Five Paragraphs

Last Saturday, I attended a family gathering for my neighbor, Eileen, who passed away on September 3rd from Alzheimer’s. It was from 1pm to 3pm; and, I didn’t know what to expect. I guess the expectation of the event wasn’t really my concern; it was my expectation of sadness and grief.

While I’m well acquainted with loss and feel like sometimes that I am an expert, I didn’t like Death at all. I know; who does? No one has “good with death” or “excels in grief” on their resume, though sometimes I felt like I should given my life experience.

At 1pm, after I dropped Iz off at Ellen’s, I arrived home, and I promptly avoided going across the street. I cleaned the litter boxes; I emptied the dishwasher. I even rid the refrigerator of all vegetables green and furry, which is something I hate to do!

At 1:15pm, I glanced across the street. I knew I could no longer pretend to be “good with sponge” or “excel in dusting.” I knew that some of the expectation that I had was how I would handle my own grief, grief I still carried, in the face of another’s loss.

While I wanted to be there for Barb, Eileen’s daughter, there was a part of me that didn’t want to be there, because I was Ruth’s daughter. I felt selfish for feeling my own loss that occurred so long ago. I went upstairs to change my shirt, yet another small stall tactic, and I picked up the picture of my mother on my bureau.



She was only 15 in the picture. The funny thing was that lately, every time I looked in the mirror she stared back at me. When she stared back at me this time, I realized that no matter what I would always miss her; and that it was okay if I went to Barbara’s and grieved Eileen and silently grieved Ruth, too.

I walked across the street and tapped on the kitchen door thinking of Rover yet again. Somehow I would always feel like my beautiful little Tabby Mackerel polydactyl tiger at their back door. And, somehow I knew I would always feel my losses; but, I knew it was okay, because life was always about feeling whether it be good or sad or any other number of emotions.

I entered the kitchen, and Rob said, “Oh, here’s Jean.” I asked “How are you doing?” Then, I said to myself over and over, “Oh, jeez, that was so stupid,” but after a minute, I gave myself a pass. While it had taken me only twenty minutes to get to this gathering, it had felt like it had taken me years to walk across the road; I had to cut myself some emotional slack, as we all should most days.

I walked into the dining room; food was spread out on the table. I glanced under the table, half expecting to see Rover asleep there like I did the nights I picked her up early. There was no Rover. And when I entered the living room and saw Harold and a few guests talking about Eileen’s parents, I knew there was no Eileen here either.

I sat down on the couch. Tiger, Harold and Eileen’s fuzzy gray tiger, sat in a chair begging to be patted. She rolled around, she showed her tummy, and she said, “Jean, I know you’re feeling out of sorts. Come here and love me, and I will love you.”

I got up and patted her tummy. After a few minutes, I sat back down on the couch. She jumped off the chair and began to roll around on the floor in front of me; I said, “Thank you, Tiger. I don’t know what I’d do here without you.”

More guests began to arrive, and Barb introduced me to each and every one; I noticed that Tiger jumped up onto a side table and then said to me, "You're going to be fine. I'll see you around the neighborhood, kid." I met Rob’s Mom, his Aunt, and two of his sisters; I told them what a great guy he was.

I then sat there, knowing I had already asked one silly question, and I wondered if anyone might say something more inappropriate One guest approached Barb’s sister and said, “I’m so sorry about your Mom.” Barb’s sister thanked her. The guest then said, “But, it’s probably for the best.” I cringed; is the death of anyone really for the best?

As the room became more crowed, I got up. I chatted with Barb’s sister and found out that she and her dog are part of a rescue team. Ironically, they were trying to find an 86-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s in New Hampshire who had wandered away from her home.

It was fascinating listening to her stories about how the dogs didn't sniff a trail. These dogs sniffed for scents that were out of place in a particular place. She then glaced at someone else listening to the conversation and said, "I think my Mom would have liked me doing that," knowing that for the last several years her Mom wasn't fully aware of her life but knowing her Mom's life always involved humanitarian and environmental causes.

I then noticed a small table to the right of the dining room table. On it was a guest book and a little remembrance book that Barb had made for her Mom. Inside the book were many poems one of which was this one.

Not In Vain

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest,
I shall not live in vain.

~Emily Dickinson

I loved that. I turned to the last page, where there were five paragraphs that summed up Eileen’s 79 years. After I read them, I wanted to cry. They were not selfish tears; they were tears for a life that like my mother’s ended all too soon and also tears for a long and mostly good life that could be summarized in only five paragraphs.

I had a bite to eat. I chatted with Harold’s nurse. I asked, “Did he like the haddock on Friday night.”

She said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. He loved it.” I said, “I’m so glad.” She said, “He asked if you caught the fish?” We giggled at the thought of it, though not at Harold for thinking it. (Hey, I caught a Cod last month!)

At 3:15pm, I headed home telling Barb to call me if she needed anything. I walked down the driveway thinking about Rover, especially after she spent a day wallowing in the love of good people like I just did. I walked in my house, and I went into my living room.

I glanced at a picture of my Mom. I then took a picture of my Dad off the bookcase; as I looked at it, I remembered writing my Dad’s obituary. I wrote it with his girlfriend.

We had his life summed up in about five paragraphs. I remember reading over what we wrote and feeling that five paragraphs could not significantly tell his life story. I said to Anne, “Can’t this somehow just say what a great guy he was?”

I put my Dad’s picture back on the bookcase. I sighed, and I thought of Barb's sister wondering if her Mom would appreciate her work on the rescue team. I then realized that five paragraphs does not make a life; the book of a loved one’s life is written in our heart, and we read it over and over again each day of our lives. ♥