Inspired by Dragonfly

Today’s post was going to be an account of some perception-rattling experiences I had during my year in the Middle East but Dragonfly left a long, thoughtful comment under ‘Signifying Something’ so I’m going to respond to that instead.

Do I think my Dad has reached many of his goals? she asks. Has he left things unsaid? Has he pondered about what his life has meant? Have we said all we might wish to? With death so close, is he afraid or is he ready?

I do think Dad has reached many of his goals. As a boy growing up in Winnipeg, he dreamed of living in a warmer climate, in a house by the sea; through hard work, he’s realized that dream. When he returned from navy service after World War II, he chose the schooling option over the housing option offered to veterans by the Canadian government. His mother wanted him to become a doctor or a lawyer but he insisted on following his heart and became a librarian. He’s had a successful 55-year marriage. He’s been a good father, one who expressed his affection and support even when he thought his children had taken leave of their senses.

Over the years, I’ve expressed my love and appreciation in return, as have my brothers, to the point where it’s hard to find something new to say on Father’s Day cards.

So, on the surface, you’d think my Dad should be at peace and contemplating a life well-lived. That is not, unfortunately, the case. I get the impression he’s afraid of death. I don’t mean that instinctive fear of the unknown, that disorienting timor mortis conturbat me we all experience from time to time, but a real and lively fear. Maybe it springs from his failure to forgive the young man responsible for the car accident in 1962. It took Dad years, literally, to get on his feet again and he’s struggled with serious health problems ever since. The Accident certainly changed us as a family.

I’m not intending to be judgmental in any way when I say this or when I add that Dad has a little well of bitterness in him that’s poisoned his peace of mind. Whether or not he’ll come to terms with it before he dies, I don’t know, and it’s not my place to get involved. I believe this is one of those “faults” we’re able to see so clearly in others while we miss our own failings. And the only reason I even mention it is that it’s hard to watch someone you love struggle with something that makes them unhappy, especially when that something seems – to the outside observer – like such an easy thing to overcome.

Then again, forgiveness is NOT an easy thing and lack of it is responsible for much of the evil at work in the world.

Dragonfly’s question about being ready to die reminded me of 1996. Up until that point, I’d always assumed that unless I was hit by a bus or a bomb, I’d know if death was approaching and have time to prepare, to balance my account so to speak. But it wasn’t like that.

Throughout the autumn of 1995, I felt gradually weaker and weaker, not ill in any way (unless you count leaping out of bed to hurl every morning at 4:30), just faint, sleepy and vaguely disconnected. The doctor in our very small, remote village reluctantly eliminated pregnancy and decided I had a persistent case of flu. On New Year’s Day, I suddenly realized I couldn’t sit up without fainting and needed to lie down. On my way to the bedroom, I began projectile vomiting bright red blood. Piglet, who knew – as we all did in this very small village – where the ambulance was parked, called for it immediately.

My oldest daughter, Wumbles, arrived home from a Caribbean cruise with her boyfriend’s family at the same moment as the ambulance. She beheld me lying on the hall floor with my beloved car, Beekie, sitting beside my head, the epitome of feline concern, and blood dripping down the wall.

“Hi, Wumb,” I croaked. “Did you have a good time?” I pointed vaguely at the paramedic. “I don’t think you’ve met Wolf’s mother.”

“And exactly what was I supposed to do, Mom?” Wumbles asked later. “Invite her to sit down while I made a pot of tea?”

To shorten a long and melodramatic tale, I was whisked away to the tiny local hospital and diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer. It had been bleeding for months and I’d lost half the blood in my body. The next day I was transported by ambulance to the nearest town. Before they could stabilize me, I haemorrhaged and had to have emergency surgery.

The presiding doctor said, “You are one very lucky young woman. You came within seconds of losing your life.”

I was shocked; shocked at not knowing how sick I’d been,shocked at being told I couldn't go back to work for nine months, shocked at how my life almost drifted away so painlessly, so peacefully, and me none the wiser. I could have “slipped the surly bonds” of existence without ever knowing how loosely they’d been holding me.

Many things came together in my head. I concluded that if “‘twere now to die” I would NOT be “most happy.” While I loved my husband, my daughters and – most of the time – my job, I didn’t feel I’d truly lived. So, over the last 14 years, I’ve taken risks and gone dancing after my dreams. I wrote a novel (mediocre, I fear, but I haven’t completely given up on it yet). I “followed knowledge like a sinking star beyond the baths of all the western seas,” living and travelling in different parts of the world for six years.

So, if ‘twere NOW to die, I wouldn’t be dissatisfied. I don’t have any desire for death – life is too interesting, too full of unfolding events – but if it came upon me, I could join with Valancy of The Blue Castle and say, “I’ve had my dust pile.”

Dragonfly goes on to share the poignant story of her mother’s death. This made me think of my Piglet’s death in China and wonder if his death is the reason that, until very recently, I’ve been refusing to face up to how ill my Dad is. Dylan Thomas says, “After the first death there is no other,” but I’m not sure that’s true. One death segues into another and the weight of them presses down on you, making it hard to breathe sometimes.

Dragonfly says her Mom “didn’t so much leave us but my father.” Since Piglet left us, I’ve occasionally descended into maudlin self-pity and cried inwardly,” You’ve gone and left me lonely lingering here.” Dragonfly’s words brought a sudden insight. Piglet didn’t so much leave me – or Wumbles and Creature – as he left his pain, both physical and spiritual and – in particular, perhaps – the terrible wounds of a brutally shattered childhood.

I want to respond to Dragonfly’s observations about the pure and shining light that often surrounds a death, but this post is already too long. I’ll close by saying I love the way minds can meet despite distance, meet and strike brightness from the grey prisms of our minds.