Thoughts on Death

A while back, I wrote that, “Death should be reserved for old people who have lived 80 years and have dentures.”  I take that statement back. Death shouldn’t be reserved for anybody—not young people, not old people, not crazy people, not anybody. Death just shouldn’t happen. Period. (Yes, I realize that this contradicts my faith and what it believes about what happens after we die, but just go with me here.).

Last week, I found out that my father-in-law had a brain tumor. We had suspected that something was wrong with The Father-in-Law (The FIL) for a few months, but never in our wildest dreams did we imagine that it was a brain tumor…and never in our wildest dreams did we imagine that it would kill him as fast as it did. Despite being told that The FIL had two to three weeks to live, he passed away four days after we initially found out about the tumor. He was gone before we even had the chance to process that he was sick and dying.

I’ve been through the whole death and dying process before. When I was 17, I watched my grandmother and aunt die within a span of six months. You’d think, then, that I’d know how to deal with the situation The Husband and I went through last week. Nope. Instead, what I’m finding is that each encounter with death carries with it its own experiences. When my grandmother died, I was angry. I didn’t understand why a faith-filled woman who’d done nothing but put her family and friends before her had to go through as much pain and suffering as she did. In my eyes, it just wasn’t fair. I wasn’t angry when my aunt died—I was numb. I think it was too soon after the emotional roller coaster proceeding and preceding my grandmother’s death for me to really feel anything. It felt like we’d just buried my grandmother, and I just went through the motions of grieving.

With The FIL, I’m not really angry or numb. Mostly, I’m just sad. I’m sad that I won’t get to know my father-in-law, one of the most kind-hearted people I’ve ever met, better. I’m sad that The Husband and I didn’t spend a lot of time with The FIL the last couple of years. I’m sad that The FIL will miss a lot…He won’t see our new house. He won’t be at The Husband’s grad school graduation. He won’t get to spoil his grandchildren…  I’m sad for The Husband…He won’t have a dad to build his BBQ pit with, wave at as he walks across the stage to receive his grad school diploma, or stand peering through the hospital nursery window at his new son or daughter with. He will no longer be able to call his mom and expect to hear The FIL answer or say, “Put Dad on the phone”…  I’m sad for our family…My children will grow up not knowing one of their grandfathers. Depending on where The Husband’s mom lives after this, they may grow up not knowing one of their grandmothers as well. Although I grew up with a solid family unit in which both sides lived life together, my children may not grow up with that…  The whole situation just makes me sad. A whole lot of life will be missed.

And that’s why I started off by saying that death shouldn’t be reserved for anybody. Death equals loss of life. Big duh, I know. I’m not talking about the literal loss of life, though. I’m talking about the loss of living. In dying, the deceased miss so much, and the ones they leave behind miss the opportunity to make memories with them. That’s the part of death that I hate. That’s the part I have a hard time getting over. I know that The FIL (and my grandmother and aunt) is not suffering anymore. I know that he’s watching over us and will experience everything in spirit with us. I know that the living he’s doing now is far better than the living we do on Earth. But right now, it’s just not the same…right now it just makes me sad.

Lessons from Thump Swing

Unless you’ve been living under a rock—or unless you’re just stumbling upon this blog—you know that I had hip surgery recently. Four months ago tomorrow, to be exact. Given this fact and that Monday is my last day of physical therapy (*happy dance*), I thought I’d write about a few things I learned during this time and dispense some morsels of advice if you ever have to partake in such a joyous occasion as surgery. In no particular order…

1.   I’m not as big of a baby about pain as I thought I was. Oh, I’m still a baby (a BIG baby), but there was far less crying and moaning than The Husband and I expected. Thank God for painkillers.

2.   Speaking of painkillers, their name is on oxymoron. Painkillers do not take away the pain. Let me repeat—PAIN KILLERS DO NOT TAKE AWAY THE PAIN. They merely take the edge off the pain. The surgeons and nurses tell you this, but it doesn’t really connect until you go off the painkillers.

3.   Crutches suck. Enough said.

4.   Your hip is involved in a lot more than just walking and running—sitting, lying down, laughing, sneezing, having sex, lifting things, reaching for things…I’m pretty sure your hip is involved in practically every movement your body makes. That’s probably an exaggeration, but it sure felt like it. In any case, every single little movement hurt for a while.

5.   Physical therapy and your physical therapist are your new best friends. Make this your mantra, and repeat it as often as you need to. Repeat it when the body part in question is shaking from the exercises. Repeat it when the body part screams as the therapist rubs your scar tissue. Repeat it when the body part twitches off the table from the electrical stimulation. If the mantra doesn’t work, give your physical therapist a “cute” nickname to distract yourself. My main therapist was named Beelzebub (“Beelz” for short), and her short, Mexican assistant was El Diablo.

6.   On the PT note, let me step up on my soapbox—do it. And don’t just do it at the actual PT office. Ask your therapist for home exercises, and do them every day. In fact, do as many of the exercises you do in the office as you can at home. If this means that you have to dig through your couch cushions or eat nothing but Mac & Cheese for a month so you can afford to shell out some dough for the required exercise equipment, do it. It’ll be worth it—trust me. *Stepping off soapbox*

7.   Kiss your pride goodbye, especially if you have major surgery. Bathing yourself, going to the bathroom by yourself, and dressing yourself? Things of the past. I’m pretty sure my legs gave Troy Polamalu’s head competition before I got around to shaving them again, and the grease in my hair could have started a fire. Kudos to The Husband, who turned two VERY blind eyes and marked this down as training for when we turn old, gray, and wrinkly.

8.   The Husband deserves his own point. Contrary to what he’d have everybody—including himself—believe, he CAN actually cook, clean, do laundry, and generally keep the house from falling apart without me. In fact, he can even grocery shop…with coupons. Shh—don’t tell him I told you!

9.   Stairs may look cool, and you may have visions of your future daughter walking down them on her prom or wedding day à la Father of the Bride, but think twice before buying a home with them. They are NOT conducive to things like hip or leg surgery. I can only imagine what they’ll be like when I’m old, creaky, and arthritic.

10.   Next to husbands, cats make fantastic bedmates. I don’t think the Scout or the Nala left my side for the first week of my recovery, and I usually awoke to one of them stretched out at my feet and the other one curled into a ball by my face. And one of them always seemed to find her way to my side when I was bawling my eyes out…I highly recommend getting a cat. (Unless, of course, you’re allergic to them. Then don’t.)

11.   Some people will be incredibly kind, and others will be incredibly rude. My parents? They drove four hours just to bring me ice cream the day after surgery. My work? It let me work from home until I had been fully weight-bearing for a week (two months after surgery). The lady in Target a week before Christmas? She parked her cart right in front of me and glared at me as I tried to squeeze past. The Bible says to turn the other cheek, which I did…right after I had what was probably NOT my finest “What Would Jesus Do?” moment. Thank God for forgiveness…

12.   Have a sense of humor. You’re in pain, you’re drugged up, the body part you had surgery on feels like a foreign object, you can’t do anything for yourself—it’s easy to get down and stay there. But you can’t let yourself. If you do, find someone who’ll tell you to get over yourself, make you laugh, or do both. It’ll be one of the best “gifts” you give yourself.

13.   Come up with a cute moniker. Shortly into recovery, The Husband bequeathed me Thump Swing. My new name was based on the sound you heard when I gimped around—the “thump” of the crutches and the (inaudible) “swing” of my leg. Some people were mortified when they heard about this. I found it hilarious (See #11 above.).

14.   And because I can’t end on Unlucky Number 13 (but mostly because I can’t end on an odd number)—trust your journey. My surgery was elective, and there were quite a few times when I asked what the hell (Yes, I said hell. Surgery can make even the clean-mouthed of us utter a few curse words.) I was thinking when I signed up for it. Not everybody’s surgery is elective, though. Regardless of whether your surgery is elective or not, you have to trust that it, your recovery, and everything that happens afterwards happen for a reason (Yes, Mom, I did listen to you all those years.). I won’t lie—your journey will be a long and difficult one. But if you don’t trust it, you’ll have a hard time making it through.