I took these photographs today to support my feeling that there is beauty in imperfection, and beauty in the process of dying. I think this is true for people and animals, as well as roses. Animals do not seem to have any trouble dying bravely and with dignity. My experience with dying human beings is limited. Of the few people I have been with in their last years, months, and days, each goes into this passing differently. My sister is a nurse and when our mother died, she said to me, “People die the same way they live.” I was distraught because our mother appeared to be fighting, and she was certainly lived with the spirit of never giving up, fighting for what was important to her. I was hoping that my mother would die peacefully. Perhaps because she was at the end of the most challenging struggle of her life, 10 months of post-stroke health issues that left her without the ability to speak, write, read, and finally walk, she did not have time to regain her composure, much less calm.
Despite the end, I witnessed many moments of beauty in my mother’s incremental decline that included multiple strokes, seizures, and the constantly changing adjustments required by such event. She held on to her sense of humor. On day at the nursing home when my sister and I were visiting, during a pause in the topics we could think to talk about that she would be interested in, I asked my mother if she’d like her nails done. She gave me her “oh brother, you’re kidding” look. My sister, the nurse, jumped in and said something like, “Yeah, Mom, how about we paint ’em bright red?” a color my mother hadn’t worn in half a century, solidly committed of late to tasteful neutrals in her decades of maturity. My mother gave us a “you better not” look and it was a good thing for us she couldn’t talk at the moment. After a pause, my sister chimed in, with equally increasing volume and enthusiasm, “Come on, Mom. Let’s play beauty shop!” My mother burst out laughing.
My mother’s last year resulted in many more stories. I’m thinking about my mother more than usual because her birthday was last week, and she left earth on the eve of her birthday. Most years I make a Day of the Dead shrine for her, and I just finished doing that. Hence, the roses. So Mom, this bud’s for you, and I hope you happened to look down from your condo in heaven and got a peak at the entire bouquet before it started to go. And because you would want a soundtrack to go with these lovelies: “Faded love was playin’. It could be the time is right. Shuffle with me Houston stranger, it’s a cowboy lovin’ night.” (from Cowboy Lovin’ Night performed by Tanya Tucker)
This week’s question: Why is beauty, often wild, raw, and breathtaking, so often accompanied by pain? My mother’s dying adventure, so deep and rich with laughter, depth, and truth, is an example. Another would be the loss of the Amazon rainforest.
