End of Life Communication: Stories from the Dead Zone (excerpt)
Hello, friends,
I have taken a pause from writing poetry to finish a book manuscript. I just sent it to the publisher; you can be on the lookout for it to be released in the fall (End of Life Communication: Stories from the Dead Zone, co-authored with Dr. Jon Crane). In the meantime, to thank you for your patience as we finished the book and I now catch back up on writing poetry, here is an excerpt, from the closing chapter:
I have taken a pause from writing poetry to finish a book manuscript. I just sent it to the publisher; you can be on the lookout for it to be released in the fall (End of Life Communication: Stories from the Dead Zone, co-authored with Dr. Jon Crane). In the meantime, to thank you for your patience as we finished the book and I now catch back up on writing poetry, here is an excerpt, from the closing chapter:
Coda
“The world we live in is but thickened light” (Emerson,
1904, p. 580).
The team invites me to the
hospital’s annual “Butterfly Ceremony,” a commemoration in memory of the
children who have died at the Children’s Hospital this past year. I’m excited
to go, but my interest becomes bittersweet when I notice the date. It is the 24th
anniversary of my father’s death. The memory of his death is so fresh and
painful, he could have died yesterday following his 18-month struggle with
prostate cancer.
It is a beautiful fall day. Sunny
and warm. I arrive at the urban neighborhood park and see maybe a hundred plus
people milling around. I wander through the crowd and hug Sarah and Melissa and
Mary and Christopher as I meet them.
The crowd moves into an amphitheater
set up with white folding chairs, I stand at the edge with Sarah and Melissa,
observing and chatting. People of all ages, sizes, and races are dressed in
sundresses, jeans and t-shirts, some brightly colored, others black. A dog lies
on the ground next to a woman sitting in quiet contemplation and there are many
children, playing on the grass next to the chairs and sitting with their
parents. Chaplain Christopher reads a liturgy, “intentionally not Christian,”
Melissa tells me. We repeat a refrain, “we remember them.” A chorus accompanied by acoustic guitar and
flute sing “Over the Rainbow” and “Here Comes the Sun.” It sounds so beautiful.
Despite the warm sunshine, I have chills. Six parents step up to speak about their
children. One parent reads to us from a favorite book she shared with her child
when she was in the hospital. There are many people crying. I am one of them.
Everyone files out of the
amphitheater and receives a butterfly. It is actually a live butterfly in a
tiny hand-painted origami envelope. I ask Sarah, “doesn’t it hurt the
butterflies to be folded in the paper?” and she responds, “I try very hard not
to think about that.”
“It’s so beautiful when they’re
released and set free,” Melissa says. I think of how this is similar to life,
sometimes you’re cramped up, closed in and uncomfortable, then you get
released. You’re free.
“The butterflies will be a little
dopey when they are first released, before they fly off,” Sarah warns, “from
being closed up for a while.”
I don’t take a butterfly at first,
but Sarah has an extra envelope and she hands it to me.
The ceremony moves to a patio where
everyone stands in a circle. Each person says a few words about their deceased
child.
“Lilly Ann, born September 11, died,
December 26. She will be missed greatly.”
“Omar, born January 23, died January 23. You
were our tiny angel.”
“Elliott, born July 21, died October
30. You were only with us a short time but you were loved and we are all
diminished by our loss.”
“John, born June 6, died June 6. He
was much beloved by all of us and we will always remember him.” John is my baby
grandson.
As I watch
them, I say a silent goodbye to my father and John.
After
the last person speaks, it is time to release the butterflies. I expect a mass
flight and butterfly-covered sky, but the butterflies have their own schedule
and float off one or two at a time. I open my envelope and the tiniest of
butterflies, about the size of a postage stamp, sits there on the paper,
unmoving, for an endless ten minutes. I’m starting to wonder if he is dead—and
what do you do with a dead butterfly in the midst of the ceremony? I am
surreptitiously looking around for a trash can in which I can toss him, when
suddenly, he slowly, luxuriously, flexes his brilliant wings. As I watch, my butterfly
flaps his colors in the warm sultry air and I have a memory of 24 years
earlier, my dad’s love of sunbathing, and the long time he took to die. I think
of the interminable vigil, while we waited and watched with dread and
anticipation. I wait on this butterfly to soak in the sun until his wings open
and close twice more in slow succession and he slowly flits away. Gone.
“Goodbye,”
I say, to the butterfly. Goodbye Dad. Goodbye John.
* * *
Blessed are the healed,
may their broken hearts glow with love’s luster,
parting clouds shot through with pure light,
iron scabs of disappointment softened by the warmth of
faith,
prison of despair unlocked by the key of hope,
heaviness of grief freed by airy
moments of joy.
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