The thought and fear of loss

 

“Ambivalence cannot prepare you for the certainty of death.” Dr. BLR

 

Each day should be filled with contemplation of what’s to come. Unfortunately, life has been reduced to the number of days a person has before they transition. A query on Artificial Intelligence (AI) indicates that the average person lives between 73 and 80 years, corresponding to approximately 26,645 to 29,200 days. That’s for humans. One year of a dog’s life equates to seven human years. So? Also, that sounds so morose. I know, I know. This is what happens when students try to delve into your personal life, and their inquiry prompts you to reflect. Btw, as of this writing, I have lived 22,280 days.

This topic was sparked by a conversation with a student about why I was a loner. She didn’t accept my answer that I have no friends, which is probably normal for this generation to question. (Writing this essay brought up deep feelings I had never explored, so I am appreciative of her pushing me to dive deeper.) I tried to explain that over the years I had to cut off people who were detrimental to my position in law enforcement. She couldn’t understand that I ran with some shady characters growing up because I probably seemed like a “square” in her eyes. However, it was deeper than that. My decision to become a loner stems primarily from my inability to accept the loss of people and a pet in my life. 

Growing up, I had a dog named Rusty, who was very important to me. I didn’t know the difference between a dog’s age and a human’s. When he passed away after only thirteen years with me, a hole was torn in my heart, and to this day, it remains. Although I want another dog, I can’t bring myself to own another one because of the pain I felt when Rusty died. I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone about how I felt. Still, I mourn.

After grappling with the grief of accepting Rusty’s loss, life seemed to stabilize. I had never experienced a death in the family, so I felt mentally fine. But life has a way of keeping it real. In 1993, I lost my eldest sister, Sharon, who passed away at age 33. When I say she meant the world to me, that is an understatement. She was my mentor and the reason I pursued higher education. She died from complications of Lupus, an autoimmune disease that attacks internal organs. When she died, I lost a piece of me. As she lay dying in her bed, I remembered our last conversation.

Sharon had lost the ability to speak and move her extremities, but she could still move her eyes. I walked up to her bed and said, “I know you are in a lot of pain and trying to hang on for us, but you don’t have to do it anymore.” She blinked, indicating she understood. I knew that when I left that day, it would be the last time I would see her alive, and it was. Still, I mourn.

After her passing, a few years later, I was confronted with the deaths of my cousin Vincent, who was killed by a drunk driver, and my maternal grandmother, Queen Esther. Their deaths were unexpected. Vincent was a year older, and I thought my grandmother was immortal because of the love she brought to all our lives. The last conversations I had with them had nothing to do with their inevitable deaths, so I’m left with mixed emotions. Several years later, life also ended for a few more relatives, many of whom I was very fond of. Still, I mourn.

At some point, we must all accept that human beings will die because that’s just the way it is. No religion has the superpower to change the course of life, no matter what you believe. I accepted this truism. Nevertheless, nothing will ever prepare you for the passing of a parent, especially the person who gave birth to you and was the most important in your life. 

My mother was a chronic smoker, and I argued with her on numerous occasions to quit, but she couldn’t break the habit. She developed bladder cancer, and no intervention could save her. She passed away at 75, and for a time, my life stopped. She wasn’t supposed to die. I had so much more to ask her and needed more time with her. Still, I mourn.

My remaining siblings and I marched on, trying to keep a tight formation, but it wasn’t easy to live in different states. Fortunately, social media and FaceTime helped bridge the distance. Then the unexpected happened. COVID. No one could grasp the gravity of this epidemic, which would bring the world to a halt. Many families lost loved ones. It was during this time that my sister, Denita, died in her sleep. This hit us out of nowhere. She wasn’t sick and was in relatively good health. Her passing was confusing to me. While she was no longer with us, she died most peacefully. There was no pain or hospital stay. If we have to go, there is no better way than that. Still, I mourn.

Of the original five who grew up in our household, only my twin brother, Aaron, and I remained. Having gone through so much, we maintained a bond. I had expected him to move back to Mom’s house after he retired and for us to grow old together, but that was not to be. Aaron fell ill and was hospitalized for a few months. I watched him waste away as his body betrayed him, just as it had with Mom and Sharon. As the last sibling, I was devastated to know I’d never again have the chance to see them or hear their voices. Thinking about my situation, I reflect on a song in the play Les Misérables, “Empty Chairs, Empty Tables.” There’s a verse that goes, “Oh my friends, my friends forgive me -That I live, and you are gone -There’s a grief that can’t be spoken-There’s a pain goes on and on.” Say less.

Looking back, I had several childhood friends who helped me through some of the grieving, but they, too, had passed away. I then wanted to lean on friends I had nurtured during my law enforcement career. These were friendships I believed would last a long time. However, even though I went out of my way to be involved in their lives, they didn’t feel the need to return the compassion when I was in despair. I am genuinely disappointed in them, but it was their decision. 

When I try to answer my student’s question about why I’m a loner, I've never found it easy to lose people. While you’d never know it from the outside, each day is difficult because I keep them all alive in my heart and thoughts. I also find it easier to rely on myself because I would never disappoint myself. I have associates, extended family, and friends in other states and countries who keep me grounded, but keeping my distance from others keeps my heart safe and my feelings intact. I know it’s weird, but I’ve grown this tough exterior for a reason. No need to worry, however, because my kids and students keep me smiling.