Lancing

It is true that lancing a wound will make it feel better. I've had injuries that became infected and after they were drained and bandaged they felt so much better.

After my meltdown this morning I had a better afternoon. No, I can't say I'm less angry. I'm just reconciled to it. I can't fix the world. I can't fix me. It isn't really my job to fix anything.

So, having vented, I left the house and had lunch with my son, Mike and exchanged some clothes for my granddaughter, Sarah.Then, we picked up Sarah and her mother, Becca. I took Mike home and the three of us came to my house to tutor Becca in math and Sarah took a swim in the turtle pool. Dave got off around 7 and came and picked them up.

I've just had time to get a shower and sit down to read blogs and emails and comments to my blogs. My poor aunt called and thanked me for making her cry. I had warned her ahead of time not to read the post today because it would upset her. Of course, her middle name is Eve. . .

I do have to thank all you brave souls who came in and felt you could post to that frightening blog. I do read all comments and sometimes I reply but I think I'd said all I could. What I did not say, you said for me.

I am also learning things from the comments people leave. They do give me some comfort. They do make sense. There is solace in having another human being say something, even if it is "I'm sorry for what has happened to you."

I've learned that one of the most common events in life is the least understood and acknowledged by those who will experience it more than once in their lives.

Think about that for a second.

When a baby is born we celebrate with gifts, and laughter, and showers. We call and write and send toys. Every milestone is met with fanfare and thousands of dollars in long distance calls. Photos of every step, fall, and giggle are sent over the internet, in letters, cards and even calendars. Every birthday is a monumental event until you're 16. After that, the tend to decrease is importance to everyone but you. But for 16 years, you get noticed.

Death, on the other hand, is a hurried affair. Ideally you want it over in four days and you don't want to EVER repeat it. The widow can cry all she or he wants until after the funeral but is then expected to appear in public fully in control of his or her faculties and ready to function normally. If you are fortunate to be able to take time off, well, two weeks should do it. The widow is expected to smile when meeting friends but no mention should be made of the deceased. After all, its over and done. It isn't like a first tooth after all.

No, dying is an embarrassment to everyone. I mean, it even out ranks prostitution. And guess what? It is contagious. If you live long enough, it will catch you.

Imagine also. At some point both of your parents will die. If you marry, you or your spouse will die. Losing a spouse is worse than losing a parent. I've lost both. Believe me. I adored Mama above every one else but losing Jerry was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I lost half my identity. The only thing I can think of that could be worse is the death of a child. God deliver me from that! And if you have children they could die before you. If you have siblings one or more of these could die before you die yourself.

Imagine now, after you have read all my raging against death, imagine the feelings of the wives whose husbands died on 9/11. Imagine the husbands, and children, and parents who death slapped that day. Imagine all the horror, all the pain, all the nightmares you've read in my blogs and that also followed their lives and still follow. Do they wonder if one of those who jumped out the windows was their loved one? Thousands of people were jerked into a nightmare from which there is no waking.

Think about all that for just a minute. All those points at which death can reach out and touch you personally. How quickly, unexpectedly and cruelly it can come. And yet, we don't know how to deal with it? Even worse is that we don't know how to deal with the people who are dealing with death!

Imagine that. . . . . I can't.

How did we get to this place where we do not know how to comfort the grieving? Exactly when did we become so disinterested in human suffering that we forgot compassion?