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Posts Tagged ‘grieving’

Death: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Thursday, July 16th, 2009

Been thinking a lot about death lately. Probably because about five hundred million famous people died recently. Billy Mays the infomercial guy and that singer dude, what’s-his-name. Michael something. Plus Farrah. And in my circle, someone died that I hated but who was revered by many. All of which has left me with some conflicting emotions. Our current culture doesn’t exactly promote healthy feelings towards death. Neither does my family. Especially when the dead person was Satan to some and God to others. Like MJ and this person I knew.

If you had a healthy relationship with the deceased, you go through a grieving process and then eventually heal. But when an abusive jerk dies, the process is more complicated. Some suddenly revere the abuser and recreate their past with them. Some people won’t let go of their hate, no matter how long the person’s been gone. But most people are torn about their hatred of the dead and don’t know what to do with their feelings.

As for me, when someone who was mean to me dies, I’m happy about it. Very happy. But people get freaked out when I express this. In my experience, most dead people get elevated to some sort of sainthood, even if they were jerks. I don’t get it. If the people were horrible when they were alive, they’re horrible when they’re dead. Death doesn’t erase their evil deeds, nor does it excuse them.

Nor do I understand why I can’t bitch about the dead. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” Why not? What’s gonna happen? Like they’re gonna crawl out of their graves and return to defend themselves? I’ve been alive for fifty years and I speak ill of the dead daily. None of the people I’ve bitched about have returned. Look, I’ll do it right now. I hated my abusive, sadistic childhood dentist, Dr. Stanton (who also terrorized all my siblings). I was six, he was drilling on a tooth, it hurt, I said so. He told me it didn’t. I started crying. So he latched onto my jaw—digging his fingers painfully into my tender flesh and bone—and put his ugly face about an inch away from mine. With his eyes all bugged out, his teeth clenched and sweat beading on his warty forehead, he growled, “You’re not in pain!” This is a man that deserved to be dead. Like five seconds after he terrorized me. Freakin’ Dr. Mengele, the friendly children’s dentist. So, here I am, incredibly happy that the bastard is dead. The song that comes to mind is from the musical, Scrooge. People are dancing on Dr. Stanton’s coffin singing “Thank you very much, that’s the nicest thing that anyone’s ever done for me!” Now I’ll wait and see if his wormy corpse comes lurching through my door with his arms outstretched, repeating his famous line, “Don’t say ‘ow’, say ‘ow now brown cow’. Nope. He’s not there. See? Nothing happened.

Still, with death, it’s not always appropriate to voice one’s opinion and I’m very careful with whom I share my thoughts. And I certainly don’t speak ill of the dead in front of people who loved them. I may be feisty, but I’m not insensitive.

Which is why this week, I’ve pretty much kept my delight to myself. The only danger I can see with all my secret glee is that it speaks to some unresolved issues. I want to let go of my hate for the person (like I obviously need to do with Dr. Nasty Dentist). I want to let go of all my feelings for her. Because I don’t want to end up like my father.

My father has not let go of any grudge, ever. He bitches about dead people like they’re still in the room, tormenting him. Like my aunt whose been dead for five years. Last week, he spewed out his Holy Grail of grudges against his sister, working himself up to the same level of ferocity he always does when telling the story. His eyes turned red, he shook and sweated and spitted and growled. “She was rotten. Rotten! Spoiled brat. Ever since I accidentally shot her when she was five. We told her, time and time again, don’t play in front of the barrel! But no, she wouldn’t listen, so the gun went off and then she told everyone from then on that I shot her!” Okay, this happened in 1931 when Dad was nine and Jacquie was five. He is eighty-seven, she is DEAD. This is a seventy-eight-year-old grudge. Longer than the average lifespan of most people. This is a grudge that started when Herbert Hoover was president. When Al Capone went to prison for tax evasion. When Charlie Chaplin starred in City Lights. When the Empire State Building was built. Before World War Two.

So while I’m thrilled my evil enemies are dead, I don’t want to go overboard. I want to let it all go. What I want to feel for them is nothing. And I don’t ever want to think about them again.

Which brings me to the best thing about death: the reminder that someday I will die. While I’m making every effort to last until I’m 104 (I recently got an expiration date tattooed on me: Best Before: 9/11/2063), I want to pack as much fun and write as many novels as I can before I leave. I don’t want to waste one more moment thinking about the people who were mean to me. I want to embrace life, not death.

So while I’m tempted to go dance on a certain person’s grave, I think about my father and his seventy-eight-year-old grudge. While I might allow myself a quick jig right now, in the future I don’t need to be ranting about dead jerks while I’m piloting my flying car up to the Starbucks hovering over the Bay. I’d rather be enjoying the view.

©2009, Janet Periat

The Real Truth

Tuesday, February 19th, 2008

WARNING: This is not a humor column. But it was a story I wanted to share with you. I hope this posting finds you well, happy and loved.

—Janet

I’m emotionally wasted. My eyes are stinging and dry from crying. My heart is heavy. But I feel a sense of joy and gratitude I haven’t felt in a long time.

My friend Dany died last Wednesday at fifty-four years old. He lost a seven-year battle with leukemia. They gave him six months, he lasted six and a half years beyond that. Today, at his service, I saw why.

There was more love in that tiny old building that I’ve seen anywhere, ever. The people who spoke, what they said, the service wasn’t somber, it was a celebration of someone very special. While we all cried throughout, it was clear we were celebrating Dany. What he gave to his family and the world around him. His father spoke, his mother spoke, his best friend led the ceremony; another good friend played a song he’d written for him. His wife spoke. His son, Bronson, spoke.

It was after his son spoke that I saw the true heart of Dany Walker. He raised his son to be a man. And today, I saw a boy I’ve known since he was five step into the shoes of an adult. Today, Bronson became a man at twenty.

Quiet, self-confident, Bronson spoke of how recently his father told him that he was ready to face life without him. That he’d brought him up and he’d made sure he’d be okay. He told his son he was ready to stand on his own. That his job was done.

Dany was diagnosed with leukemia seven years ago. He fought with every fiber of his being to stay for six and a half more years. He wasn’t done. Bronson was still a boy, his wife Peggy, needed him. Dany had more to do. So he endured more pain, more procedures and more time in the hospital than is nearly humanly possible. And he did it all for his son and for his Peggy, the love of his life.

Dany and Peggy shared an extraordinary bond. It is rare to witness a love such as these two shared. Rare. They gazed at each other as if they shared a secret; a joyous, passionate secret. They gave off love like a blast furnace gives off heat. Not only do I grieve the loss of this wonderful man, I grieve for the loss of that connection. A connection so rare and so powerful, most people don’t get the privilege to experience it. But Dany and Peggy were blessed.

They ended their time together much in the same way they started it. Holding each other, loving each other. It was just the two of them, alone in their bedroom. He was weak, his sturdy frame reduced to a mere eighty-five pounds. Peggy held him. He said, “I feel a string, it’s pulling on me, pulling on me.” She said, “No reason to stay honey, you go on.” A minute or so later, he died, right there in her arms. Peggy was so grateful to be there. So grateful to hold him to the end. So grateful she’d been able to have seven more years with him. So grateful for every moment she got to spend with him.

Funerals are for the living. They are a place to mourn, a place to celebrate, a place to reflect on our own lives. The service today slapped me in the face. I’ve been brooding lately; dealing with some childhood issues in therapy; my husband has been out of work for some time, our savings are dwindling; we’re scared. But what I saw today reminded me that all my fears are meaningless. What I realized today is that none of the things I’ve been worried about mean anything. What I realized today is that I have what Peggy and Dany shared. My connection to my husband is amazing. He truly is a dream. He’s strong and capable and funny and witty and charming and he loves me like no one else ever has. No one looks at me the way he does. No one but him.

And today, I got to go home with my husband to our home. Peggy went home to an empty bed; a closet full of Dany’s clothes; drawers still full of his things. A home full of memories, a home they built together. While the son is down the hall tonight, the other rooms are filled with relatives from out of town, shortly, everyone will return to their lives, leaving Peggy to pick up the pieces of hers. She’ll return home after work and Dany will not be there. On her birthday, he won’t be there to cook her a fantastic meal, tell her how much he loves her. She will live out her life without Dany by her side. While I believe eventually she’ll find companionship, the new man will not be Dany.

But I still have my Frank. Frank will be there when I wake up and when I go to bed at night. He’ll be eating all my chocolate, making faces at me on the other side of the glass when I’m cleaning the windows. He’ll be there to hold me when I get a rejection letter from a publisher. He will be there.

And I am so very grateful. So incredibly grateful. All my problems lessened today. Today I realized that I have no problems.

It’s a perspective I don’t want to lose. I don’t want to go back to taking things for granted. I want to realize how special today is. I want to feel grateful when I take my daily walk with Frank by my side. I want to feel grateful even when he pisses me off and I feel like clobbering him over the head with something. I want to realize how special and wonderful every day is with him. How lucky I am.

And I want to thank Dany Walker for waking me up to the Real Truth: there is only one real thing in our world. It is our connection to others. Period. All the rest is bulls**t.

My love and prayers go out to Dany’s widow and his son, step-daughter and son-in-law; his parents and family and friends; to everyone who was blessed enough to have the man touch their lives. And I want to thank Dany for being such a great friend to me; such a great father to my friend Bronson; such a great husband to my friend Peggy and such a great person in general.

If only all of us could have such a legacy.

©2008, Janet Periat

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