A Season of Dying

I wrote this June 6, 2014 and saved it to draft for editing and publishing later. Little did I know.

I was born in 1974. My grandfather died in 2002. His death was the first one that caused my heart to mourn.

My great grandmother had died when I was around ten. The deaths of great aunts and uncles were scattered throughout my young years. A childhood friend died of a gun shot when we were in ninth grade. Those deaths, all of which I ached over, were the only ones I had experienced until I was twenty-eight years old, when my heart learned mourning was more painful than anything I had felt before.

When Papa Richie, died it was beautiful. Papa was the head of a family that I had had the privilege to be born into. My childhood was a realistic fairy tale in which the dysfunction of a family fades into the background while the picture perfect scenes of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends make for a feel good movie about a mom and dad with two little girls. Then one of the stars of that movie was died of cancer. I had the opportunity to be his nurse the last months of his life. Night and day we spent the hours together, planting one last garden, watching Westerns on TV, and talking. When we talked it was more about what we were doing at the moment than anything else. Great memories didn't need to be spoken, they were there, living close to our hearts. The beauty in his death came on June 28, my birthday. Before he let go, his wife, boys, and grandchildren gathered around. Some sat with him on his bed, others stood close, but all watched as a man we loved took his last breath, and were confident that he went to be with Jesus. It was a beautiful death, but a death that hurt my heart to it's core. Over the next months and years I mourned the man and grieved for empty place he left in our family. Each day that passed made missing him sweeter and less sad.

Eleven years went by and my heart had only had to experience the darkness of death again once more when my mother-in-law passed away.

On the edge of thirty nine years old and pregnant with my fifth child I was cruising right along in life.

Somewhere around my fourth month of pregnancy, in November, death hit. Uncle Ricky, my dad's baby brother, died after surviving four years of sobriety with cirrhosis of the liver. He was the youngest of three brothers, three storybook brothers that lived childhoods of legend. It seemed and seems as if everyone has a story to tell about one or all of "The Richie Boys." A familiar pain swelled deep from my heart. The pain played out physically for me as I got the flu the day after he died, the day after Thanksgiving. I stayed sick through Christmas, my immune system not able to fight the flu off and nurture the baby inside of me at the same time.

The week before Christmas brought another death. My dad's cousin Bryson, or as family called him, "Punchy." Punchy played a strong supporting role in our family movie, always a sidekick to the stories of yesterday. As a child he was one of the gang of cousins my dad ran around town with, living the life of Mayberry. As an adult he was the happy relative that sang Christmas carols in his Donald Duck voice and played softball with you at family reunions. He was one of the chair holders around the table during the after dinner visits where the younger generation sat around and listened to the middle generation tell their stories of growing up as a child of the older generation, the ones living in attendance. Still sick from the flu, I spent the day before Christmas Eve at the hospital getting fluids, again.

February rolled around, and my body finally decided to get on the mend and start strengthening for an April birth. Just as I was transitioning from the flu to the the fatigue of the last weeks of pregnancy, death came again. My Annette. Annette was a grandmother, mother, childhood neighbor, and friend rolled perfectly into one. Very few days of my life passed by while I was growing up that I did not see her. Virtually everyday I was at her house helping learning how to cook, sitting around a quilting frame sewing playing, or working chatting over a puzzle with her. Her death hurt and I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to take the calls offering sympathy, I didn't want to be around family crying and hugging, I didn't want to deal with the pain. So instead of dealing with the hurt of my heart, I let the pain hurt in my belly and ended up at the hospital having contractions. Premature birth would be easier, I thought, but the doctors and God knew better and stopped my physical reaction to a breaking heart. I went to the funeral, floating through the motions.

April came, and so did a birth. My fifth baby boy was born. My husband and I along with his brothers were elated. The following days proved to be the ones of euphoria that a birth brings to the mother. The smell of new life filled my heart. Then suddenly the intensity of painful mourning filled my heart. Each moment passed by too fast. The sun raced through the day bringing the darkness too soon. I clung to my baby not wanting to let go for fear of loosing the feeling of each second. Grieving the loss of the previous moment, the lives in my life that had gone, the memories that seem lost. Random childhood scenes would pop in my thoughts, longing for family gatherings would tear at my heart. My heart mourned, but why it was morning I didn't understand.

A month later, in May, death once again came to the grandmother of my childhood best friend. I sat at the funeral, almost numb. Yet another loved one had passed through this world and left us here. I was sad but almost callus to the idea that we would not be seeing her on earth again. On the drive home I felt defeated. I was am tired of saying goodbye. I'm tired of this season of life, where my generation shifts from being the younger ones to the middle one, the one that has to learn to say goodbye.

In memory of:
Rick Richie, Bryson Smith, Annette Webb, Polly Wellborn