My first experience with death was incidentally the first time I was put into my place as a woman. It was the death of my 95-year-old great-grandmother. I don’t remember her face but I recall her presence. I was born to a home just around the corner from her and I was only 4 at the time of her death. I remember going into the funeral parlor – one of two that would be frequented commonly by my friends and family in our small town. I was not allowed in the main viewing area and instead sat in a front room with my dolls and the man that would take over this funeral home decades down the line. To follow, we were at my grandparents’ house with all these antiques lining tables. The “Big 6” as I liked to call them, were all there. My father, his sibling and their four male cousins on that side. Later in time there would be a male-like figure that didn’t quite fit with the Big 6 and wasn’t always there. Once I was older, she began to come around more, I learned this was my father’s only female cousin on that side, and it began to make more sense. What I learned in this experience was what it meant to be a woman growing up in my family – which is that no matter how hard I tried, it could never be enough. You see, my grandfather had attended an all-male college with both of his sons a nearby rival school instead. One of the Big 6 had attended, in these moments, he was always shown favor – the psychology major’s moment to shine, I suppose. Anyways, that day they were giving my two siblings and one male cousin a hard time about the potential of them attending said all male school – by this era, nearly no one was interested in anything but unisex experience. I chimed in with how I would attend that school and become a doctor, and in my spirit I added and carry on the good work of the family and make my grandfather proud. At that point it was snickers all around. My grandfather came to my level in attempt to explain this was an all-male college and I wouldn’t be allowed to attend. My then precocious self exclaimed, “I don’t care, I’m going to do it anyway!” And my grandfather just smiled. Unfortunately, the Big 6 had erupted into laughter with this and what I overheard them whisper to one another was “what she doesn’t know is that would make him more ashamed than anything.” Core memory activated.
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My next two experiences with death would come in the same year occurring during second grade. The first was the other great-grandmother I had the fortune of knowing and having regular interactions. She was ninety-nine and had fallen to break her hip – a story that leads to the demise of many late-stage deaths. For whatever reason, someone decided I was old enough to say goodbye to the physical body that had housed my nana. What I can tell you of that was that a person of her age and frailty looked no different in a coffin than she had in her chair at our weekly visits. And her withered and wrinkled skin was cold and firm to the touch, but no more than it had been This induced my night terrors of her attempts to claw her own way out of her coffin – no cinema needed, my brain thought up that one all its own. I always wonder, had that been able to be avoided would someone have explained the embalming process to this obviously precarious young girl, maybe I would not have had those fears. Even at the age of nanna’s death, I will always remember witnessing the deep sorrow of my mammaw and her sister. I can picture her bringing that handkerchief to the corner of her eye so vividly.
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Later that same school year it was the death of my first dog that would create severe eternal contemplation. This cocker spaniel had been with us my whole life. She was approaching fourteen years old, and her hind legs were starting to give out. My parents would later share that they prayed over her every night that she would go in her sleep, alas, the decision had to be made. So, my parents planned the one and only Spring break trip we ever had – my father is a CPA and break is in the middle of the heat if tax season. My grandmother drove down with us and we flew her home while simultaneously flying dad down to Florida for the last weekend. And in all of their emotional intelligence my parents did this and still told us the plan to put her down the night before we left. Instead of reminding us she is old and might die, they told us she was so we could say our goodbyes –perhaps appropriate for my brothers whose ages were six and eight years above mine. That morning before we ran out to the school bus, as we were saying our final farewells, my what I describe as “aemotional” younger older brother and really my security person, fell into a puddle of tears and I didn’t know what I was to do. I can tell you with as much vivid visual imagery as I have experienced in my life, I don’t remember a damn thing from that trip other than my father walking down the tarmac. An official representation it was done and my dog was dead. This is the death that began to shake the ground of my faith. A faith that was bragged upon by others. That’s what happens when you are around conservative Presbyterian men who are more concerned with arguing the indoctrination of their own theology than the comforting of an innocent child. For those who practice or have been exposed – I of course am referring to the argument of whether animals are in the after-life referred to as “Heaven”. For the record – in the Presbyterian Church it should be known that animals do not have souls and therefore will not be in heaven. My mother tried the consolation of her belief to little avail. She attempted to share the thought since they didn’t have souls they automatically passed to Spiritual Nirvana because they hadn’t fallen to begin. My mind had silenced her, the patriarchy was speaking at the fear of the wrath of God, hush.
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The death that would have most significance on my life would occur in February of my 8th grade year. It had only been in the past two years that I have realized when my grandfather died there was a part of my soul that completely stopped spinning on it’s axis altogether. Like, everyone around me just kept going and their worlds kept moving, and mine just ceased. I am not certain this was in any way avoidable. I lived my whole life waiting for him to die. An amazing core memory that I can pull from is the resilience that comes from my extended family when we stay and rally behind one another. I knew I came from fighters and survivors. This memory comes from before I began to second guess myself as a woman and can only be described as pure bliss. About three and a half, my mother’s parents moved to a single-story small ranch which I grew to adore. The move took place while my grandfather was recovering from a heart transplant, when a hospital born infection led to a six-month stay and almost taking his life. He was one of thirteen siblings who had experienced getting behind each other when times of need arose. He witnessed the death of his own father by heart attack on their living room floor at age 11. This threw him into the tobacco addiction that led to his heart disease. The eldest three siblings, who were grown, took care of their mother and younger children. As a family, each time they would get together conversation produced would surround “who the next one to die” was. And my grandfather was next for my whole life until his death. A year and a half before my grandfather was taken, there was an accident where he was ‘supposed’ to die. He was listed as a DNR and it didn’t get passed on. He was on a ventilator and so angry to be. My science fair project that year was an investigation of which cigarette produced the most tar. I won. I can still see him coming into the school gym with a cane, only recently home from the hospital. Over the next year and half, I would spend as much time as possible with them. I remember sitting in the other room and feeling such mixed emotions. My grandfather was so hateful towards grandma out of the resentment he felt. He never wanted to be on a breathing tube again – the reason he was a DNR. I remember feeling such guilt to witness that but to not be able to help be grateful his was still there. The day he died was a Sunday. We were in church and someone happened to be in the office to take the call. We beat the ambulance to the hospital. After making the decision to tell them to stop working on him, I stood in the hallway as my mother, aunt, and grandmother went to be with him. The double doors swung open wide as I heard the flat line. The look on my mother’s face as she screamed at his death is ingrained on my memories. After a lifetime of fighting to save him, he was gone. And I was stuck like “what do we do now?” And a hole which had once been filled by his ever-present love was there for me to carry, wherever I was.
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There would be four more deaths that had incredible significance on my evolution as a grown woman. This includes the real drive to create more meaningful opportunities for individuals to participate in life after mental trials. It wasn’t until almost a decade later when I was pregnant for my first child that my mother would come to realize just how impactful her father’s death was on me. It is that same emptiness I felt that has allowed me to see a need in others. It allowed an ability for me to recognize authentic need and provide comfort through what was completely ignored for me. Outside of traumatic events, I think the hollows of grief of loss of an individual to be the most problematic in terms of finding a means to cope. The unexplainable and unresolvable nature of death creates increasing levels of inner turmoil. As we are observing a decrease in the levels of connections and a lack of meaning in relationships in modern society, I anticipate this will only become more dynamically difficult to navigate. The DSM 5 has given specific attention through the naming of Prolonged Grief Disorder (PGD) for those experiencing long-term and complicated grief. If one were to review my earliest Psychiatric assessment, there are clear indicators, this is what I was experiencing. If only they asked more of the right questions with curiosity and without agenda – maybe they would have gotten to know me and my needs. Maybe then the maltreatment they provided wouldn’t become something else I would have to one day learn to mourn.
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