General Douglas MacArthur recited these words to
the people of the Phillippines in a radio message from the Leyte beach. His
radio address was one of triumph and also one of rallying courage for the
battles yet to come. I suppose that my use of his famous phrase is then somewhat
appropriate as I have come through some very tough battles and I know that even
more are ahead.
My mother passed away at 9:15 in the morning on Thursday,
April 20, my father's birthday. He stayed with her until the very end and showed
love, dedication, and courage that I can only hope that I have. She fell asleep
Wednesday afternoon and her condition worsened to the point that she was put in
the ICU. She never woke up again, passing away in her sleep; it was the way she
always wanted to go.
I took a week off of work for the funeral and to
help my father with the post-funeral arrangements. During that time I got closer
to several of my relatives from both sides of the family and my father and I
have developed a stronger bond than ever. Mom would have approved of that. The
visitation and funeral were just as she wanted it, even down to the music being
uplifting instead of that horrible dirge-style music. The organist from my
parent's church played magnificently and hearing
When the Saints Go Marching In and
I'll Fly Away made the weight of the event
lift somewhat. My mother always felt that death leads to a better life and it
should be a time of celebration and remembrance, not of mourning. I can't help
but to mourn, but the funeral was a celebration of her life. The turnout for the
visitation and funeral was massive, one of the largest I've seen. Mom loved
Laurel and was a key figure in local government and politics as well as an
active member of First-Trinity Presbyterian Church. The people whose lives she
touched remembered her and came in droves. Relatives came from several states
away on short notice to be there. I hope that she was able to see the people who
paid homage to her life and to her memory.
The worst part of the death of
a loved one is dealing with the aftermath. Not the financial aftermath -- that's
easy -- but the aftermath of having this person around and not any more. The
house in Laurel is huge now, especially for my father. A couple of weeks ago on
a visit to Laurel I remarked to him that everywhere I looked in that house I saw
Mom. She spent 30 years decorating and redecorating that house and it reflects
her style as well as those things that were important to her. Pictures of family
surrounded her in the bedroom -- mostly of my father and I -- and other rooms
were adorned with pictures of ancestral relatives. She was a strong believer in
both family and history and everything in the house reflects this. I thought
that this would bother me as it would make me always remember her and that this
would upset me all the time; however, it's actually very comforting as if she
were gone but not gone.
I loved my mother very much. We had our
disagreements -- we were both stubborn mules -- but she would have done anything
for me. I like to think that the reverse is true as well, but I think that I
pale in comparison to her. She was a good person -- a good mother -- and did her
best to bring me up as a fine upstanding son. I somehow feel like a failure in
that regard, but that never stopped her from loving me all the same.
My
father and I are now closer than ever, so if there ever was a silver lining in
grief this is certainly one of them. We're currently alternating weekends
between Laurel and Lafayette and when we get together we just relax, eat, and
sleep. I know that I sleep better on the weekends than during the week and he
does as well. I think we just need each other right now since our core family
just shrunk by 1/3. I don't know how Thanksgiving or Christmas will turn out,
but we're taking it one day at a time and that's good enough for right now. We
talk every evening and I'm glad that this has happened.
Earlier I spoke
of battles. Perhaps trials is a better word. I, for the first time in my life,
have come face to face with the death of a parent. This attacked my sense of
self on a variety of levels. First to hit was the knowledge that someone I've
known my entire life was gone and wouldn't be coming back. Ever. That was a big
fact to swallow. On another level, the safety net I've enjoyed my entire life
got rocked. I don't mean a financial safety net, although they certainly have
been that to me now and then, but an emotional safety net. All children, or at
least the lucky ones, live with the knowledge that their parents are there for
support and for love whenever the children need it. I wouldn't have made it
through my divorce this far without this safety net. Well, half the net is gone
and I've had to come to terms with the fact that one day there will be no more
net. I'll be on my own and have to live with that. I've always remarked that
maturity is painful and is never easy; I think that this aspect of maturity
certainly fits that description.
The battle left to come is the passing
of my father. I hope to God that this doesn't happen for many years, but I know
now that it will come; my glorious delusion about the immortality of my parents
has been dashed to the rocks. I can only hope that this won't happen for a long
time, that he and I can have many good years and good memories together, and
that when his time does come I can show the love, dedication, and courage at his
bedside that he showed at my mother's. Every time we say goodbye, be it on the
phone or in person, we tell each other that we love the other. Neither of us
have been very good about saying that but the illness and passing of my mother
has made us both understand that these are the most important words of all. My
previous post from before my mother's death has an air of desperation in it. I
hope that I -- and everyone else who reads these posts -- remembers that. That's
what happens when someone gets caught up in complacency and thinks that it'll
never happen to them. It will.
I wish I could say that I managed to write
this entry without shedding a tear or blowing my nose, but that would be untrue.
I'm not ashamed of this, however. As long as I can cry over losing someone or
the prospect of losing someone then I'm still capable of love and that means I'm
still part of the human race. And that's important to me; I once lost touch with
my feelings for several years and became like a walking stone and this was a
very bad time in my life that I don't care to repeat again.
So, I have
indeed returned. Not the same, but not too different. Sadder, yes. Wiser,
perhaps. Certainly more understanding of what the words
love and
family mean. I now regret not marrying the
right woman and having children because family has suddenly taken on a new
aspect I've previously not known. Perhaps I see my own mortality and wish to see
another generation of Alexanders grow and thrive. There may still be time for
that, I don't know. Stranger things have happend.
