Yesterday was my last Christmas. For any number of reasons, there are millions of people worldwide who can make the same claim. There is really nothing new or distinctive in such a statement except perhaps for the persons making it. For me, the matter gets more complicated, or at least it feels that way.
It’s common enough to hear people say offhandedly, ‘of course, we’ll die someday.’ It’s unlikely that you or I will ever hear someone say ‘I have a couple of months’ in the same casual way. The confidence with which we might make such a declaration decreases exponentially as its proximity increases. It’s just the way we are. And then when any collective matter becomes a personal reality, it intensifies its emotional import and assumes a power over us that it never had before.
My mortality is both a collective reality, that is, it belongs to all human beings, and it’s also an individual one. It’s a chapter in our story that each of us will engage personally. From my experience, being told I have just so much time left devastated me, but particularly I recall feeling desperately lonely. At first, I thought this an odd reaction considering the matter at hand. If human beings have anything in common at all, it certainly would be the mortality that we all share. Shouldn’t that mitigate some of the loneliness?
So why should I have this lonely feeling when I’m preparing to do what we’re all doing, albeit at different times? Even as I write this, people are dying in voluminous numbers during this pandemic. The numbers alone should offer some of the comforts of camaraderie, the kind of emotional support shared experiences, even painful ones, often afford us.
I wonder now, whether the same issue that plagues many of us today, as we engage our lives during this time of Covid and now the Omicron variant, also haunts us when we must face mortality. I’m thinking of those forces keeping us from being close to each other, either physically or emotionally especially when we need one another the most. For persons with leukemia and others living with mal-functioning immune systems, the pandemic experience becomes a similar one –– the world we inhabited, once welcoming, turns dangerous. Life can be a lonely business.
One of the peculiarities of the present epidemic is how it turns people that we love the most into potential danger; the easy give-and-take between friends and family has been replaced by anxiety and caution. Being close physically, particularly touching each other are the basic means for any expression of love and friendship. What had once been normative social behavior, has become risky, and in some cases, lethal. The distances between us have widened as never before. That’s a lonely business, too.
This came home to me recently as I was having coffee with a friend. He has been suffering with cancer for at least three years and is still in active treatment. While he has no assigned timeline, his future remains very uncertain. He has walked for a long time through the valley of the shadow of death. I asked him when or if he prays, what concern does the prayer address particularly.
“Courage,” he replied in a heartbeat.
While we were talking it over, he reached for his wrist. He removed a rubber-like wrist band and tossed it to me. It was yellow (ironically). The word courage had been written over it. I don’t know whether he intended me to keep it or not. I instinctively placed it on my wrist as we talked as if it were my own. Having forgotten it was there. When I left his house, I found I was still wearing it.
We talked at some length. We explored the experience of feeling sustained and about the loneliness as well. He was especially clear about having come to recognize how the people in his life –– ‘connections’ as he put it –– have sustained his courage. He is increasingly aware how these people are there and the importance in his life in knowing they care. That changes suffering’s equation dramatically.
As I thought about it, I imagined myself as one of the threads woven into the small, beautiful oriental rug that always lies at the foot of my chair. The stunning complexities of its design (and strength, I’d add) result from countless threads, many different, that the weaver has incorporated in its design. In short, whether living or dying, you and I are never alone because each one of us is but one thread in an entire tapestry.
I also recalled the story of the onion. It’s substantially a product of layers, one wrapped around the other. In my lifetime, the people who have influenced me and who influence me now, are like those layers; they constitute as much a part of the whole person that I am in the process of evolving, as the small core that has always existed at my center.
An incidental intelligence regarding onions: “Onions form the bedrock of our cooking –– cooked onions give dishes a rich and a subtle sweetness — you don’t always know onions are in the dish, but if they weren’t, you’d definitely miss them.”
I’d like to mention here how deeply grateful Jo and I are for those friends and readers who have let us know they have wrapped their hearts around us during our present walk. You have taken time in various ways to let us know we are not alone. It’s helped soften the loneliness.
If you were not there, we’d definitely miss you.
NB: I wear the bracelet all the time.
Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.
Laurie says
George, thank you for your honesty, vulnerability and courage. Reading your articles always gives me solace. I wish you continued courage, comfort and peace – things we all need, really.
Liz Freedlander says
George,
For weeks , I have been thinking about how you would approach the advent of 2022. Your essay on the last Christmas says a lot. My hope for you is that all the lasts: winter snow, Valentines Day, cardinals at the feeder, perhaps crocuses, will have special brilliance. I imagine also grief. I had not thought of the loneliness aspect. Please keep sharing so that we can accompany you with our hearts and also be better prepared for our own lasts.
Much love,
Liz
Kate Quinn says
Thank you so much for your thoughts. My uncertainty is not as immediate as yours but it was still a shocking diagnosis. I think “courage” is so important but I could not not fully identify what I was looking for or its importance until I read your essay.
Jayne says
George,
Make no mistake, your courage is so evident, beginning with the willingness to share your journey and the intimacy of it. Many of us would find common obstacles blocking us from such acceptance, such openness, and the likely hope that your exceptional words may help another facing their “lasts.” Most of us are not so brave.
The poignancy of living one’s “lasts” as if they really are is so full of moments, questions, answers and, hopefully, love.
You have articulated what many cannot with exquisite clarity, purpose, gratitude, humility. My guess is that is who you are, the way you live and always have.
Some of us have the lurking but unspecified “use by” date somewhere in medical records, some us are just “running out the clock” late in the 4th quarter, some of us are way too young to have some important yet defective parts, some of us don’t get a moment more to ponder the reality of a life that ends in an instant. But, you have shown us that “living lasts” like they matter is something we all need to summon the courage to do, regardless of how much or how little gas is in the tank or time is on the clock.
You live eloquently, you write eloquently. Thank you for sharing the gift of you!
Howard Freedlander says
Does the loneliness, George, equate to acceptance of a reality that always comes too soon? Does it equate to
acceptance that our inner and outer strength is impotent against a deadly disease? Your candor enables all of us to summon our intrinsic courage and love.
Jim Richardson says
George,
After reading your thoughtful essays over the years, I have become to view you as an explorer reaching out to new and unexplored territories. I continue to look forward to each of your reports from outposts that are too distant or difficult for me to imagine on my own. But hopefully, because of your wonderfully honest reporting, I, as well as others, may have the curiosity and courage to follow.
Mary Bollinger says
Your words always comfort me and teach me how to live better.
Roni Brandt Simpkins says
God Bless you George….. I love reading everything you write and I am always looking forward to your next essay/publication. You are an inspiration to me and I’m sure, to many others…so please don’t stop sharing your courageous thoughts. Thank you so much!
Roni Brandt Simpkins
Anne Stearns Pardun says
Bless you on your journey, and thank you for your honesty and courage in speaking plainly. It’s inspiring to read your words and to see your open heart even as you face your mortality. I know you and Jo have been there for others (like my Mom) in trying times. Thank you for being good people, for showing up, for showing love. That’s a true marker of a life well lived. Godspeed George Merrill
jan bohn says
George, you always hit the mark!
Mary Reeser says
Your reflection on life are amazing. I recognize the full circle of life as I approach the end. Wonderfully written thank you
Brian H. Childs says
George, I am so grateful that you have been a layer in my life in ways you may never have known.
Suzanne Williams says
There has been much to think about this Christmas and your piece spoke volumes. I loved the reference to the oriental rug as I once published a magazine on oriental rugs and onions as my 88 year old husband and cook revers onions. May your time now be peaceful and you still write. Thank you.
Marsha marino says
You are a genius at putting words to the emotional roller coaster we all are on. Am sure all your readers would love to hug you tight. Your legacy lives on
Mark Pellerin says
We are here, as friends and readers and devoted listeners, and WE ARE GONNA MISS YOU SO !!
Payricia Reynolds says
George….reading your latest Spy article inspires me to always remember that courage is so important when we face our mortality. I think of my brother, whom I recently lost….he faced his final time with courage, and I am sure some fear of the unknown but hoped for afterlife of being with God….I just hope and pray that your love of God and your courage will sustain you ….thank you for sharing your personal story….as a cancer patient, aren’t we always once we have cancer, I pray I can face my mortality as clearly as you are.
William " Tim " Hunt says
Mr. Merrill,
I read your column each time I see it. We have never met, but I enjoy your writings very much. I am very touched by your Christmas message. It is very emotional. I can only hope and pray that this was not your last Christmas.
You are a very talented author/writer. I hope you did have a Merry Christmas and that by some miracle or Grace of God it is not your last Christmas.
Liz Fisher says
Thank you for your essays, and Talbot Spy for publishing them. I gravitate immediately each week to your writings, which are my “church” and food for thought. They get forwarded to my adult children with the hope they will also be moved and learn something about grace and a life well-lived.