Community - To the End and Beyond 12-11-9

Anderson, South Carolina

Perhaps the greatest fear we have in life is of dying alone, being soon forgotten by those still embracing the breath of life. In individualistic societies, especially the American one, dying alone in an institution is the norm for most of us; eighty percent of us go this way. Death is something not to be embraced, talked about, or witnessed. We frantically cling to evanescent youth and vitality with our bottles of Oil of Olay, liposuction, Botox, and catastrophically expensive ‘plastic’ surgeries.

Our heroes are young over-energized athletes and entertainers. Where else but in America could a young athlete amass a billion dollar fortune just because he can consistently pound little white balls into tiny tin metal cups set into the ground? Our heroes are there for the good times of youth, but what happens when our good times are all gone away? When the wrinkles on our faces are looking like the San Andreas Fault?

Eight years ago we received a costly lesson in who the true heroes in America are - blue collar guys that haul hoses up into burning buildings, without return tickets; cops who set aside personal interests and put their lives on the line that day, and still do. Even recently, four underpaid officers died, merely doing their paperwork in each other’s company in a small Washington diner. An angry malcontent didn’t know who the real heroes were in life. Many of the rest of us don’t either. The heroic lessons of 9/11 were long forgotten as we frantically flipped houses, swapped wives, traded cars, changed jobs, rooted for our favorite teams, and leveraged the financial future of generations, trying to find a short cut to the good life.

For thirty years it has been an important part of my journey to travel with those who are preparing for their departures from this life. On any given day thousands of people say their final farewells to life. I seem to have been with dozens of them over the years. At one time I even bought an airline ticket for a young girl so she could see the castles of Europe before her number was called. She never made it to the castles. Some processes are far more efficient than we would like. She was but 23 at the end.

In intensive care units, hospices, and darkened back rooms in houses, amazing things happen, magical things, authentic things. One can find people who are living fully, completely in the moment, mindfully and present. Cell phones are turned off. TVs on the wall are muted, if not turned off. Pools of warm, even visceral hot community erupts between cold walls of institutional indifference. Hugging, holding, shedding searing tears, wailing, laughing, telling jokes, we ride the roller coaster of emotional tsunami to the very end. Masks left at the door, we dare to bare our authentic selves to each other. Transparency allows us to see clearly what matters in this short brief journey through life. We realize we take nothing with us but each other. Petty differences are cast aside, similarities embraced. We experience the distilled essence of community at its best, tribal, primitive, unpredictable, intense, so real.

The past year has included way too many visits to intensive care cubicles, mortuaries, churches, cemeteries, and darkened houses. What I don’t remember from any of those experiences whatever are the brands of clothing people were wearing. I never saw what anybody was driving. No one asked me what I was driving. We were quite happy to eat dried out sandwiches from a nearby fast food joint. At times a Styrofoam cup of water was like an elixir. I don’t remember much professional and social posturing going on either. It seems we just stood around and relished each other’s presence, often wishing we would get together more often, wondering why we only get together for weddings and funerals. What remains of my family has not been together since Mom’s funeral thirteen years ago. Money and time are not issues. It just isn’t a priority; a reality that has rubbed my soul raw for more than a decade.

A very dear friend of mine for twenty years has just admitted her mother to hospice care after a violent stroke robbed her of her vitality. Suddenly demanding academic and committee schedules just don’t matter much. Power wars in faculty senate are now lame. There is time for out of town journeys, lengthy phone calls, even generously worded e-mails. Terms of endearment are suddenly part of shared vocabularies. It’s permissible to call at weird times of day and night. We don’t sweat the minutes used on the cell phone during daytime hours. Suddenly, it’s imperative to reach out and touch someone. We have entered into that space where community is everything. A popular sound byte in the land since the Clinton era has been, “It takes a village to raise a child.” It also takes a village to die well. The intense community that sprouts in the warrens of hospital waiting rooms makes hard farewells much easier. A problem shared is a problem half solved. Letting our loved ones cross the street into the unknown is a hard thing, made easier by holding hands and looking both ways.

Saturday night after completing my responsibilities in the community playhouse, I was traveling back to my house when the phone rang. It was time to attend the departure of another dear friend. Shirley’s grown children from other states had already gathered. Going from the magic and illusion of theater to the holographic reality of Hospice, I found myself in the midst of others where silence was comfortable, not disquieting. Mindfulness and presence proved easy; there was really nothing else that mattered. Two days ago we celebrated this gracious mother’s departure with a burial mass and then set her in gentle repose in a mausoleum colorfully decorated for the holidays. The enduring and powerful message of the Christmas Child reached across the abyss into the scree of our collective grief.

The next several days revealed who the unsung heroes of our lives really are. Hospice workers were busy cleaning the house, removing all the durable detritus of long-term care, adjustable bed, wheelchairs, bed tables, oxygen concentrators, bags of mattress pads and medical supplies. A nurse peeled the Do Not Resuscitate Order off the wall in the front hall. The husband of another care giver was cleaning up the yard after a heavy storm had passed through. Yet another unseen hero was cleaning kitchen cabinets. These gentle loving souls were acting as community to the very end and beyond. They personified the concept of walking the second mile, doing far beyond what was required. A week out these nurses and caregivers are bringing a newly unmarried man a hot meal each day. After fifty-four years of teamwork, it is a major challenge to negotiate life without team mates and unsung heroes.

Is your favorite sports hero going to sit with you all night for months or years? Come visit you at the end? You might want to think about spending times with your kids and spouse instead of ESPN. It might make all the difference in the world … in the end. Just ask Shirley when you next see her.