Horseradish Tears
Have you ever eaten fresh horseradish? And, have you ever been in the room when fresh horseradish was being made? Fresh horseradish, a vital element of the Passover seder, when you have the real thing, your eyes instantly burst tears and your sinuses are clearer than you knew possible. But the making of it! Oy! I remember, as a kid, that my parents would make this poison in a blender, and my brother and I would completely vacate the house. I heard a story this week that my friend, Joe, now gone, when he was a kid, his mother would make him grate the horseradish out the kitchen window, leaning on the fire escape, with the window part way closed between him and the bowl! I am surprised I hadn’t heard this story before. Joe and Shirley would bring horseradish to our communal seders. I miss Joe. He died about 7 years ago. Shirley may die today, or in the next few days.
Shirley is my friend, but not an easy friend. She has been depressed for a long time, much more so since Joe died. While her appreciation of what people do for her is lovely and bright, always, always, she sinks down into herself and fills the air with complaints. “Please fix me,” she says, but she has really been stuck for a long time. And going down hill. Wishing to die. Be careful what you wish for.
This morning I stopped by the hospital, as I have every day this week. Many friends have been by. Her family is gathering. She says she is amazed at all the attention (dig: where has everyone been when I needed them before?). Watching someone dying… this is not easy. We don’t walk into the room with a clean slate. We bring fears, lots of them, of our own mortality, of that of our parents (don’t parents live forever?).
I have been observing my own reactions to visiting Shirley. The first time, I left with a splitting headache. How tense was I to see this friend so close to death? The second day, I realized that while I was sitting on the bed with her, I didn’t reach out to touch her arm. I used to hug her all the time. What was different this time? The next day, I felt like I was starting to be present, for her, for her daughters, but with effort. It’s like I am pretending to be ok with her dying but not copping to what this brings up for me. My own mother, at 91, is a year older than Shirley and I know she can’t live forever, at least I know this intellectually. Shirley’s dying blows my cover. Mothers do die. My father is gone; somehow that was ok. But my mom? I just can’t let that concept in.
The Passover seder is approaching. Shirley sat at my table last year. She won’t be here this year. I refuse to make my own horseradish but I will buy some; that’s strong enough for me. And shed some horseradish tears for the elders who are no more.
Hi Carolyn! Yes, universal scary places of the heart. I guess we find the courage when the need arises, though I can’t even imagine where that will come from when my own mom dies. I think all I can do in this moment is trust, trust in myself and trust in my friends and daughters to help me call up my inner strength, and hold me when I stumble.
Andrea, thank you for writing. I have been thinking about that “one last visit” before someone dies, that chance to say something…something meaningful? Something that hasn’t been said before? I regret seeing my dad that one last time. Seeing one’s smart, dignified parent in diapers and completely not present, non verbal, this is not a good last image to carry. Your dad knew you loved him. He didn’t need to hear that again. He knew. Don’t you think?
I also feel guilty for not seeing Shirley more, for not being more generous when she called and asked if I would just come over and give her a quick hug. We humans are imperfect beings. We do the best we can and hopefully, don’t beat ourselves up too much for not living up to some arbitrary standard of what is “enough.”
Can we fill Shirley up with enough love right now to fill that hole in her, the hole that she has fallen into and couldn’t pull herself out of? Don’t think so, but we can be present and loving. That’s what we can do.
We are “of an age.” Our parents are dying, or gone. Is it the second parent, or the same-sexed parent, or the one we are closer to that is harder to let go of? For me, my mom fulfills all of the above. Harriet, I am so pleased that you read my posting to Honey. What can it feel like to have everyone dying around you? My mom lives in a elder community. Tonight she wrote that when someone dies, they put a card with their name on it on the grand piano in the lobby. There were two cards there tonight. There are always cards.