Last New Year’s Eve I wrote (and posted on my blog) a reflection about intentions. I said that my intention for 2008 is this: I shall always endeavor to be kind. Though I have made a real effort to live up to my intention, I have not always been successful. What I have experienced in full measure over the past few weeks following my husband’s death, however, is the kindness of others. It has been humbling for me to be the recipient of so many expressions and acts of thoughtfulness, compassion, and generosity.
I can offer many examples, but perhaps none so compelling as the care that was given Norm during the course of his illness by the staff at the residential facility where he lived for almost three years. I cannot think of many jobs that require the patience, understanding, and acceptance that these caregivers must possess. Dealing with patients who have dementia involves providing for the most intimate personal needs—bathing, feeding, dressing, and changing diapers. But it also requires a sense of humor and a quick mind, an ability to respond appropriately to sometimes extreme and absurd demands. Some patients can be agitated, hostile, or paranoid. Handling these irrational, sometimes threatening, behaviors is a huge challenge. Luckily, Norm remained sweet and happy and did not exhibit some of the more troubling symptoms that can afflict persons with Alzheimer’s disease, but during my frequent visits I observed endless acts of kindness by the staff toward patients who were confused, upset, angry, or often just depressed. These caregivers lavished their affection, even love, upon those they looked after, regardless of the severity of their condition. These remarkable women—and they were largely women—earned my unending respect and gratitude.
Then there were the volunteers and hospice workers. One volunteer came every week for months to visit with Norm, presenting him with small gifts, homemade cookies, occasionally even bringing her little dog for him to pet. One day she brought a book of Yiddish expressions which we read to Norm and which made him smile as he recalled the language his parents spoke as he was growing up. The hospice nurses, who made every effort to keep Norm comfortable during his final days, were unfailingly gentle, sweet, and loving. They also were responsive to our questions and sensitive to our needs as a family. They helped provide an atmosphere in which Norm’s death could take place painlessly and peacefully. They are a dedicated and devoted group.
The memorial service for Norm provided other examples of kindness. One of the sorrows we as a family have endured is the protracted loss of Norm as the person he once was. Over the decade of his illness, as we tried to be with him wherever and however he was at the moment, we slowly lost contact with the man he once had been. The trip our family made to La Jolla in November (see “A Fantasy Realized” on my blog) helped us recall many of his qualities, but the tributes read by family members and friends at the memorial service provided us with many more examples of the old Norm. We were reminded of his intelligence, his humor, his generosity, and the guidance and love he offered so many.
And the people who came! I had expected a small group, and had reserved what I considered an adequate space for the service. I obviously underestimated the impact my husband had on the lives of those who knew him. Not only did relatives and close friends come to honor his memory, but also former employees, business associates, professional contacts, neighbors, caregivers, hospice workers, and many others. There were not enough chairs. People had to stand in the back of the room; some could not get in at all and had to wait out in the hall. I am embarrassed not to have been aware of how much he was loved and respected by so many. I shall not forget the kindness of those who came to express their condolences.
The cards, the notes, the donations given in his memory, all have warmed my heart. The time and care so many have taken in writing of their memories and of their personal relationship with Norm is impressive. I had not known how meaningful these messages would be, but they have given me great comfort and have revived many of my own remembrances of our past together. It is a blessing to read such comments as: “I love Norm because of his ability to move from a rationalist viewpoint to a profoundly spiritual way of looking at the world”; “Norm was a ‘mensch’ and a profound thinker”; “How lucky we are to know his influence every day”; “Norman was one of the greatest human beings I’ve ever been lucky enough to know”; “His warmth, wit, intellect, and the twinkle in his eye will be missed by so many”; “Norm has had a profound impact on our lives”; “Norm achieved what we all pray for in this life, which is to leave a special mark upon this earth and to somehow make it better for having been here”; and on and on. I had not really appreciated how much positive influence he had on others, so I am grateful to have all these thoughts written down. They help keep alive the memory of the man I was married to for so long.
There are still other examples of kindness and generosity. There were fruit and cheese baskets delivered to us. There were beautiful flower arrangements that graced our home. One friend, a massage therapist, gave me a massage in the week following Norm’s death—a most welcome time of relaxation. The eulogies written and read at the service were especially moving, and the absolutely spectacular meal enjoyed by family and friends at our home after the memorial service was prepared, served, and donated by our very dear friend Tim—an extraordinarily generous gift.
So, a time of sorrow and loss has also been a time of healing, of rejoicing, of sharing memories, of renewing old friendships, and a time of realizing once again the power of simple kindness. I am encouraged by the examples of others to rekindle my determination to follow my stated intention, to always endeavor to be kind.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
NORM'S DEATH
My husband Norman Friedman died early in the morning of March 29, 2008. In many respects he had been leaving us for a decade, his formidable intellect slowly consumed by the mysterious plaques and tangles that clutter the brains of those with Alzheimer’s disease. In the beginning we noticed occasional bizarre behavior, small memory lapses, endless repetitions, and a loss of appropriate affect. As the disease progressed, he experienced greater cognitive failures, was unable to make decisions, could not drive or dress himself. In time it became necessary to place him in a residential facility so he could get the care I could no longer provide at home. In spite of these fearsome losses, however, something of Norm’s true essence remained until the very end of his life.
Through the long years of his illness, he retained his sense of humor, his gentleness, his basic kindness, his concern for others, his generous heart, and most of all, his love of family. His eyes always lit up and he smiled his friendly smile when any of us entered the room. He began to say “I love you,” to me, words he had rarely spoken earlier in our marriage. On those occasions when he could not speak, he stared intensely into my eyes, wordlessly communicating his inexpressible love. When I frequently asked if he had any complaints, he always assured me that no, no complaints, that everyone was always good to him, and that furthermore, he was the “luckiest man in the world.” I also often asked what made him so happy. Sometimes it was because I was there with him, or because he had such a wonderful family, but other times he would just smile and say, “I’m breathing.” Though seriously impaired from an intellectual standpoint, Norm obviously found great joy in the ordinary pleasures of his life. Simply breathing was enough.
Toward the end Norm rarely uttered any sentences that made sense, but on the Sunday before he died, he startled me by giving a lucid response to a question that I posed when I noticed that he did not look well. I asked, “What is happening with you, Norm?” He answered firmly and distinctly, “It’s better you don’t know.” In retrospect it seems clear that he was aware that he was nearing the end of his life and wished to protect me from that knowledge. From that day forward, until the early morning hours of the following Saturday, when he drew his last breath, he refused further food or drink and slowly sank into a coma. His soul apparently had made a certain decision to pass on to another reality.
Those of you who have read Norm’s book Bridging Science and Spirit, or who have discussed the topic with him, are aware that he had a belief, based on his readings in physics and mysticism and the Seth material, that consciousness survives the death of the physical body. He particularly admired the work of the physicist David Bohm, who described two basic levels of reality. As Norm writes: The first level is the explicate order: our everyday world, where physics normally plies its trade. …The second level, the implicate order, contains all possibilities and probabilities. In this region, consciousness takes the form of waves rather than particles. The implicate order is whole, seamless, unbroken. To use a musical analogy, the implicate order contains all the possible music to be played. It was Norm’s conviction that each individual consciousness returns to the great ocean of possibilities and probabilities as described by Bohm. The implicate order is not heaven in the traditional sense, of course, but is a hidden domain where all things are possible. We who loved Norm fantasize that he can now enjoy endless conversations with his idol David Bohm.
Following that Sunday when Norm hinted at his impending death, my family and I sat by his bed each day. Though barely responsive, during the first days he would smile weakly when I sang to him, and would attempt to pucker his lips each time I leaned over to kiss him. By Friday his breathing was accelerating and his fever was rising, so we knew the end was near. That evening we gathered in his room, our daughter Laura on one side of his bed and daughter Jenny on the other, all of us joining hands, completing our circle. We told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us; we sang Amazing Grace and also sang the song he had whistled incessantly during the past few years (for reasons we never understood), Battle Hymn of the Republic. We said goodbye.
Just before leaving the room I leaned over his bed, placed my cheek against his, and sang: Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me call you sweetheart, for you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing, in your eyes so true. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. That, plus a gentle kiss on his lips, was my final declaration of love to the man who was my husband for almost sixty years.
Two years ago, when Norm appeared to be dying (he was in hospice twice before this final time), I had made funeral arrangements, engaged interfaith minister Ted Lau to officiate at a memorial service, and indicated some writings I wished to include. So everything was in place for this inevitable event. All the grandchildren and in-laws came into town for the ceremony which was held on Tuesday, April 1, 2008, at Lupton Chapel.
The service was everything I had hoped it would be—warm, intimate, and true to Norm’s fullness as a human being. Ted Lau has read Norm’s books and therefore understands and appreciates Norm’s philosophical outlook, which he summarized in comprehensible terms. Other family members and friends read tributes, offering stories and sharing memories. He was a mentor and a role model to many young men and women who spoke lovingly of his influence in their lives. The result was a reflection of the many aspects of Norm’s intelligence and his multi-faceted personality. As I said in my tribute, Norm was a man who accomplished much and was loved by many.
My reaction to Norm’s death is one I have described as “joyful sorrow.” It is a strange, paradoxical term, but my emotions are anything but simple. I have been grieving the slow, inexorable loss of Norm for ten years. I cannot count the days I cried copious tears, wondering what was happening to the man I had loved for so long. Sometimes I was frustrated in having to deal with his failing mental and physical capacities. I was often overwhelmed with all the financial and household responsibilities thrust upon me. I was alone, and sometimes lonely. I became a virtual widow, though I still had a husband. So, in many ways, I was prepared for this final loss.
Still, I do not have a feeling of relief at Norm’s death as some have suggested. It is rather that I have a profound sense of the rightness of all that happened. The days we had with him before he died were precious, filled with love and gratitude. The testimonies of his family and friends at the memorial service were deeply moving, and the meal we shared afterwards was one he would have enjoyed. I believe that Norm had a purpose in living the final years of his life in the way he did and that his death came at a time of his choosing. In his years of dementia, though he lost his intellect, he reached a kind of purity of joy, love, acceptance, and peace that few achieve. I sometimes felt he was in a state of nirvana, or of grace. He was supremely happy, perhaps the happiest he had been in his entire life, completely free of fear, worry, or anxiety.
Knowing that Norm had developed a transcendent outlook on life brings comfort to me and my family. We feel blessed to have been a part of his life’s journey. I cannot help, therefore, but feel joyful, though naturally there is a tinge of sorrow coloring my mood and my memories. We had almost sixty years together, a good, though not perfect, marriage. I shall miss him, especially his twinkling eyes and his loving smile.
Through the long years of his illness, he retained his sense of humor, his gentleness, his basic kindness, his concern for others, his generous heart, and most of all, his love of family. His eyes always lit up and he smiled his friendly smile when any of us entered the room. He began to say “I love you,” to me, words he had rarely spoken earlier in our marriage. On those occasions when he could not speak, he stared intensely into my eyes, wordlessly communicating his inexpressible love. When I frequently asked if he had any complaints, he always assured me that no, no complaints, that everyone was always good to him, and that furthermore, he was the “luckiest man in the world.” I also often asked what made him so happy. Sometimes it was because I was there with him, or because he had such a wonderful family, but other times he would just smile and say, “I’m breathing.” Though seriously impaired from an intellectual standpoint, Norm obviously found great joy in the ordinary pleasures of his life. Simply breathing was enough.
Toward the end Norm rarely uttered any sentences that made sense, but on the Sunday before he died, he startled me by giving a lucid response to a question that I posed when I noticed that he did not look well. I asked, “What is happening with you, Norm?” He answered firmly and distinctly, “It’s better you don’t know.” In retrospect it seems clear that he was aware that he was nearing the end of his life and wished to protect me from that knowledge. From that day forward, until the early morning hours of the following Saturday, when he drew his last breath, he refused further food or drink and slowly sank into a coma. His soul apparently had made a certain decision to pass on to another reality.
Those of you who have read Norm’s book Bridging Science and Spirit, or who have discussed the topic with him, are aware that he had a belief, based on his readings in physics and mysticism and the Seth material, that consciousness survives the death of the physical body. He particularly admired the work of the physicist David Bohm, who described two basic levels of reality. As Norm writes: The first level is the explicate order: our everyday world, where physics normally plies its trade. …The second level, the implicate order, contains all possibilities and probabilities. In this region, consciousness takes the form of waves rather than particles. The implicate order is whole, seamless, unbroken. To use a musical analogy, the implicate order contains all the possible music to be played. It was Norm’s conviction that each individual consciousness returns to the great ocean of possibilities and probabilities as described by Bohm. The implicate order is not heaven in the traditional sense, of course, but is a hidden domain where all things are possible. We who loved Norm fantasize that he can now enjoy endless conversations with his idol David Bohm.
Following that Sunday when Norm hinted at his impending death, my family and I sat by his bed each day. Though barely responsive, during the first days he would smile weakly when I sang to him, and would attempt to pucker his lips each time I leaned over to kiss him. By Friday his breathing was accelerating and his fever was rising, so we knew the end was near. That evening we gathered in his room, our daughter Laura on one side of his bed and daughter Jenny on the other, all of us joining hands, completing our circle. We told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us; we sang Amazing Grace and also sang the song he had whistled incessantly during the past few years (for reasons we never understood), Battle Hymn of the Republic. We said goodbye.
Just before leaving the room I leaned over his bed, placed my cheek against his, and sang: Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me call you sweetheart, for you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing, in your eyes so true. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. That, plus a gentle kiss on his lips, was my final declaration of love to the man who was my husband for almost sixty years.
Two years ago, when Norm appeared to be dying (he was in hospice twice before this final time), I had made funeral arrangements, engaged interfaith minister Ted Lau to officiate at a memorial service, and indicated some writings I wished to include. So everything was in place for this inevitable event. All the grandchildren and in-laws came into town for the ceremony which was held on Tuesday, April 1, 2008, at Lupton Chapel.
The service was everything I had hoped it would be—warm, intimate, and true to Norm’s fullness as a human being. Ted Lau has read Norm’s books and therefore understands and appreciates Norm’s philosophical outlook, which he summarized in comprehensible terms. Other family members and friends read tributes, offering stories and sharing memories. He was a mentor and a role model to many young men and women who spoke lovingly of his influence in their lives. The result was a reflection of the many aspects of Norm’s intelligence and his multi-faceted personality. As I said in my tribute, Norm was a man who accomplished much and was loved by many.
My reaction to Norm’s death is one I have described as “joyful sorrow.” It is a strange, paradoxical term, but my emotions are anything but simple. I have been grieving the slow, inexorable loss of Norm for ten years. I cannot count the days I cried copious tears, wondering what was happening to the man I had loved for so long. Sometimes I was frustrated in having to deal with his failing mental and physical capacities. I was often overwhelmed with all the financial and household responsibilities thrust upon me. I was alone, and sometimes lonely. I became a virtual widow, though I still had a husband. So, in many ways, I was prepared for this final loss.
Still, I do not have a feeling of relief at Norm’s death as some have suggested. It is rather that I have a profound sense of the rightness of all that happened. The days we had with him before he died were precious, filled with love and gratitude. The testimonies of his family and friends at the memorial service were deeply moving, and the meal we shared afterwards was one he would have enjoyed. I believe that Norm had a purpose in living the final years of his life in the way he did and that his death came at a time of his choosing. In his years of dementia, though he lost his intellect, he reached a kind of purity of joy, love, acceptance, and peace that few achieve. I sometimes felt he was in a state of nirvana, or of grace. He was supremely happy, perhaps the happiest he had been in his entire life, completely free of fear, worry, or anxiety.
Knowing that Norm had developed a transcendent outlook on life brings comfort to me and my family. We feel blessed to have been a part of his life’s journey. I cannot help, therefore, but feel joyful, though naturally there is a tinge of sorrow coloring my mood and my memories. We had almost sixty years together, a good, though not perfect, marriage. I shall miss him, especially his twinkling eyes and his loving smile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)