The Pale Horse
I have confronted death on many occasions in my life—too many for someone as young as I am. I have come close to death on many occasions myself and have witnessed friends dying—up close and personal. Being no stranger to death, I have no fear of it either. Although it might shock some of you, death has often been a comforting contemplation—an ‘ace in the hole’ if you will—that final contingency plan that I could count on if all else failed. I would take the thought out and caress it lovingly: if life becomes too unbearable, I will simply check out. It was always my favorite secret.
My grandmother died when was ten years old, which was my first real experience with death. Too young to really process the implications of what had occurred, I knew, fundamentally, that she was no longer around—that we would no longer take trips to visit her. When the call came that my grandmother was ill and likely to die, I put on quite an act, begging my mother to take me to the funeral. It was the first time I remember telling an outright lie. I sobbed uncontrollably—real tears— revealing to my mother that I couldn’t bear the thought of never saying goodbye to my beloved grandmother in person. But the reality was that I was hysterical at the mere thought of my mother leaving me alone with my father; even her sleeping presence served as my protector. I was terrified of what might happen if I was left alone with my father. The performance was convincing—my mother took me to the funeral with her, where I cried appropriately, even though I didn’t experience a sense of real loss at that time.
My second experience with death was far more profound. I was fifteen and my older sister had gone on vacation before her senior year with two close friends, where they planned to spend a week exploring the Oregon coast. The night before they were to return, a call came in late at night; Noelle’s close friend and traveling companion, John, had died that day. While exploring the big rocks on the Oregon coastline, John had climbed a huge one and when the tide came in suddenly, he found himself trapped on the rock, which would be fully covered when the tide came in. Being from Montana and unfamiliar with the power of the sea’s dominant tides, John jumped off the rock. They never found his body.
I really grieved for John—not because he was that close to me (after all, I was just a pesky little sister) but because I was old enough to understand what loss meant. I finally understood that death could and would take people I loved away from me—and when that happened, it was final. I faced my own mortality that day, realizing I would one day die. More strikingly, I realized that I had some power to control my death.
Death was pervasive in my twenties; when you are using drugs, death becomes a normal part of your lifestyle. My first experience with death, up close, occurred while at a party with my friend, Crawford. Crawford had a fondness for pills—and she liked the pills better if she mixed them with alcohol. Crawford was often seen wandering around at clubs and parties in a drug and alcohol induced stupor, so I didn’t think much of it when I saw her slumped at the party. Music was blaring—I marveled at how she could possibly sleep through the din. A couple hours later, I saw Crawford still slumped in the same position but I didn’t investigate. Glancing over once more right before I left to go home, I shrugged. That was Crawford. The next day, I learned she’d died of an overdose of valium and alcohol.
After Crawford, it seemed the death was everywhere. Gomez shot himself in the head, Dennis—one of my favorite bartenders from The Hotel Utah, died of a heroin overdose, and then all of a sudden AIDS hit San Francisco with all the vengeance of a serial killer. It seemed almost every week, I learned of someone else had succumbed to the disease. I had a song that ran through my brain in those days.
“Crawford dead, Gomez dead, Dennis dead, Kent dead, and all is red, in my head.”
Death jaded me.
The funny thing about heroin addiction—when you stop using, adversities happen much less frequently. Since my recovery, I no longer have to worry about warrants for my arrest, severe health problems, and death has not featured prominently in my life. Until now.
The conversation began while Les and I were vacationing in Maine a few weeks ago. We were relaxing out on the deck, listening to the Red Sox game on the radio when my mother's call came in. I’d mentioned to her that she should call while we were on vacation up in Maine; she wanted to discuss some serious business. After the usual brief small talk concerning Maine versus Montana weather, the talk turned to suicide. My mom’s suicide, that is.
I guess by now most of you understand that life within my family has never been the typical ‘Brady Bunch experience.’ Our family has a screw loose. In fact, years earlier, my mother’s exact words upon hearing that I was involved with drugs were, “You cannot afford to mess with drugs! This family has a screw loose.”
At this point, I am sure that most of you are quite confused—my mother’s suicide? To clarify, my mother has been talking about suicide for about the last ten years. Her greatest fear is developing Alzheimer ’s disease and with each passing year, her fears intensify. Indeed, she saw her own mother develop the beginnings of Alzheimer’s disease, which never manifested, due to the occurrence of cancer that spared her the indignity of becoming of becoming lost to dementia. My mother saw the same occurrence of Alzheimer’s disease in other family members, uncles and aunts—all on her mother’s side—nearly all developed the disease. My mom simply does not want to spend her final days in a confused haze of mental instability and I don’t blame her. Not one bit.
So, my mother used to belong to the Hemlock society—she still would if it were still in existence. If you aren’t familiar with the group—a brief explanation is that they are devoted to ‘the good death’—meaning they support each person’s right to die with dignity, which is my mother’s wish (and actually mine too) for her.
So, there I was, looking out on the pristine beauty of the surrounding forest and seaside, having a conversation with my mother about whether or not it would be possible for my sister and me to be there for the final act of my mother’s life. With the inane chatter of the Red Sox announcers as my backdrop, tears slide silently down my cheeks as I tell my beloved mom, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. If you want me there, I’m there—if you don’t, I’ll stay away.”
It’s going to be hard when I lose my mom. For much of my life, she was my only and biggest champion. She tried numerous times to help me during my years of addiction, when I caused her enormous heartache and pain; what unimaginable suffering she must have endured knowing her daughter was piercing herself to get high on heroin. When I finally got clean, it was her suggestion that I move back to Bozeman to attend college. I lived in her rental unit, completely free for the entire four years of my undergraduate education. The greatest gift of my recovery has been seeing the joy it has brought to my mother and the true relationship we formed—of people who truly know and love each other. She is far more than just my mother: she is my friend, she is my mentor, she is a role model, as well as a spiritual advisor.
My mother reads every blog entry I write. I love you mom—whatever you need to do, I’m there for you.
Peace,
Melinda
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Categories: Friendship,Reflections,Childhood,Death,Childhood Sexual Abuse,Addiction and Recovery,Life
Tags: Losing Loved Ones Alzheimer's Disease Death Confronting Death Hemlock Society
Beautiful tribute to your mom, Melinda, made me think of mine. Your "if life becomes too unbearable..." reminds me of something in Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse, where the protagonist refers to suicide as the "emergency exit." When I read that, as a fucked up college student, I found it rather comforting.
This post also reminds me of Jim Carroll, who died this week (though Patrick Swayze got all the press), and his song "People Who Died." You know that one?
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Wow, Jay--I've been so busy this week, with school starting up again that I didn't even realize that Jim Carroll had died! I'll have to google that next. I know his music very well--saw him many times at the Mab in SF and also was at a few parties that he also attended.
That song, "People Who Died" spoke to me more than any other piece of music at one point--I have never related more to any one song, really.
Melinda
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This was an amazing post. Death is such a strange thing. Frightening, but deliberating at the same time.
I experienced death up close a few years ago. An aunt of mine, had a very aggressive form of cancer. She got cured, but a year later it was back and this time in her bones. No turning back, only one destination ahead. Oh she fought a hard and difficult battle and I still admire her for that. And... I don't know why, but it was very, very difficult for me to cope with it. I stayed home quite often from work, because I woke up crying and felt miserable. I was lucky that my manager understood it. She died four months later after the second diagnose. It was difficult to see her just fade away and get that 'distant' look in her eyes. I wrote a poem for her. It's still a bit difficult to see her on video's/pictures, but with time it gets better.
I wish everyone and myself to leave this world in a peaceful way. Your mom sounds like a really strong and brave woman! It isn't easy to talk about death, and her reasons why she talks about her suicide are totally understandable. To live your last moments on earth not knowing who you are or what you've done in your life...that can be unbearable. I wish your mom all the best!
Thanks for sharing! Ciao!!
PS: Thanks so much for your lovely comment on my blog! I'll comment on it later on ^_^! *waves*
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Hi TJ,
I can really understand your reaction to your aunt's death--it is extremely hard to lose someone you love and I think it is particularly hard the first time you lose someone close to you. By this point, I have become rather jaded--but that doesn't mean that I don't miss the people I have lost.
I actually changed my view of life after death during the 80's when I lost so many friends. I simply couldn't bear the thought of losing those people forever so I began thinking that we would meet in some kind of spirit form later on. The thought has actually given me quite a bit of comfort.
Thanks so much for stopping by! And as for the comment I left on your blog--I really meant every word. You are such a talented writer and artist--I could easily see your work published!
Melinda
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You're really really sweet! You know, I do hope one day we can meet up or something ^_^! A little jam session, popcorn and so on haha.
Yeah you get another perspective if death happens around you so many times. It's a nice thought to think we meet again in the spirit world. It makes it a bit easier indeed!
Take care! TJ
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Absolutely, TJ--I would love to meet you--and if you come to the U.S. you have a place to stay in either Boston or San Francisco. A little jam . . . a little popcorn
sounds great to me!
Melinda
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Melinda,
This was a profoundly moving post. I could feel your sense of loss at each death that touched your life. I also understand the thought that death was somehow your friend, a last sanctuary in times of unbearable pain. I have had that thought many times in my life, only in my situation, I didn't really understand what death is. As messed up as my family is, I was very sheltered and extremely naive in many ways, exposure to death being one of them. I do support a person's right to die with dignity and would never wish the pain of Alzheimer's on anyone. I think it is a testament to your good character that you put your mother's wishes above your own pain.
Beautiful written and moving. Thank you for sharing with us. --ST
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Hey ST,
Death is a very difficult subject for most people--most people, I believe push it to the furthest recesses of their minds whenever they start thinking of it. Most people fear death--it is unknown--and the unknown is always fearful. However, I lost that fear when I overdosed on heroin the first time--because it was absolutely the most peaceful feeling I have ever had (of course, I recognize that could have been the drugs!).
Thank you so much for your thoughts--
Melinda
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That was a really touching narrative. yes i agree everyone wants to die in peace even i do. I know that one day everyone has to die, all the near and dear ones (including myself). But the very thought bring shock waves in my whole body. I feel as i would be lost in this madening crowd like a small baby lost in the fair.
Hope u never see that day and your mother goes away in peace.
take care
harneet
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Harneet,
How nice to see you! Thanks for coming by. Your comments about death are very wise--thank you again.
Take care,
Melinda
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You're fortunate to have such a wonderful mother. She sounds, as you do, like a warrior. My wish for your mother is that her fears are unfounded and that she does not develop Alzheimers.
As hard as it is to lose anyone you love, I'm all for people having the right to exit stage left if faced with something as debilitating as Alzheimers. I too, have seen what it can do to a person.
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Svasti--
I am so lucky to have the mother I do--she is pretty amazing! So far, I do not believe my mother has Alzheimer's disease. I have a lot of knowledge of this particular disease because of my background in psychology and I know what the signs are. She doesn't seem to have those signs to me--but of course, her memory is getting worse as does everyone's as they become older.
Hopefully, they will come up with much more effective treatments than they currently have--although they have come quite a ways.
Melinda
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I know that comforting feeling. The scars on my arms are just thin silver lines, now...almost unnoticeable after all these years, but they still serve as a tangible reminder of that "emergency exit."
I don't discuss the topic with others...they don't understand, they get alarmed. They fear death.
I can truly empathize with your mother. Alzheimer's does not run in my family but, like your mother, I would rather control the time and circumstances of my passing than fade away, lost even to myself.
That a condition runs in the family, however, is no guarantee that she will get it. Both of my husband's parents are diabetic...my husband is diabetic...but his brother is not. If I were a praying kind of woman, I would pray that your mother is spared Alzheimer's as my BIL has been spared diabetes. That is my wish for her...and for you.
Please do not let her fear cause her to take premature action where it could well be unnecessary. Your mother sounds like an awesome woman and you two deserve many more quality years together.
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You raise some great points, Sweet Violet--and I agree with you. My mother is at 'high risk' I would say but that is not a guarantee. One thing that research definitely shows is that if people stay mentally active in their older years, then they have much less likelihood of developing the disease--and my mother is very active mentally (and physically for that matter!).
I definitely work on not letting her fear cause her undue panic. Both my sister and I are both constantly telling her that we don't think she has Alzheimer's disease!
Thanks so much for stopping by--
Melinda
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Melinda, As you have mentioned above that your mother also reads your blog, therefore, I would like to avail this oppertunity and speak directory to your loving, caring and wonderful mother:
"O mother! Although, you don't write in this blog, but we can still feel your presence in these entries by Melinda.
Melinda, Melindaville and we all still need your shade, your love and your well wishes. I wish and I hope with your own daughter working to save precious human lives, you mother of Melinda would not die an undignified death."
Melinda, I believe that we are going to meet in an other world.
Thank you Melinda for reminding me even my own death.
May you live long, Melinda.
Your Reader,
Ibn Hanif
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Melinda, As you have mentioned above that your mother also reads your blog, therefore, I would like to avail this oppertunity and speak directory to your loving, caring and wonderful mother:
"O mother! Although, you don't write in this blog, but we can still feel your presence in these entries by Melinda.
Melinda, Melindaville and we all still need your shade, your love and your well wishes. I wish and I hope with your own daughter working to save precious human lives, you mother of Melinda would not die an undignified death."
Melinda, I believe that we are going to meet in an other world.
Thank you Melinda for reminding me even my own death.
May you live long, Melinda.
Your Reader,
Ibn Hanif
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Ibn Hanif
I also believe that we will meet again in another world--it is such a comforting thought, isn't it? Thank you so much for your sweet comments--they mean so much to me. I am fortunate to have you as my friend.
Melinda
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Death has never meant rest or repose to me. I've always viewed it as the ultimate killjoy. It's like Mr. Cutler, the old grump who lived next door to me in Brooklyn, who'd chase us kids away with a bat every time he heard us laughing and playing outside his door. But the thought of death is something else. It certainly gives you a perspective on things. Seeing a body in a casket is a great reminder to be grateful for every remaining breath you have.
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Hey NP--
Thanks for stopping by--
I really agree about gratitude--that is just so important. When I think back to that terrible day when I tried so hard to end my life, I marvel at how lucky I really was--and today, I really do understand that life is a gift.
Melinda
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Really great post Melindy, hard for me to write in any great detail about the matter at this moment in time, with what is going on with the mumborg.
Just wanted to let you know that I read and enjoyed it.
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Thank you so much, Claire--I am so sorry to hear about your mum--I shall have to check in with A Little Piece of Me to learn more about what is going on.
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your mum--as well as your entire family.
Melinda
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My Mother and I had a very close relationship.When it became clear that Mum's cancer was terminal we talked a lot about death,the possibility of euthanasia, her funeral plans and everything under the sun. It is good for both of you that you can talk so openly with your Mother about death and her wishes. Can you hug your Mother for me Melinda because just writing this comment has made me cry with the strength of my pain at how much I miss my Mum.
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Oh Kim,
I'm so sorry for your loss--I know that it will be extremely hard for me when I lose my mother so I can imagine what kind of pain that is still with you. I think there's nothing quite like losing a parent--and particularly a mother. What I will remember when that happens is how lucky I was to have had her in my life--when so many people are not nearly lucky enough to have a relationship like that with their mothers.
I will most definitely hug my mom for you, Kim--and take care of yourself. Thanks for stopping by--
Melinda
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I have had a hard time keeping up with my favorite bloggers, Melinda. I've had many freelance assignments lately. It's hard to shift gears even when I do have time. I've missed reading your blog.
I echo your sentiment - losing my mom almost feels unbearable. I often wonder, why our mothers must ever die. But, that is me - asking impossible questions. I love it when you write about your ma. I feel like she's right there. Her spirit is strong!
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Hi Jen,
So nice to see you again! And please do not apologize! I am honored that you find the time to visit my blog at all--with how busy you are!
I so agree with you on mothers--even the thought of losing my mom brings tears to my eyes. I hope that won't happen for quite some time--because it will be one of the most difficult losses ever--I know that already.
Thanks for stopping by!
Melinda
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Hey there, I'm just catching up with your blog and love love love your last 2 entries. This one about your mom made me cry and the one about NYC and the wild women made me realize again how lucky you are to have lived through it all.
xx
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Sheena,
It must be old home week because I'm seeing a few people I haven't seen around Melindaville for a while. It's great to see you. Yes, the one about my mom made me cry when I was writing it and not a day goes by that I am not thankful for the gift that is my life.
I'm grateful for all my friends in the blogosphere too! Take care--and don't be a stranger!
Melinda
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Wow, Melinda, of all your posts this one is the most powerful for me. Part narrative, part confessional, part private letter...it is stark and sweet and surreal. And splendid.
You are your mother's daughter and you will know what to do.
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Thank you so much, Lydia--of all the posts I have written, this was the most powerful for me to write as well--I was torn up when I finished . . .
Melinda
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Melinda, I am once more back on this very post of your blog just to say thanks and appreciate the way you respond to the views of your readers. While learning many other lessons from your blog and your experience as a psychologt, I am also learning how to become a successful, and sincere blogger.
Thanks to this comment and entries subscription check bow wich enables me to read all of your posts and comments in my mail box.
I wish you all the best, Melinda.
Peace,
Ibn Hanif
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Aw, shucks, PT! You are going to give me a big head!
Melinda
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