Done with Death?!? I Think Not...

Recently I took all my death and dying books, pamphlets, brochures, archives and articles and placed them at the back of my closet. It’s symbolic, but also a statement of fact: I’m done with death for now.

Not to say I won’t help – or listen to – someone who calls with questions, or make a referral to a hospice or the national Compassion & Choices organization. I will always do those things. But I’m done with setting up events, hosting them and encouraging people – mostly strangers – to talk about death.

Of course, I’ve already gotten all my final paperwork done, so I can afford the luxury of playing with a new beau rather than having to have those heart-felt conversations. 

I’ve done all that…

Have you?

If not, let me encourage you... 

(OK, so I am still at my death work, but only peripherally) 

...to fill out your Advance Directives. A Healthcare Power of Attorney, perhaps a Mental Health Power of Attorney, your Last Will and Testament (which is basically just making your wishes known…you’ll need further paperwork if you want things of value to go to the appropriate people with fewer complications.)

A good place to start is with the Five Wishes document. I’ve heard arguments both pro and con about it. It’s quite “user friendly” so people will actually do it, and you get it notarized, so it’s legal – at least in Arizona and several other states. But an argumentative relative can undo all your planning, so make sure you’ve spoken to them, too.

It’s not easy to do. But once it’s done (and reviewed every five years or so), you can put your death and dying fears and phobias at the back of the closet, too.  You can enjoy the remaining days, be they few or many, knowing that “if I die today”…all is well.

I have a friend whose body is shutting down. She has finally reached the place where she feels that “if I die today, I’m as happy as I can be” phase. I’m very happy for her. I feel that way every day.

So do your death work. Get it done, share it with docs and family and friends. And let it go. 

Live every day as if it’s your last…

and your first…

makes life lots more fun and fulfilling.

My memoir...gotta write this stuff down!!

Here is the "forward" to the book I'm finishing now.
It's a memoir that tells my stories briefly - literally - with Haiku poetry.

Memories, Mood Swings and Miracles^©

My much-abused mother did her best to civilize two savages: one a true savage, all that remained of an abused depression-era man turned warrior: wounded warrior. And one a savage by proxy…my brother; my “Bubba”… beaten into the shape and form of a bully boy by our dad’s brutal hand. Family secrets.

This, in the mid-20^th Century, when conformity was required. Mama, who also felt dad’s fists, did her best.

She also tried to civilize her tiny Heathen girl child. A born Pagan, I was confused by the rules, terrified by the violence all around me and always, always seeking to escape to my beloved desert, to books and to my cats.

A sun-burned scientist by nature, a smarty-pants show off who learned nothing of scholastic discipline and thus, never plied the scientific trades, I excelled in classes, experiencing reading, writing, math and biology as easily-described givens in my worldview. Science I understood. Emotions, connections to others…not so much.

My brother and I were neglected throughout our young lives and I found myself in situations that caused me harm, both physical and sexual. Abused by various friends and neighbors, I grew up highly sexualized. Always the rebellious little Heathen, I contributed willingly to the budding sexual revolution, eventually at the cost of my self-esteem and mental health.

My role models included my grandmother who embodied the angry, entitled female, illustrative of the character impoverishment of southern gothic novels; my mother, who was beaten down by life…and by my dad’s furious desire to make her be well; and my belligerent, violent dad, who, gratefully, mellowed with age. Even at the end of his life though, he still demonstrated hints of the scarred soul, all that was left of his spirit by The War.

Because in our house there was only one “War” and that was World War II.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: we all have it. Disconnected from everyone by fear and family secrets, our PTSD drove us (high-functioning dysfunctionals that we are) to prove ourselves by working too hard, ignoring or seeking to control those who love us (as we had been similarly treated), worshipping work, seeking approval and, at least in my case, continuing to abuse sex, drugs and alcohol well past adolescence.

Fortunately, my circumstances led me to become involved in Twelve-Step recovery, which brought me around to many other venues of self-care and helped me overcome my addictive behaviors. With a family full of deep gratitude, my parents also found the Twelve-Steps and the recovery therein.

My mother died young, only five years sober. Daddy, died sober twenty years later. We all became good friends in recovery, amends made, forgiveness granted.

That’s the miracle in the book title.

Watching my dad soften, watching my own parents discover and learn to love each other in middle age.

Miracles.

Happily learning that I – a dysfunctional adult child of alcoholic parents – was not alone …though let’s face it, still and always unashamedly eccentric!

There are family photos to accompany some of the poems and some go unillustrated. There are places you will be called upon to see the images behind your own eyes and some places where there is no way to show the pain; images nobody needs to see.

Then there are images created by loving friends, as noted in the acknowledgements.

Which brings me here. Now.

Practicing that hard-won discipline by writing my stories… 17 syllables at a time.