One of the profound discoveries we all make as we get older is that none of us are going to make it out alive. I often tell people that I expect to live to be 120 and shot by a jealous husband. It’s a joke, son.
Somehow, I think we all know deep down that all that there is about our existence, falls into the knowledge that it is always NOW! No matter how much we want to believe differently, we come into this existence by ourselves and go out on our own. Oh sure, if we are lucky, there is someone there to help us enter into this world, and hopefully, there will be someone we love close to us as we leave this plane of the universe and enter into the next. This reality, in my opinion, is that we come in alone, and exit alone. That should not be a fearful event, but a cheerful event as we look forward to the next adventure of our spirit. I do believe that we are spiritual beings in the process of changing and experiencing this journey.
Yesterday I was reminded of that when I was suddenly summoned by the universe to contact my brother Mike. I soon found out that he was in the hospital. I had been unable to reach him or my sister-in-law, Liz due to the fact that all the telephone numbers I had were no longer in service. That alone gave me some angst. I finally sent Liz a message through a social network and shortly thereafter received a phone call. She informed me that Mike needed to be moved from the hospital in Cleveland to a rehab unit the next day, which was really a euphemism for moving him into a long care unit.\r\n\r\nI told her that I would meet her at the hospital to help in any way I could, and to see my brother, for what I was afraid would be the last time. My brother is thirteen years older than I am and was my hero as a youngster. I remember a time when he drove many hours from summer training in the reserves in Kentucky to arrive at home late at night. He was so tired that he fell asleep in the car in the driveway rather than come into the house to sleep. Been there, done that! He had bought me a rubber Indian tomahawk complete with feathers, as a present, He was probably 18-19 which would have made me five or six. I remember being so excited and felt loved
Mike, wearing his wife’s, Pat, wedding veil. He had a great sense of humor in his early years.
Seeing my brother in his condition had a profound effect on me. He was so angry at the world, his wife, Liz, the hospital staff and even me who he had not seen in several years. When I asked him for a hug as I arrived, he flatly stated that I was in cahoots with his wife, who he gave a stare of disgust and hate as we arrived. I soon realized that he was not the person I had previously known in my life. Although I allowed it to initially hurt me, I soon realized that the change that had occurred was a result of dementia, drugs, and strokes that had taken the brother I once knew. How could I be offended or angry with this new person? I quickly gained my compassion and began to rebuild a relationship with an entity that was not my brother.
Since then I have had several revelations. What grandiose ideas do I harbor that would allow me to think that I could have caused this in any way and that I needed to release my emotional attachment to the past. I was there to make a difference.
My sister Molly had reminded me earlier, that forgiving oneself means to let go of the “hope” that the past could have occurred any differently. It is that hope that we hold onto so tightly that creates the internal pain. The more I remind myself of that understanding, the more content I feel.
I have been able to spend more time with my sister in the last several weeks than in over nearly fifty years. Tonight I had the great opportunity to record her voice explaining how my family came about and some of the best stories. I will be adding that recording to this autobiography soon.
Mom, Mike, Molly, James – 1982
Mike, Pat, Kathy, young Michael
Speak no evil, see no evil, hear no evil!
That visit caused me to pay attention to how I want my later years to pan out. Sometimes examples come into our lives to show us how we don’t want things to be.
My father passed away at age 83 from a stroke. My mom had sat down and written out her goals for the next ten years, the night she passed away in her sleep. Having worked in hospitals for nearly ten years, I had experienced death on many levels. No matter how intellectually we observe death, the emotional side cannot be swept under the carpet, nor depleted from our experience. The fact that we cannot make it out alive means we need to plan for the future before our memories fail and we become a different person than we knew ourselves to be.\r\n\r\nI can only wish that I go quickly, surrounded by loved ones. In the meantime, reason dictates that plan we must.
