In the midst of their dying

A couple of weeks ago, a local 53-year-old dad died. Two days later, a 59-year-old dad died. Both men had daughters who were my daughter’s classmates. Add to that, the father of two dear friends entered hospice the following week. And if that wasn’t enough: A close childhood friend, who lived across the street, is fighting pancreatic cancer, and it has spread.

This is the way of life sometimes, with a rash of death and dying in our immediate circles. Such events make us aware of life’s capricious nature. Life can be much too short.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, “It is a great thing to see a man in the midst of his dying.” That has always struck me as an awfully easy thing for the living to say, but after spending time with my childhood friend, Lori, a few weeks ago, I caught a glimpse of those words’ truth.

We hadn’t seen each other in decades, but memories came thickly back: The blanket forts on her mom’s clothesline, the sack swing on the tree of the abandoned house, the games of pom-pom-pull-away on my parents’ extra lot.

Neither one of us had much in the way of toys, certainly not by today’s standards. We had long, barefoot summers punctuated by her mom’s Kool-aid-and-Jello popsicles. Best I’ve ever tasted.

We swung on my willow tree branches and climbed the apple tree in our backyard. We rode bikes all over Hospers and sported perennially skinned knees.

We tried to reclaim my brother’s cardboard fort in the garage rafters, but it was too hot to spend much time up there. With our neighbor, Brenda, we formed the LBJ Club and congratulated ourselves that those were the same initials as our president.

In the fall, we raked piles of leaves into leaf houses and yelled if someone messed up a wall. My dad would allow us a week or so of leaf housing before the burning began. Then toasted marshmallows might follow.

In the winter, we slid down her parents’ steep driveway, which made it too slick for their family car to make it up the hill. Her dad would back up in the neighbor’s drive across the road and make a running start. I can still hear the car wheels whining and burning against the ice.

Why didn’t her dad put down sand or salt to ease the car up that crazy-steep driveway? Frugality, Lori said, and that led us to talking about our family’s values of thrift and hard work, values she and I both carry.

We look in wonder at the abundance that many young people have: brand new houses and very fancy cars. We both still wash and recycle sandwich bags. We reuse tin foil if it’s untouched by the food it covers. We giggle about this. It’s an old bond, now renewed.

Both of our parents had large gardens. With the empty lot, my parents had two. As we grew older, we were pressed into service to harvest and can and freeze produce. Lori loved it all. Except for planting potatoes with my dad, I endured it. She has kept a garden throughout the decades, and I spied a spread of vegetables and flowers through her dining room window.

She loves sewing and all the domestic things that make a home. She has always had a kind heart, and in every way, is a better person than I’ll ever be.

She is grateful for every day granted to her. She still possesses a calm spirit, and I left the visit awed by her grace. The visit reminded me of the time I spent years ago with my aunt, “Mugs”, who was also dying from cancer. I went to cheer her up, but she’s the one who gave me a lift.

She was a lot like Lori, a contented, beautiful soul.

My mother’s death wasn’t like this, and although my dad found the bright spots in a grim diagnosis, his last day was agony for him and us. When a life is taken suddenly by accident or physical failure, there’s no time, and that’s a different hard goodbye.

Nietzsche would say that I’ve seen two great things: the lives of two dying women who somehow rose to meet this horrible requirement. I will say, instead, that my life is richer for having known them.

I don’t say this lightly. If you happen to be in the presence of someone whose days are short, but who is fully alive in each metered moment, it is a holy thing. It is a humbling thing. May you stop and honor the moment.

Joan Zwagerman writes from Storm Lake.