The First Cut is the Deepest
Discovery and Closure
Is it just me? Is there anyone else out there who finds funerals a tad comforting? Not in a creepy, want to enjoy someone’s misfortune kind of way, but in a way that brings peace and closure to mind? I like funerals...I always have. I love the ceremony, the reverence, the rituals, and the gathering of people who have all shared a part, be it large or small, in the life of the person being honored and remembered. Growing up in a large Catholic family, it seemed like we attended more than our fair share of funerals; they were oftentimes the only occasion throughout the year, when a large assembly of the dearest people in your “tribe’s” life were sure to be present. In some ways, each passing, and the subsequent funeral signaled a huge reunion about to take place. I’ve already said it, but will repeat, if you hail from a very traditional Catholic family, especially of Irish heritage, a funeral means three to four days of (not always, but mostly) respectful homage, reminiscing and reconnection between branches of the family tree, and the many layers of friends there lending their support. As a child, I remember the formality that accompanied those milestones; the recitation of the Rosary that would take place the night before, then the actual Funeral Mass, followed by the procession of cars trailing behind the requisite, long, black hearse making their way to the cemetery for the observance that would occur graveside, and finally, the “Wake;” that was the “end cap” to the whole series of thought provoking, sometimes tragic, often lengthy, and always emotional observances. There was always sure to be a generous supply of pressed linen handkerchiefs ready to wipe or catch the tears of the mourners; monograms usually adorned the men’s, and delicate little flourishes for the ladies. Those hankies are one of the tiny details that will always be etched in my mind, and with each of those memories, I am reminded of the person that was honored. The first time I ever attended a funeral that was a departure from the ones of my childhood and Catholic upbringing, was after the passing of my treasured, Easy. Granted, I was an adult with my own young daughter in my arms, and my Mom and older sister, Viv, were standing on either side of me, lending their support, but I was still prepared to be a complete mess, as the enormous congregation of people gathered to pay their admiration, to my hero and the guardian angel of my first thirteen years of life. I wasn’t prepared, however, for what was about to happen; probably because I had never attended a Baptist funeral ceremony. But, let me be clear…this was NOT a sad affair. I’ve never experienced anything like it, which was probably because there never was anyone like Easy; all of a sudden, it made perfect sense, and was also perfectly fitting! The music, the energy, the love, and respect that lit up that church was absolutely electric! Any concern I might have had about 7 month old, Emily, being fussy, or a potential disruption, was quickly allayed...she was completely captivated by the combination of jubilant song, and the dramatic, uplifting, and thoughtful preaching that kept the crowd engaged for the next hour and a half. Like so many other times before, I used my “hankie” that day too, because my heart was full, and I knew how blessed I had been to have Easy in my life.
Why do I like funerals? Why are we, any of us, the way we are? I think about crime shows like Criminal Minds or Law & Order (my personal favorite, right after Matlock, of course, in his natty, sear-sucker suit), and how those investigators gather microscopic little bits of information to be pieced together in order to dissect, and determine, a person’s character, and life experiences. Like how is it that the thousands of individual strands of DNA from the same two parents, when linked together, gave me hazel colored eyes, while my sister got brown eyes? How would I profile myself? How would I profile the people from my family of origin? How would I profile the people who’ve traveled my journey (from either the same side of the street, or the opposite side, for that matter) going all the way back to the very beginning, until now? Who knows the answers to those questions, and why, do I feel compelled to dig a bit deeper, or explore a bit further? I don’t know, but I want to understand why I do what I do; I want to know why I feel what I feel! So, I’m going to take a little trip; a trip through the sometimes fuzzy, oftentimes clear moments of my life, and, hopefully discover some of the answers to the WHY’s?
I grew up shying away from a great deal of personal attention; I didn’t like being in the spotlight, and, at some point I began to HATE being photographed; even now, I’m likely to turn bright red, and tremble at the very thought of speaking to a crowd of people….how, and when did that happen? I’ve got boxes and boxes, as well as hundreds of framed photos gracing the walls and rooms of my home that not only help to chronicle the years, but are reminders and evidence that I didn’t always feel so self-conscious. What happened, what changed, and when, or why?
The little girl in this picture was just six months old, when she was diagnosed with Tuberculosis, and experienced her first stay in a hospital’s ICU wing. The treatment at the time was a recurring course of radiation and chemo; but, that same treatment, which saved her life, also left her lungs damaged, as well as leaving no function of her thyroid gland. I think the term “resilient” seems like an apt description of anyone, much less an infant who survived all of that, and the next photo would seem to support that adjective. Many years later, the same immune system which managed to fend off the illnesses of that 6 month old infant, was tested again. Necrotizing Faciitis is an infection that statistics show occurs in, maybe, one out of a million people, and is a “bug” that, literally, eats and destroys the nerves and tissues in a person’s body. There are different variations of the infection, and it can manifest itself, either” systemically” (meaning it affects the entire body), or it can also appear as a localized infection, striking just one specific area. When the infection appeared in that little girl’s life, she was no longer a child, but a married woman with two children…one of which was six, and the other a year and a half. It’s a painful disease, and difficult to diagnose; so it was also a lucky break when the Chief Physician of Infectious Disease (Dr. Stephen Hosea) happened to be on rounds in the hospital where the young mother was getting shuffled back and forth between different doctors, departments, and tests. With a temperature of 104,* an arm that was deep scarlet red in color, and swollen to at least twice its size, it was frustrating that it was taking so long, with so many excruciatingly painful tests being performed, and all of it, still showed nothing. As soon as Dr. Hosea arrived at the young woman’s bedside, looked at her chart, and examined the “suspect” arm, he made the call on how to proceed. That decision was followed by immediate emergency surgery, with five different specialists participating, and which took many hours. When the young woman’s mother, called around midnight to check in, she was told that “if the young woman made it through the night, she would be lucky to still have limbs!” Considering that the young woman’s mother, was a Grandmother caring for her two grandchildren, while their father was at the hospital, it was a very grim assessment to digest. It was also just a couple days into what would be a two week hospital stay; three days in ICU, following the first surgery, and the immediate transfer by ambulance to the only hospital in the region with an emergency hyperbaric unit. There would be four more surgeries, three daily hyperbaric treatments for the entire two week hospital stay, and still when the young mother was released to go home, she was left with an essentially paralyzed hand that was referred to as “a claw;” she couldn’t write, hold a fork, wash her daughters hair, or even pick up her 18 month old son….it was a volatile and hugely stressful time for the young woman and her family. After about three weeks of the first recovery, the diagnosing doctor, who also supervised her recovery, referred the young woman to a Specialty Hand Surgeon, to address the paralyzed hand. The suggestion wasn’t immediately embraced, or even contemplated, by the young woman, who just wanted to return to some sense of normalcy. Already, a person from the young woman’s daughter’s school had made the comment that looking at the “suspect arm”was reminiscent of looking at Frankenstein; the young woman just wanted to fade away. Please…no more feeling like an exhibit in a freak show! She did finally accept the advice and had the next surgery which seemingly worked a miracle, and within months, the young woman was not just caring for her two children again, but she could cook, write, and was back on the tennis court too! Seven months later, the infection returned, in the same place in the same arm; this time however, it wasn’t systemically coursing through her body. Between Dr. Hosea, the hand surgeon, heavy doses of intravenous antibiotics, and careful wrapping of the arm for ten days and once again, the young woman bounced back.
That was 23 years ago, and all those illnesses of that young woman’s life, combined with a few other subsequent, and defeating events, followed by a series of betrayals that would also occur, have helped contribute, or made her into to the person she is now….resolute, strong, determined, relentless and unyielding. That infant and young woman was, and still remains to this very day, ready to take on anything thrown her way. She..is me! When I consider all that has transpired in my 58 years, and wonder why I’m still here; asking, probing, and searching for answers to all the times I’ve asked “why’” in my life, I’ve decided it has to be because there’s still something important I’ve left to do with my life. I must have more sharing, discovering and understanding left to do, right? Maybe that’s the “why”behind this blog, and will be the key that unlocks my need to give back, be more and do more? Maybe this pursuit of mine will unlock some answers, provide some insight, and inspire someone, anyone, even me to keep moving, bravely, FORWARD? Kind of like the closure I feel at a funeral, when I dive into my emotional “baggage,” and am able to unpack a bit, not only do I actually, really, feel lighter, but I feel a sense of achievement as well.
There’s a song by the Brothers Osborne, “I’m Not For Everyone;” that definitely holds true for me, but I’m okay with that. Knowing and being true to yourself is a gift…whether acquired right away or with time matters not!
It’s my self-prescribed therapy to identify, accept, and speak the truths I know; In my attempts to do so, I recognize that I still, and will most likely always, have more work to do. But I am here, and I am committed, not just for myself but for anyone who has travelled a similar path and wants to unpack too. My mind, heart, and soul are made up of the people and experiences, both past and present, combined with memories, scars, and smiles, that I use as tools on the road I travel. In the telling of my truth it is important to identify the people along the way who have left such an indelible mark, for better or for worse, and so greatly contributed to my journey, and who I am today. With that as a guide post, my next several posts will introduce, and, hopefully, help reconcile a deeper understanding of the relationships with the figures who represent such significant pieces in the puzzle of my life. It’s not always pretty, nor easy, to understand that part of myself, but I feel like it is a step I must take in order to heal and move on. I ask for your patience, and thank you for your support, and unspoken encouragement, (if you keep reading) as I explore those people and the role they played in the bigger picture that makes me….me! I also confess to not just struggling with, but experiencing a very difficult time expressing the complexity of my emotional attachment, or detachment, to certain people; particularly my mom and two younger sisters. My gut instinct tells me it has something to do with that need of mine for closure? Whether that ends up being the case or not, I have no clue how long, or how circuitous, the road to understanding or reaching any level of peace might take, and while I am not always the most patient of people, I am nothing if not tenacious. To that end, this post will mark my start towards discovery; stay tuned while I decided where, and with who that journey should begin.
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