Zenith of Grief
"I didn't associate God with loneliness; the two were separate, and to
bond them would have been inconceivable. God did not forsake me. I am
part of Nature. . .this is natural, as is my grief."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Zenith Of Grief
I am beginning this new journal several pages before the old one
expired! Perhaps this is because it is rather a new beginning for me.
One must bridge countless mountains throughout his existence, and some
of those mountains are much more difficult to climb than others.
It has not yet hit me fully that Norm is dead, and this will be the
hardest truth I will ever bear. It is through the selfish nature
of human beings that we suffer and mourn over a drastic loss, for the
deceased is no longer subjected to the routine pangs of life itself.
I derive comfort from the knowledge that Norm led the type of life he
desired, for so many individuals spend time involved in relationships
they despise, or in jobs they abhor. Norm didn't worry about attaining
what so many casually label "success," that being a career that "looks"
right. Success is having established a set of values and living by
them; realizing time is precious and therefore shouldn't be wasted
on petty grievances and concerns. Moreover, a life having quality
is a life which is peaceful. Norm led a quiet life, spending many
waking hours doing that which pleased him. He was not selfish;
one must please himself before he can expect to treat others civilly.
He was easy to be with, and would let you be... he wasn't out to force
his opinions and desires on others.
I feel terrible now, but I know that my life was touched by a very
special person. For that I shall always feel grateful. It is better
to have had a beautiful relationship and have it end, than to never
have experienced it at all. Norm was my mainstay in life. When things
felt as if they were falling apart, it was always to him that I would
turn. He was my companion and my best friend. We could share so much
because we shared the same thought process. Seldom does a person feel
completely at ease with another, and yet with Norm I was. Conversation
wasn't necessary, but it was one of the finer parts of our relationship
because we so well understood each other.
My life will never be the same without Norm; of all people, I feel it
will be the hardest to be without him. My thoughts are so displaced.
I feel dead. He is at peace now, or at least I choose to think so.
One never knows of the after life until he himself has expired.
Superstition and blind hope forced me to pray that he would live and be
normal. To be comatose or paralyzed would be worse than death. It's
funny; he felt so strongly that his purpose in living had not yet been
fulfilled, and he had a zest for life to one day find that which would
(in his mind) fill that commitment to life. I once again found that my
beliefs were true; prayer does not help those things over which we have
no control. It is a formal way of hoping.
Strange as it may sound to individuals who cling so desperately to life
that they will torture themselves for one more breath, I wish I could
have died before anyone else in my family. That, you see, is a
coward's way out of mental duress. This is by far the worst blow ever
driven into me; if one was to sum up the worst possible occurrence to
give to me, fate couldn't have picked a riper apple. It's not that I
don't care for others. . . but Norm was special to me.
I also hate to see Mom and Dad so terribly wracked with pain. Not one
child has been left unscathed by bad luck, while some families live
a storybook life or screw up their lives out of their own stupidity.
There is no such thing as justice in life. There is no equality or
fairness. It is a fragile world, and so many seem bent on
self-destruction while Norm simply wanted to live in harmony.
Only yesterday I was lamenting my inability to do things alone. I'm
scared to go on walks, etc. . . especially now that I feel at a rather
low ebb physically. Now I must do things on my own or not do them at
all. And it's not the doing, but the mutuality of sharing a joke,
a glance, or idle conversation. He won't be there, and he will be
so horribly missed. I hope you have found your ultimate peace, Norm.
I woke up this morning to the sound of harsh, uneven gasps of breath.
I thought Norm was having a bad dream, so I hurried to his room, only
to find him on the floor; his chest and waist were along his bed and
his legs were tangled in the bedsheets. I shook him and yelled his
name, but no response was made. After several sputtered expirations
of air, he seemed to attain an unearthly calm. I suddenly thought,
"this may not be just a bad dream.". . . he wouldn't wake up. I ran
downstairs at 6:20 A.M. and told Mom... she woke Dad and they went
upstairs. He still was the same and I dashed for the phone and dialed
911 . . . they were here in five minutes. I kept flicking the yard
light as they approached our house. . . a crew of two paramedics and
later two policemen. All the while before they arrived, Mom and Dad
were administering CPR... they took him out on a stretcher, still in
the same state. I believe that I witnessed his last breath.
I lost my touchstone.
Dad kept saying, "can you believe this?" I was shaking violently,
still in my nightgown. I felt as if my bowels wouldn't hold. Mom was
so worried about covering him up as they left the house; he wore only
his bottom half of his sweats. His arms were dangling over the side of
the stretcher as he was carried through the doorway... the paramedic
told Mom not to worry, that the main thing was to get him to the
hospital.
As I was dressing I felt disgust within myself at my concern to put on
my make-up. Why should I care what I look like? We were taken to a
small room to wait, it was cooler. I had to use the bathroom. A woman
was there with us most of the time. . . to console us or help in case
we "went off the deep end."
I still hoped that with the technically high developments, they would
revive him. They worked and worked; Dr. Murrell said it was very bad.
Later he came in again and said that he was gone. I was thinking that
I'd be asking him how it felt to be gone and then revived. What passed
through his mind? I never got the chance. I wonder if Norm knew I was
trying to wake him. Perhaps that which comes after earthly existence
was so sweet that he chose not living. Maybe it's that good.
I hope so. For Norm.
I felt as if I had been reduced to a pulp after a calamitous beating,
yet I could walk, talk and seemed to answer in a relatively normal
fashion. My insides felt like so much lead; I felt dead, bereft of all
poignant senses. Weak-kneed, we headed toward the parking lot, leaving
Norm's body on the operating table. There would be an autopsy. . .
none of us wished to see him again before they removed his corneas.
I didn't want a blue-lipped memory of Norm, color had drained
from his lips while he was at home.
Mom and Dad had to begin making arrangements for his cremation and his
memorial service. I chose to remain at home and alone in the house.
I promptly sat down and wrote page after page of my feelings, needing
to express myself with a certain degree of permanence afforded by
written words. It was as if I felt panic stricken that I might forget
a facet of Norm if I didn't capture everything now. Finally, exhausted,
I decided to go upstairs. Hesitant to relive the mornings events,
I climbed the stairs and looked about. It seemed so empty, so utterly
lifeless. . . the sun was obscured by gray clouds which multiplied the
lonely effect. Had Norm been alive, the place would have simply been
a room. Now it took on a character of its own, as if a bloodless ghost
sought to haunt my mind with idiotic schemes. Reality hits hardest
when loneliness sets in. I didn't associate God with loneliness; the
two were separate, and to bond them would have been inconceivable.
God did not forsake me. I am part of Nature... this is natural,
as is my grief.
I began to straighten the furniture which had been hurriedly displaced
to facilitate a wider exit with the stretcher. Looking at the tangled
mass of bedsheets sprawling about the floor, I determined to change the
bedding, and thus save Mom some of the stress. I felt like
a mechanical man, functioning precisely as I'd done countless
times before; doing menial tasks brought no comfort. . .
it only helped to pass the day.
My thoughts raced... I began to fantasize... would they think I was
guilty... would I be suspect as in a murder case... when they said he
was gone, I had felt relief, for I knew he had been without oxygen far
too long. I thought about his corneas given to Iowa City... how would
he see... how ridiculous to think that...I thought about how safe I had
always been with Norm as my "guard" . . . now he was gone . . .
the daily excursions, the trips to Amana, Wild Cat Den, Loud Thunder,
Davenport, Credit Island, the boat races, sailing on the Mississippi,
even the winter picnics... all over now.
Norm was an ultra-sensitive person, not only self-sensitive, but caring
for others. He had an acute awareness with regard to feelings,
and seemed to know when to simply let be. It was a quality that few
possess. . . a quality that few understand. It was this quality that
made Norm so easy to be around. He didn't demand the full capacity of
one's attention; he was personable and low-key; he allowed one to relax.
Every facet of his life mirrored his goal of inner serenity. He often
spent time alone, walking for miles to attain physical and mental calm.
Meditation was also becoming a valued discipline in his daily routine.
I am glad that I was given the opportunity to develop such a close
relationship with Norm through the passage of time in which I was
growing into the person I am now. He played an integral part in my
life, and I feel somehow linked to him in an undefinable bond. Our
sharing and understanding for one another spanned the seemingly trivial
nature of a common joke to the mind-searching questions for which there
are no answers. To say that he could be replaced is mere folly. Only
once in a lifetime can one share so much. I am fortunate to possess
the memories; I only regret having to end the making of memories so
soon. We were two loners with a common bond.
Now I am one loner, alone.
Jan. 24, 1984... I am fatigued... it took two hours to fall asleep. I
was thinking, and I was scared that I'd have awful nightmares. I kept
seeing him lying on the floor, and I was at first so certain that he
was only having a nightmare. We could've had a stroke of luck like
that...I woke at 6:20 A.M., the time that yesterday morning I awoke so
lightening fast to the sound of uneven breathing. I went to the
bathroom, then lay in bed until 8:00. I didn't seem to have
much use for sleep.
So many people have come today with food and the plants are also
numerable. Janet sent me a red rose, shortly afterward she appeared in
person. Kristi even called from Cedar Rapids. So many care.
Todd, Debbie and Sharon arrived near noon, before that time, I'd tried
on Norm's shirts and discovered they looked better than many of my own.
I will be keeping the newer or nicer ones. It's a comfort to have his
things near me. I changed the sheets on my bed because Sharon will be
in my room throughout the duration of the week.
The radio-tape player that Norm ordered arrived today (UPS). I felt so
sorry for the delivery man. He knew Norm. Todd called the doctor who
performed the autopsy on Norm. He said death was caused by a left
coronary occlusion, which is a heart attack via a blood clot. Because
of the location. . . the upper left side of the heart. . . death occurs
suddenly. Even if he had had a check-up it was not felt that the
problem would have been readily identifiable. It was also something
that would have been fatal if he'd been in the hospital at the time it
occurred. Death is final within one or two minutes of the initial
attack. This was most likely a gradual situation which would not be
apparent to the afflicted individual. Every indication is masked, so
gradual is the effect. Norm's organs were said to be over the normal
weight due to amassed blood; the heart was not pumping efficiently
enough to flush out the blood and therefore it clung to the tissues of
the various organs.
I felt so relieved that an actual cause was found. I kept thinking
rather accusingly of the Agoraphobia tapes. I also wondered if he'd
had a dream in which he died, and then as a reaction to subconscious
thought, the body began the death process. It's always been horrid for
me to remain without the facts. I derive a sense of satisfaction from
knowing the truth, or at least the truth as best one knows it to be.
I feel, at last, that I have attained a certain degree of peacefulness.
Norm was and always will be a part of me, so great was our degree of
sharing and mutuality. His companionship is gone forever, and yet the
feeling of oneness shall endure through time and into the furthest
reaches of eternity. Our being of opposing sexes enhanced the
relationship. I lived for Norm and to be with him. In myself,
I see him. My actions. . . my thoughts. . . are not manifestations
of togetherness, but rather a singular uniqueness shared by us/we two.
Jan. 25, 1984... I carried the inner peace with me for the entirety of
the day. After breakfast I fed the bird, and then shut myself up in my
old bedroom to write Norm's eulogy. I had written approximately half
of it when Rev. Hess came. He's a good guy, and easy to talk to. He's
the first minister I've ever encountered who admitted that religion is
a personal thing with some people, and that one can accept other's
viewpoints without compromising his own beliefs or criticizing
conflicting views. I read aloud the parts of my writing which I had
completed. He will read my final copy on Saturday. I elected not to
do so for dual reasons: I am nervous in front of crowds, under the
circumstances, the nervousness would be worse.
After lunch, Steve and I went to Wild Cat Den. There was a fresh cool
breeze blowing. I missed Norm, yet memories were sweet. It was good
to get out of the house and into the wind. We dropped off my film
and mailed my photo entry.
Jan. 26, 1984... I think that too little time spent alone is taking its
toll. I went upstairs and I listened to my tape and another album;
then I dug out the note which Norm wrote me when I was in Greece.
Jan. 27, 1984... So well do I recall the day in which we rode in black
limousines to the cemetery. It seemed to me a ghastly promenade in the
midst of such grand January weather; I felt myself to be an actor
in some morbid sideshow in which I was to don my most lamentable
countenance so as to better give casual onlookers the expected
performance. Instead, I chose to focus my eyes upon my knees, where
they remained riveted until we motored into the graveyard in our
stately, yet somber vehicle.
Everything within me screamed and rebelled when we once again were
instructed to issue into our allotted seat for the return trip. The
entire essence of the black limousines seemed to me a gruesome ritual
of bygone ages. My sorrow was not an emotion which I desired to splash
among the city streets with an air of pomp and circumstance; it was
grief as personal and private as those thoughts I shared exclusively
with Norm and my ever-true notebook. To ride thus seemed to make a
mockery of that which was actually taking place, becoming an event
rather than the tribute to a deceased and beloved individual.
"God needed Norm in heaven with him," was a phrase spoken to attempt to
comfort us. Some try to see a purpose in all things. . . a way to make
them less hurtful. Others view death as the ultimate "bad thing" yet
need to justify God's love by saying that "it was all for the best."
Then there are those who say, "God gives you pain because He knows you
will grow stronger." Boy, that makes me want to run to a church and
shout "Praise the Lord!"
It is difficult to know what to say to someone who has suffered a loss.
It is painful enough to visit, to witness the anguish. It is more
difficult to bring comforting and meaningful words to the
grief-stricken. Can one praise God for His kindness and love when the
situation is nothing but grim and senseless? Statements must also be
chosen that do not somehow suggest the mourner is to blame, that had he
done something differently, the outcome would have been altogether
reversed. Awareness of ones self and others helps immeasurably during
a confrontation with adversity, for among the numerous reactions to a
given situation, mutual respect is of foremost importance. Everyone
reacts differently.
I hope Norm has found peace. He certainly deserves a sojourn of
tranquility. His tapes of Meditation and ESP came today in the mail.
Mom and Dad have received 120 cards so far! It's unbelievable how many
are concerned and respond.
Jan. 28, 1984... It was rather a madhouse today, as a carload of
relatives popped in unexpectedly near lunch time. I escaped to my
upstairs room before it was time to go to the Memorial Service. I
couldn't bear the commotion on the main floor. The limousine once
again brought us to the church. It was hard to remain composed as I
walked into the church and found my way to the parlor. I brushed my
hair in a nearby restroom and then returned to wait for the service to
begin. I was scared for what the service might be, my only knowledge
of memorials being the bleak hopelessness so common to funerals.
Rev. Hess delivered the formalities in a manner far from depressing.
He read several scriptures including the congregation in one; there
were three hymns also sung with the congregation. He read, also, the
poem "Birches" by Robert Frost, and then my contribution to the
service. After the service we filed out, utilizing the center aisle
just as we had entered the sanctuary.
We formed a receiving line to greet those who were at the service. It
was unbelievable to see the multitude of people who came to pay their
respects to Norm and the family. It seemed as if the line would never
end. Mrs. Griffin (Kathy) brought me two glasses of water during the
reception to keep me fairly cool. Nevertheless, I sweated profusely;
by the end of the line, my hairline was soaked and I was thoroughly
fatigued. It seemed that many found my writings meaningful; moreover,
doing so was quite beneficial to me. Many desired a copy of it, so
Rev. Hess said he would make some copies and put them in the office.
I hope no one will use any part of the homily for another service;
I wrote that for Norm.
Steve was good to return to the church after taking Kim Segura home.
I rode to his house after the service, electing to forego the trip home
in the black limousine. Once home, I went to my "old" bedroom to lay
down. I couldn't actually sleep, but the rest itself did some good.
The house was crawling with relatives until after supper. Little by
little the crowd gradually dispersed, leaving the comparatively small
group of the Johnson's, Todd, Debbie, and Mom and Dad. I once again
stayed up rather late. We needed to talk.
Jan. 29, 1984... Today in the afternoon the Waterloo threesome (Todd,
Debbie and Bonnie, Debbie's mother, plus the canine, Bandit) were the
first to depart. Todd drove my little red Swinger; I hope he will keep
it looking nice. I must simply let go and guard my sanity; it is not
worth tearing yourself into emotional rages and tatters, however, I've
never been able to rationalize having nice things if one doesn't care
for them. Sharon seemed to need to stay a while longer. She was upset
over so many concerns accompanying a loss of such consequence. I hope
she will be able to find peace within herself. Perhaps it is easier
to do so in her own home.
Nights always bring out the spooks which I conjure up inside my brain.
I decided to lightly illuminate Norm's room to allow the shadows to
disappear. We also decided to leave the door to the upstairs open;
I'm frightened of noises sounding like gasps or snorts of air, as they
remind me of the way in which I was alerted to Norm's predicament.
I'm not afraid of his spirit, but rather of the nightmares which might
evolve from the trauma of finding Norm and the inability to help.
Jan. 30, 1984... In the afternoon I ventured outside and mailed a few
thank you letters. It had snowed about 6 inches last night and I woke
up to a beautiful landscape. I walked down below the house a ways, not
going into the woods because I have difficulty climbing back up even in
the summer. The new snow left a track which could easily be followed,
leading me to think that an individual could never truly be alone when
traversing a snow laden landscape; he could easily be detected even if
solitude was what he sought. Once inside, I attempted to write a poem
about my thoughts, beginning with this.
A solitary foot path...
Solitary Footprints
A solitary foot path
Upon the fallen snow
Betrays the quiet secret
Of whither I might go.
Through spring's bouquet
His footsteps passed,
And summer's veil of green.
He watched the autumn leaves
Sail down
And winter skies
Shed cloaks of white.
His path, each day,
The snow betrayed
While strolling through
The woodland brush,
A hoard of prints
Which marked a man
Whose spirit melded
With the land.
Taken in the grasp of night,
The man no more
Will trod the snow.
I searched by day
To find his path,
So quickly did he steal away.
But nature masked
His many tracks,
As winter oft will do,
And I remain
To softly ponder
Whither he has gone.
The steadfast essence of the man
I carry in my soul,
But mine shall be the only prints
Upon the winter snow.
Lauren Isaacson
January 30, 1984
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