Who Will Take Care of Me?
Why does it seem when we are dealing with death, our language and our actions never seem to be up to the task? One of the most heart wrenching conversations I’ve ever had happened a few years ago. It was with a small ten year old boy whose world had just come crashing down. Both of his parents had been critically ill for several years with little chance of surviving. Their debilitating illnesses frequently left them unable to cope with the demands of parenting and running the household. As a result, he had to take on the lion’s share of household responsibilities as well as provide considerable care to his little sister. He carried his heavy responsibilities with grace and little complaint. His parents would often remind him that he would soon become the man of the family and asked him to promise he would always take care of his baby sister after they were gone. Too soon, their deaths became a reality. His Mom died first and just six short weeks later, his Daddy died. It was immediately following his father’s funeral that we had our conversation that remains so vivid in my mind. I saw him standing alone. He was standing ram-rod straight, his little fists clinched at his side, and elephant tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to keep from falling apart. My heart was breaking as I walked over to him. When he saw me and spoke, my heart simply broke in two. He said, “Miss Rose, I know I am supposed to take care of my little sister, but who is supposed to take care of me?” What could I possibly say or how long could I hold him that could erase the enormity of what he was feeling? There are times when there are no words.
His question has stayed etched in my mind. In reflection, I think his vulnerable plea touched on what is at the heart of our fear surrounding death. Could it be that under the fear are the swirling questions, “Who is going to take care of me?” “If you die, will I survive?” “ If I am dying, will you be there?”
We all need reassurances that someone will be there for us. Our lives become like the tree in the forest. When we go, we want our leaving to have sound. We want our names to be written in permanent ink on the hearts of all of those we touched. We want there to be witnesses left behind to say we were here. We want to know that our lives mattered.
In our world today we put a great premium on professional status, economic success, and the quantity of our material possessions. These provide us an identity to face the world and provide us the illusion that we are masters of our own fate. That we are in control. The dying process robs us of our illusions and we feel naked in its presence. Yet in our nakedness we can be who we really are and know that is enough.
In the moving poem, The Dash, by Linda Ellis, it reminds us that we all will have three things in common: the date of our births, the date of our deaths and the dash that separates those two monumental occasions in our lives. It seems such an irony that something as inconsequential as a dash, one tiny horizontal line can represent our every moment in this life. Since reading her poem, my eyes have been opened to see the dash in a very different light.
That is the funny thing about life. With time and with experience, our perspectives change. What we once held on to so tightly, can hold little or no importance today. So too, those things that we let get away from us or took for granted, are now the very things we cherish. Those who are near death teach us that it is our relationships to each other that matters most. Little else really matters.
Dr. Elisabeth Kubler Ross wrote, “It’s only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth-and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up, we will then begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had.” As we dash through our lives accomplishing our never ending lists and acting as if we can lengthen our time here, it’s easy to lose sight of what really counts. Yet we know just as the Great Masters have taught, love is the greatest gift. It’s force can be communicated without words and it’s power can not be destroyed by death. So in the end, when our words fail us we can be comforted in knowing our love is saying everything that needs to be said.
Follow Rose Winters on Twitter: www.twitter.com/scotchman
Dr. Hendrie Weisinger: Are Your Parents Old and Ill? A Chat With Dr. Tamara McClintock Greenberg
If you are like one of the millions that read The Huffington Post, it is safe to say your parents are aging and perhaps ill. How well do you understand what they are going through?
Gail Austin Cooney, M.D.: Debate Misses Point of End-of-Life Counseling
As a doctor specializing in palliative care and hospice, I'm disheartened to see how end-of-life counseling was twisted into something sinister and untrue, then ultimately dropped because it was deemed too divisive.
Jason Mannino: Lessons in Loving While My Father Was Dying
Fifteen years ago at my grandmother's funeral was the last time I saw my dad. Two weeks ago I was standing in front of him face to face. It wasn't the visit I had hoped for. He had departed his body 3 days earlier, and I was in attendance at his funeral.
Loading comments…
Want to reply to a comment? Hint: Click "Reply" at the bottom of the comment; after being approved your comment will appear directly underneath the comment you replied to
See Rose Winters's Profile
The purpose of this blog is to bring death & dying out of the closet. It seems we have become so distant from the natural rhythms of our lives including both birth and death. We can not allow these miraculous moments to be reduced to technical events with the newest technology telling us when life has begun or when it ends. Your insightful comments are helping to do this. Technology is wonderful and has its place but it can not and should not replace our humanity. Talking to each other and sharing what matters keeps us connected to each other and to life.
Well said, Ms. Winters. To so many, death just seems a subject to be avoided at all costs.
See Rose Winters's Profile
Thank you for your caring concern. I wish there was a happy ending to report. Unfortunately, there is not. He has had a very difficult time with too many address changes. Those around him have wrongly assumed that he was so young when it happened, that he would get over "it" in time. Children may not have a vocabulary to express their grief but they do feel it. Their behavior often becomes their vocabulary. For Josh, this has been the case. The more he has acted out through attention deficit, incessant talking in appropriate settings, the more discipline and rejection he has experienced including being sent to live with countless extended family members and back again. Its an important topic and one we will visit again in this platform.
I don't fear death, I fear not doing all I want to before I die. At the end, for me, it will be have I done work I was passionate about? Have I created something good to leave the world? Do I have family and friends who care about me? Was I kind? Was I fair?
It's not so much death that worries me, I've been there
twice and its not the end-all or alone act that most think,
as why this story isn't on the front page instead of here
in a section that many will not read.
It's truly a great example of questioning where has our
quality of life gone? Thank you for sharing it.
I am so with your story. I am a woman without children and have often told my child-filled friends how I mostly fear growing old with nobody. One honest friend said, "I have four children. They all moved far away and have their own lives. I am as alone as you are." So there are two questions you raise. 1. How do we die in community? and 2. How can we die with dignity that honors my legacy.
We are adverse to talking about death in this country. It;s time we learn how to die strong. I believe my ultimate calling is to help people do this.
Yes I want to know too..WHO took care of that 10 Year old?
lovely metaphysical rhetoric. one's death is the most personal event of an individual's life (given that we can't consciously appreciate our births), and each is different.
but this ten year old child is still alive -- who is seeing him through his grief?
See Jane Smiley's Profile
But who took care of him? I get your point, but the immediate crisis of this child's life was not abstract in any way. Did he have relatives? Did he become a ward of the state? Please don't leave us hanging...
THanks
You must be logged in to comment. Log in or connect with
