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.