where is the glow?
And then, I heard some music and my energy moved, and then I cried a little; and the crying moved my energy and I could feel your love again.
When I play the Puccini I can feel you - there are many ways to stay connected - thank you.
M.
Mother,
Stop me if I’ve already told you this. (ha, ha, ha). I went to see a psychic one day and I asked her about Daddy. And mostly I wanted to know if he was happy.
The psychic laughed and said yes, he’s happy. Later when the session was over she asked me what he did while he was alive. I told her he owned a hydraulics business. She said, “Well, he’s singing and dancing up a storm, now!”
Isn’t that funny? I always suspected he was a showman.
Love, M.
Anger
Mother,
Well, today I am angry. Angry indeed. Angry that denial was such a good friend of yours. Angry that we didn’t take better care of you. Angry that I didn’t insist upon the things I wanted to do for you. Angry that you were stuck in anger about Daddy’s death. Angry that I couldn’t see that before now. Angry that life is designed with separations. Angry that life will go on and people might forget you or some people never even know you.
The boys fixed the faucets in the gold bathroom the other day. Why didn’t they do that for you when you were alive?
They had the carpets cleaned - why didn’t we do that for you while you were alive?
Why wouldn’t you walk for exercise?
Why couldn’t we produce your songs while you were still here and have some fun with it?
Why aren’t you here to go through the photos with us and tell us more of the stories? You left too early.
I wonder how much of illness is simply a lack of love.
I know you wanted to be with Daddy, I know you had lived a long and beautiful life, and my hunch is we did not care for you and tend to you the way Daddy did. We did not love you the way Daddy did.
I am so confused. Nothing makes sense.
M.
Mother,
When I mentioned to a client of mine that I had seen things that didn’t seem like you were yourself, but never said anything about them, she said it was probably best that I hadn’t interfered.
Being an expert at interfering I certainly did NOT know what she meant by that. She said to have interfered earlier may have caused more problems or more suffering. Being completely thick in the head on this subject, I said, “Huh?” (How embarrassing.) She said to interfere earlier, perhaps they would have found an illness or a problem and then in the “fixing” of it would have caused more suffering with the same ending. Oh.
When she said that, I felt a little more ease. Daddy suffered for such a long time - I would not wish that on anyone. You always said you wanted to go fast - voila!
M.
Mother,
So, here comes Mother’s day and I see that all anyone really needs to learn in their life is where to put the love. The Love is pouring forth from the children and they need to be shown where to put their love. If not, it gets all jammed up inside and they grow up to design ugly buildings and forget to put in the parks.
How does it get so complicated? I’m laughing with you now. We are so silly.
M.
While on a return trip to my Mother’s house about one month later, I wrote this on a piece of paper without a heading to make it a letter.
My heart looks for you everywhere - when I arrive at the airport, when I enter your house. Looking in the dining room I see Regina and for a second - my heart thinks she is you.
My mind imagines that our grief over losing you is greater than your grief over losing your mother and I know that is not true. I’m embarrassed at how little we knew about how to assist you through that experience.
Mother,
It is a beautiful morning! This is the kind of morning that I would have written you a note for no apparent reason. A note thanking you for your love and attention and just for giving me life.
I hear your voice almost every day. Sometimes it’s coming out of my mouth - and sometimes it’s just in the air.
Do you still laugh?
Do you still sing?
I wonder about that.
The chorale is doing a concert for you next spring - I wonder if they will play your songs, too.
Just thought I’d let you know I still love you.
M.
One year later…
Acceptance
Dear Mother,
It’s April 3, 2000. Almost one year since you’ve been gone. I guess today is one year from the day you took ill.
Seven days ago I woke up and felt that everything was going to be OK – that I will have everything I desire and it all seems completely achievable.
In the past I would set about to DO something but this time I sensed things were moving without me – and I was simply riding a wave. That was cool.
My car was in the shop and people would show up at just the right moment to take me wherever I needed to go. Isn’t that funny?
I love you and I miss you. I feel you at different times. As I wrote I love you on the paper, the sun came out and shined right on my cheek. Was that you? Things like that happen all the time.
When I unpacked the boxes that came from your house, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door – no one was there. Strange. Then I heard the knock again while opening the front door, realized it was a knock at the French doors in the bedroom. So I looked – and there was a female redbird banging her head against the glass of my French door. It was the strangest sight! Was that you? Were you checking on your tea cups?
Then, there was another female redbird that came and knocked on the French doors of my bedroom almost every morning for weeks! (Usually when I was sleeping late.) Was that you? She made me laugh.
After that, when I was packing to move, there were two doves sitting on the windowsill of the living room window. Isn’t that amazing! They just sat there for the longest time – cuddling.
And then in the flower box that day – a dove’s egg – very fresh – I could still see through the shell. Signs of spring, I guess – and certainly signs of new life, too.
Occasionally there are long moments where I don’t think of you at all and moments when my mind tricks me into thinking that you’re still alive. I mean, I know your spirit is alive, but you’re not here.
Life does go on.
Much love, M.
Dear Reader,
Even with my lack of preparation I have felt more prepared for death than most people I know. Mother and Daddy used to laugh about it all the time. When we were very young, Mother used to say to Daddy, “Don’t you dare die and leave me with all of these kids!” When people would ask Daddy to plan something too far in advance or ask him to do something that didn’t sound like fun, you could hear him say, “Uhhh - I think I have to go to a funeral that day.” When I was young, I thought - how does he know that? As I grew up it always made me laugh. Daddy bought his and mother’s space in the mausoleum and called it his
“file drawer.” He was very upfront about death.
When a young acting friend of mine died just a few weeks after my father’s passing, I was devastated. My mother refused to let me get dramatic about it. “Well, honey, we all have to go sometime,” was all she would say. And then she changed the subject.
Here are a few things to do when the parent of a friend dies:
If you can’t think of anything to say - don’t worry - you don’t have to say anything. Let your eyes talk - look softly and carefully into people’s eyes. They’ll feel that. Just tell them that you love them. Sometimes that’s enough. Or just let them hear your breath if you’re calling by phone. People can feel you.
Your presence speaks volumes and is usually the best gift. Depending on the circumstances there usually isn’t much to say - and everyone knows there isn’t much to say that won’t sound like a cliché. It’s a touching moment of humanity. Silence can work. Our culture needs new scripts for funerals.
Simply be there. At the funeral home, at the church, at the house.
“If you need anything . . .” Just so you know, the bereaved can rarely think of what they need. What I noticed is they need you to think of what they need as everyone’s brain kind of stops. If it’s an unexpected death, they are in shock. They won’t be thinking clearly for weeks, maybe even months.
When I returned to Dallas after my mother’s funeral in Kansas City, my refrigerator was full of beautiful food, set there by a brilliant friend - I never would have thought of that. Every gesture is appreciated. Ask around and see what others have done in similar situations.
Chop wood and carry water. The simple things. The laundry,
the dishes, taking out the trash, cutting the grass, the groceries, the
bathrooms. Stay with the children. Just show up and do them. There is much love in those acts.
Make sure they’re drinking enough water (very true).
Another friend came from California to stay with me for a few days when I returned to Texas and she did the groceries, the laundry, the driving. Showing up is a beautiful gift and makes the transition easier.
Tell stories and listen to the family tell stories. If you recall an experience you shared with the person who has passed away and that experience warms your heart - share that story. When my father passed away, one of the neighbors from our grade school years, Mrs. Vogrin, told us a story of an Easter Sunday. My father proudly showed her his 5 little girls and said, “Come look at my little flowers.” That is one of my favorite stories now and we never would have known that if she didn’t speak up. Telling stories is very important to lay down memory tracks in the brain.
If you cannot speak it, write it. If you cannot write it - ask someone else to write it for you. Every card and note works. The hand written expression carries the love and energy of the person who sent it and there is magic in that.
We received a note from a man who had known my mother in high school. He wrote the story that when he was feeling a little out of
place in their high school she made friends with him, remembered his name and made him feel esteemed. Almost sixty years after the fact, he remembered. That was a fabulous letter. From that letter I sense that none of our acts of kindness go unnoticed in the big picture.
Dance with them. Shortly after I returned to Dallas a friend took me dancing, that shook a big chunk of the heaviness out of my body and all of a sudden I remembered what it was like to dance and be happy. I would not have thought of that at that time. When I taught one of my nieces a dance, her mother was sure I was corrupting her, (and I was) but I noticed everyone got lighter. I remember after my grandfather’s funeral, Daddy said, “Man - I need a wedding!” and rushed right out that night and went to the wedding of a friend so he could dance. You’ll need someone to remind the family to dance. It doesn’t have to be vigorous - and it can be right at home. Even light movement will change the mood. Don’t rush it - just pay attention and you’ll see when it will work.
Check on their sleep patterns as they may be interrupted. A 3am wake-up grieving time is quite common. The body cleanses it’s internal
organs during sleep. 3am is when the lungs begin. It’s comforting when they learn they aren’t the only one who has woken up at 3am for a good cry.
Stay in touch. It’s over for the rest of us much sooner than those closest to the deceased. Sensitivities run high for a long time. If you find the family or individual running through your attention months later - that’s your clue. Send notes and make calls later on if your attention is perked in that direction. Being direct about it can work or pretend like you’re calling for another reason, if you want, and see what comes up. That can work, too.
Before your parents pass away here are a few things to consider:
Look carefully
at how to appreciate the life they have given you and then take time to express that appreciation. Be specific. For instance,
the chocolate and raspberry birthday cake they made for your fifth birthday. Whatever you remember. People light up when they see you’ve noticed the tiniest of details. God lives in the details.
Spend time with them that is not a holiday.
Go visit for no apparent reason and ask them to tell you stories of their courtship, their wedding, their career choices, their parenting days. What is the experience when the children leave, what is it like when the children come back? What is the experience when the grandchildren come? What have they always wanted to tell you that they held back? What was their experience when their parents passed away? Anything you can think of. There is a beautiful book called Questions for My Father by Vincent Staniforth. I highly recommend it.
Sort through photos
(that will spark a lot of stories). Most of our family photos were stashed in boxes and envelopes. Mother didn’t like putting attention on the past - she mostly liked living right here and now. If your photos are also in boxes, organize the photos into albums while your parents are still here. You’ll learn a lot. Invest in the truly
exquisite albums with leather bindings and archival quality paper. Your family deserves that respect.
The Christmas just before Daddy died, we made a little comedy book for him with photos and stories that were hilarious accounts of our outrageous family history. (With nine children, there was no such thing as an ordinary day.) We all presented it to him with great ceremony on what would be his final Christmas day. We read it out loud and laughed and cried. He had given us a good, good life. It was our way of showing him how much we loved and appreciated him being our father. I love that book. I could look at it a thousand times and never tire of it. Please don’t wait until your parents are dying to do this. It’s a beautiful gift.
These are just a few thoughts - observe your parents with love and you’ll easily make up your own ideas of things you want to do with them and for them - right now.
When your parents pass away here are a few things to consider :
Don’t be too strong.
There are many people who want to do things for you at this time - let them. Let them do every little thing they desire to do. And ask for assistance with every little thing you have to do. I asked a long-time family friend to ride with me to the health-food
store very late one night and she was pleased to do it. It seems like such a simple little thing - ride with me to the store - but we had time to talk privately in a way prior circumstances had never allowed. One friend heard me say I wanted a soda while I was sitting at the dining room table and “poof” seconds later it was by my side. (See? A little piece of heaven.)
Take your time.
Leave the bedroom and perhaps the desk of the deceased undisturbed for as long as you can. You can feel their presence among those things for quite a while. We invaded Mother’s room probably a little too early. This was brought to my attention by my sister Theresa. She was right. Mother’s shoes were where she had left them - some clothing, her hairbrush. These things become very precious when you know they are exactly where your loved one left them.
Record stories.
Your parents friends have stories of a whole different side of your parents than you probably know. Let them talk and record those stories. You can write them out, or make audio recordings – whatever works for you. Your brothers and sisters have different stories than you have about your parents. Listen to what it was like from their perspective and write out or record their stories, too.
Record sounds of the house.
When Mother passed away no one said anything about the house, but we felt an additional loss around the house and I couldn’t even bear the thought that the beautiful house that had loved us and protected us for so many years might belong to someone else.
I took a small tape recorder and recorded many of the
unique sounds of our home. The clang of the wrought iron, oak and glass front door. The squeak of the little mail door in the front hall. The sound of Mother and Daddy’s bedroom door shutting.
The rhythm of Mother’s dresser drawers opening and closing. My sister Regina asked to be sure I got that sound.
There were lots of “girl” things on top of mother’s dresser that made sounds - lots of little bottles and things clanking. A creak in the hardwood under the carpet in the living room. I must have heard that sound a thousand times in my lifetime.
In the winter time, Daddy would wake us up by tapping a dime on the radiator in the master bedroom – it would clang all through the house – and he wouldn’t stop until we got out of bed and clanged back. So I had to record that!
The sounds of the kitchen! Cabinets, pots, pans, drawers. Especially the thu-clunk of the “junk drawer”. The sound of the water in the kitchen sink. I calculated how many meals my mother cooked – 43,800 was my rough estimate. Can you imagine? (I also tried to calculate the diapers she changed – oh my god – forget it!)
The sound of walking down the stairs to the basement. The sound of the washing machine and the dryer. These things may seem little silly, but sounds vibrate into your body for years and recalling them can stir memories and bring great comfort and laughter.
A few days after the funeral my brother, Andy, announced that he would be keeping the house and that was a nice moment. I was still glad I had recorded the sounds as when Andy and his family fill the house, it will be full of new and different sounds.
An audio record of the funeral.
We recorded the funeral which may or may not be appropriate for your circumstances. The music was exquisitely and perfectly performed and everyone loves their copies. I have listened to the entire
Mass several times. It always gives me a feeling of closeness to my mother.
Share a small something of your parent’s belongings with your close friends.
First, you’ll want to check to be sure no one else in the family wants it. It’s another way to let their energy continue in the world. It will be a treasure to them and every-time you see it you will smile. I gave a friend one of my mother’s scarves. The scarf and she became more beautiful when she wore it.
Again, take your time.
Take your time with the belongings of the deceased. Do not pressure yourself to “handle things” and do not let anyone else pressure you to do that. Touch everything you want to touch, acknowledge everything you want to acknowledge.
Remember everything you want to remember. Treat it all with love and respect. You are not just cleaning out a house - you are being given the opportunity to walk through a life. Treat it with respect and love.
One woman I know has yet to clean out her mothers’ clothing and belongings, a couple of years after the fact. She said she’ll visit her dad
and see a scarf or sweater or something else of her mother’s and take it home with her. She said she can feel her mother’s energy when she wears those things and it’s a little piece of her mother with her. How beautiful. Taking home little pieces like that has made the change smoother and more pleasurable for her.
The gift of attention.
You cannot underestimate the amount of attention your individual parents will need when their spouse passes away before them. Attention is the most valuable gift. The gift of your attention and the gift of attention type services. They will have new experiences and make new friends that way. Be generous. Do not let a cheapness of heart or wallet keep you from doing indulgent things for and with the surviving spouse.
And what they really want takes almost no money at all. They just want to spend time with you – they want to see you and know that you are happy.
I noticed my mother was not used to what we Texas girls consider essentials - like massages and manicures and other spa services. I noticed how much she resisted and, how much she appreciated those kind of gifts. I also noticed how she traded some of them in for hair appointments - that’s great. Obviously I hadn’t noticed that her hair was a priority over her hands.
If I had it to do over I would have scheduled my sisters and I to go with her. I never thought of that until now. Imagine the “women’s wisdom” she could have shared with us in such an environment. If you’re a man - buy that gift for the women in the family - they’ll love it.
Write out your dreams.
You, or one of your siblings, or even friends of your parents may have dreams about the deceased. My recommendation is you write them down as soon as you wake up. Share them with someone who will enjoy them and even with a dream interpreter if that is important to you. I noticed one sister and two friends of my mother’s had dreams and in the dream - as soon as they tried to speak directly to
her, she vanished. When my time came I was awake enough within the dream to tell myself, “Now don’t scare her off.” So I watched her from a distance and came up behind her and gave her a hug. I felt her squeeze my hand tightly as she had done in the last few minutes of her life. She appeared in other dreams, but this one was the most vivid.
Carl Jung maintained that if something happens psychically - it actually happens. It is different than only imagining. It is another reality. And for this dream situation, I like his description.
Pay attention to your own health.
For about two years after my father’s death, I noticed my mind made up a story that every cough, every sneeze, even the slightest pain was a fatal illness. I had the same experience after my mother died, too. It seems we’re more sensitive in this state and that’s a good thing. My hunch is that it’s mostly imagination and then perhaps it’s also just nature reminding you that you, too, are mortal. Go ahead and see a doctor, it will ease your mind.
Into young adulthood, and even adulthood, I remember experiencing sympathetic pains of many people. Weeks before my mother died or we even knew she was ill, I did not recognize my face in the mirror. I looked like a 70 year old woman, and my body was swelling beyond recognition. I know now that I was feeling some of what she was feeling and I think it was her spirit’s way of trying to get attention, in a way that her denial would never allow her to ask for directly.
Pay attention to what you are eating. Find someone you can talk to about your experience. You might want to find gentler exercises for a while and wait a while before returning to your complete fitness regime.
Sing.
Learn the song, ”Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries.” It’s a fun song.
And finally - leave no love unexpressed.
I like to imagine that everyone expresses their love to their parents openly - and yet I know that is not the case. I once knew a man who had waited 38 years to tell his mother that he loved her. If you’re a mother in a situation like that - don’t wait 38 years - for heaven’s sake - ask someone you know to train your son.
If you’re the one who needs to say it, rehearse in the mirror if you need to - rehearse with children, or a friend, or your plants or your dog or cat, or practice right on your parents and tell them what you’re doing. Then give them the best you have. They may resist at first, but if you persist - it becomes a beautiful world.
Leave no love un-expressed.
That’s all I can think of for now.
May you laugh, love and live the life of your dreams.
Love, M
This is the journal.
You can use it to write out all of the things you appreciate about your parents - and then tell them those things. Or write them a letter about those things. No occassion letters are exquisite.
You can use it to write stories for your children about your parents - or what it’s like to be their parent.
You can use it to write memories of your childhood, write letters to your mother or your father if they are no longer living.
You can use it to design the life of your dreams.
There are a few questions to nudge you along the way, and some blank pages as I’ll bet you can come up with your own ways to use it.
Enjoy!
What is your most recent memory of your parents?
What is your funniest memory of your parents?
What is your tenderest memory of your parents?
What was your mother's/father's favorite birthday gift from when she/he was a child?
What was your mother's/father's favorite color and where did they see it most in their lives?
Who was your mother's/father's best friend as a child? Who was your mother's/father's best friend as an adult?
What is your favorite memory of your childhood birthdays?
How did your mother/father feel when you graduated from school?
What years do your mother/father consider the best years of their lives?
Are there any regrets on your side or your parent's side?
If your mother/father had the opportunity to create their lives over again - would they change anything?
Insert your favorite photo of your mother or father or both here:
Write one silly line that expresses your appreciation for your parents.
Draw one silly picture of a memory from your time with your parents.
Insert one of your favorite photos from your childhood.
Here are a few blank pages - test out your heart's expressions here.
To order hard copies of this book, please contact the author at: info@melindaaugustina.com
About the author:
Melinda Augustina is an actress, a producer and now, an author, living in Los Angeles, CA. She's not a real writer, so she trusts that as you read this, you will simply feel her affection for everyone who has to experience losing a parent.
You can read more here: www.MelindaAugustina.com
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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.08.2009
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