Unsettling Experience

Jim, I just got back from Europe where I sat at my mother's bedside watching her die over the course of 72 grueling hours. She died 20 years early and I have here, sitting in front of me, her US immigration papers that would have allowed her to come spend her last 20 years with us.

I have to tell you, I experienced a lot of emotions during those 72 hours but never once did I ask myself "why". Life is tough, full of joy and tragedy. If you accept that the "why" doesn't seem so relevant. At least not to me.

I mean I know why she died, she had severe lung cancer with mets to all her bones by the time she died. But "why" she got the cancer is not something I dwell on.

Of course "why" is different to different people. My mother made a reason of it. She said the reason why she was dying early was because God was calling her. That's "why" to her. Even in the midst of a morphine binge while she suffocated on her on mucous and liquids she was praying. She was trying to raise her arms as those in her community do while praying. And I swear that 45 seconds before taking her last breathe she raised both hands to the ceiling as if she was grabbing on to someone.

I never believed in her "why" but it gave me comfort nonetheless to know that she had made/found a reason for it.

Your friend died of a heart attack. That's a much bigger killer than PCa and I think I can safely say most of us here with PCa will probably die of heart failure before we die of PCa. Why? Probably because of stress, lifestyle and diet.

Sorry about your loss. As long as these tragedies don't touch our kids I think we can carry on.

Something along those lines happened to me a couple of months ago. Our church got a new pastor last summer and was just starting to be a real friend to me a go getter for the church.

One morning I woke to the news that he'd had a massive aneurism over night and had died.

It happens. It's a shock and takes awhile to move past it.

Condolences on your loss.
Andrew

Not sure this helps any, but your concern (a valid one) reminds me of an old Mexican folk tale I once read.

For the second year in a row it was a time of drought in Mexico. At the time of year when the life-giving rains should have been falling each day, they had come and gone, dropping just enough moisture on the crops to stir up the dust.

A peasant living in the poorest barrio near the village of Ajijic was having a hard time growing enough stunted ears of corn and dwindling vegetables on his tiny patch of poor land to feed his family. As the drought deepened, the peasant ate less and less, saving everything to feed his wife and large number of children.

So one day, so faint from hunger he could hardly drag himself to his field, the peasant realized if he didn’t eat soon he would die from hunger and his family would be left alone and starving. In desperation, he decided to steal one of his neighbor’s spindly chickens, take it up in the mountains, and cook it and eat it all by himself.

He waited his chance, and one day the farmer crept into his neighbor’s yard, and grabbed and killed a chicken, and stuffed it in a sack.

Hurrying away, he began climbing up the mountain, and finding a spot hidden from view above and below, he cleaned the chicken and set it to roasting over a fire on a spit he made out of sticks.

As the chicken cooked, he spied a man coming up the mountain, dressed in a dusty flowing garment and leaning on a staff. Quickly throwing a sack over the chicken, the peasant leaned back against a rock.

“Hello, my good man,” said the stranger as he approached. “What are you doing up here all alone?”

“I came here to collect firewood and stopped to rest,” said the farmer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been meditating alone in the mountains for the last couple of days, said the stranger. “I smelled the odor of chicken cooking, and I’m so weak from hunger I stopped to ask if you would share a small portion of it with me.”

“It’s been more than three days since I had a meal myself, stranger,” the farmer answered. “I haven’t eaten for days myself, and not eating makes me cold, I built this fire to warm myself.”

“The smell of roasted chicken is very strong here, my friend. Are you sure you have nothing to eat?” asked the stranger.

“Okay, stranger, I’ll be truthful with you,” sighed the farmer. “I brought a chicken up here to cook because I’m so close to starving, I promised myself I would eat it without sharing it with anyone.”

“You’ll share your chicken with me when I tell you who I am,” said the stranger with a beatific smile.

“I doubt that,” said the peasant. “But tell me anyway, who are you?” opening his arms in embrace, the stranger replied: “I am God. Now, will you give me a piece of your chicken?”

Jumping up with more energy than he’d had for days, the farmer answered in a strong voice. “If you are truly God, I am more certain than ever I will not share my chicken with you. You do not distribute the bounties of life to everyone. To some you give large haciendas with land fertile enough to feed entire villages and sustain large herds of cattle. To others you give horses for riding and burros for tending crops. You even provide some with cows and goats that give milk and good fresh meat for feeding their families. But to peons like me, you give only poverty and hunger. We poor ones can’t even afford to feed our children and send them to school. No, Señor, with you especially, I will not share my chicken.”

“I am sorry you feel bitter, my friend, but I bless you anyway,” God replied, and continued on His way.

As God disappeared down the path, the peon had just taken his chicken off the fire when he spied another stranger walking up the mountain. Throwing the sack back over the chicken he again lay back against his rock.

“Good morning, friend,” said the stranger as he approached. “Will you share that chicken you just took off the fire with a hungry stranger?”

“I have no food to share. I built this fire just for warmth,” replied the farmer.

“I think you are hiding a cooked chicken under that sack,” said the stranger with an impish grin. “But you’ll share with me when I tell you who I am.”

“I’m sorry, stranger,” answered the farmer. “I do have a roasted chicken, but I will not share it. Why God, Himself, just passed, and I gave Him the same answer I’m giving you. But tell me anyway. Who are you?”

“I am Death,” the stranger replied.

With that, the peon brought out the roasted chicken he’d been hiding under the sack. “Sit my friend, and join me,” he said to Death. “You take the strong as well as the weak, the fat as well as the thin, the young as well as the old, the rich as well as the poor, and the bad as well as the good, the sick as well as the healthy. You show no favors to anyone, and for that, my friend, I will share my chicken with you.”

David G My condolences to you and your family.

davidg -

While a part of life, losing a parent is one of life's more severe challenges.

Sincere condolences.

I gave up wondering why a long time ago. Why does someone next to you die when you don't even get a scratch? Why does a child die of cancer and another lives to 95? Is it a well thought out plan or just chance? The answer is unknowable.
David, sorry for your loss. This week is the 1st anniversary of my mom' death. Time does heal the loss, but while the sense of loss remains, it does get better.

davidg
my deepest sympathy's for your loss, my father died when I was 30 and my sister at 56 2 years ago, it hurts for a long time.
and couldn't agree more a long as tragedy doesn't affect our children or grandchildren we have to find the strength to go on.
condolences, carl

This will either qualify as an honest comment, or maybe a Friday Funny.

I met the lady who helped deliver my dad. As a child she carried hot water from the fireplace to the midwife, and was there as he "arrived". I met her by accident at a cemetery decoration day 40 years after my dad passed away. "New" folks have to introduce themselves, and I did that with donation of copies of some of the local history books I had written. She was already having cognitive issues (she was 92), and instead of calling me her "genealogist", called me her "gynecologist". I gave up on correcting her.

When she was eventually admitted to a constant care facility, she would tell everyone about her son, omitting the part about his tragic death many years ago.

So, for the last couple of years, whenever I went to visit (her real family never did), the staff associated me to her as her son, the OB-GYN. If I so much as looked astray at something, guaranteed it was fixed in minutes, if not seconds. I discovered later that the staff had my photo (I didn't realize the level they went to in order to have family acknowledged) and orders to treat me with respect due a physician, posted on the wall in the office.

After she passed on, I talked to a distant cousin (local to the home town), who told me that I was the only "family" member who had visited her in her last year. She had grandkids, great-grandkids, no one came. I was told they found it too depressing. Now I am ashamed that I could only go once a month. But I also now know that was appreciated, even when she showed no signs of knowing I was there. It is pitiful to realize, but they took better care of her in fear of knowing when I might next drop in.

So now, in town at the Historical Society, the joke is that I am the OB-GYN who delivers history books between deliveries. I could only wish I had the $$ of an OB-GYN. I could pay someone to be a mod here.

I am a fatalist. Why did I meet her? I needed to. Why did she meet me? She needed an advocate.

It is what it is. We are where we need to be, even if we will never know why. The rest of our lives are random. But if we are to be at an Omaha street-corner on 2 June 2025, nothing will kill us before that day. We could live every day until then in Argentina, or never spend a day out of the city limits. We can arrive in a limo, or with all our belongings in a shopping cart. We will be where we must be. Before and after, it is all up to us.

Every Day is a Bonus, but we must invest them wisely, for no one knows when they will stop.

142 said:

"I am a fatalist ... It is what it is. We are where we need to be, even if we will never know why ..."

I agree completely. But I would also add the concept of Destiny.

Why was I not killed in Vietnam when others around me were? It was because there was a purpose, a goal, a destiny in life that I was yet to fulfill, and I had to stay alive in order to fulfill it. Perhaps I have fulfilled it by now, whatever it was, although I don't know that.

I also believe it follows that some things therefore are truly "written," that is, they are destined to happen. Why did my dear, beloved wife pass on at 2:45 AM on the morning of April 29, 2011? It was because that was her time! And no action by the ambulance staff, the ER physician, or anyone else then would have changed things or made any difference, because that was the way it was meant to be!

Maybe I'm dead wrong in taking this kind of philosophical position, but for me it's the only way that makes any kind of sense out of this world.

Clean gene. Once you have edited your profile, you should only have to include these remarks when you edit a an original post. Note, the signature only allows an x amount of characters. I know not the value of x. They should always show up on your posts otherwise.

Beejane –

The fact of the matter is that your words and viewpoint, that it's all more than just fatalistic determination, is just as valid as any other. Because we just don't know!

There are times when I would give anything to have Marilyn back, times when philosophy, fatalism, and all the theories in the world don't mean a thing to me, I just want her back.

I completely believe that she and I will be together again someday, somewhere, just as you and your husband will be, if that's what you both want.

As for why this life is the way it is, who really knows? I still believe in fate and destiny myself, but who really knows for sure?

Maybe it's like the "quilt theory" in philosophy, the notion that when God looks down and sees the top of the quilt from above, he sees the beauty, the color, and the pleasing pattern of it, whereas we are down below looking up at the other side of the quilt and see only the ugliness of rough patches, uneven sewing, mismatched pieces, unattractive corrections, etc. But it's still the same quilt. Just seen from different angles.

Maybe it's as simple as that.

Am I the only one starting to get uncomfortable with this thread, which features politics AND religion?

Mel