The Susan Sequel

In case I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m officially old (I turned 50 this past summer). And, if I’m being honest, the anticipation leading up to my 50^th birthday was way worse than actually being 50 (it’s also way better than the alternative). With that being said, getting older isn’t all fun and games (don’t be fooled by all the “glamour”). In the last year, my vision went and the other day, I apparently waved to someone I didn’t see and don’t even recall doing it. Despite this embarrassment, I consistently forget to wear, what are obviously, much-needed glasses (don’t worry, I think it’s intentional, not age related, memory loss). Another “perk” of getting older is rapidly experiencing a lot of important life cycle changes all at once: only one of my kids is now still a teenager, a few of my friends have kids graduating college and a bunch of my friends will be new empty nesters in the fall. Life is moving pretty fast these days, whether I want it to or not. And the one thing that’s more noticeable as I’ve transitioned into my 50’s is death (more particularly, the concept of death and not my own eventual demise).

As my grandfather often said: there are only two things you have to do in life… die and pay taxes (ironically, he passed away on Tax Day, April 15^th). As I’m getting older, you inevitably hear more and more bad news. This past week alone, my friend’s mother died, I found out another friend’s father is very sick and another friend’s mother was hospitalized. And then Barbara Bush had to go and die (I will miss her pearls). I’ve never been a huge fan of the Bush family but I was sad to hear of her passing (although I could do without the 24/7 coverage of her life and death). My mother, however, took this death particularly hard. I don’t think she was ever a huge Barbara Bush fan but I do think she somehow correlates it to her own life (I haven’t discussed this with her so I am definitely spit-balling here). She’s only 71 but I guess if you are starting to think about death at 50 like I am, the thoughts aren’t going anywhere at 71. I try not to think about it (my family is happy & healthy and I plan on keeping it that way) but it’s been pretty hard to ignore these last few weeks.

That being said, everyone deals with death, and the concept of death, in their own way. In the last two days, I’ve seen a cartoon about Barbara Bush making the rounds; in it, she is reunited in Heaven with her deceased, toddler daughter Robin. Obviously heartbreaking, this cartoon has really stuck with me. This morning, they discussed it on the TODAY Show, mainly how touching and beautiful it was. Sadly, I don’t know that I feel the same. In fact, I think the cartoon has stuck with me because I don’t feel the same way and I don’t know why.  For those of you who don’t know me well, I am a very black and white person (and those of you who do know me well, stop snickering). As such (and for many reasons), I don’t believe in the concept of Heaven and “meeting” your nearest and dearest again in the afterlife. Don’t get me wrong, I love the concept and want to believe it, but I just don’t (don’t ask me to explain why because I cannot, despite much thought and effort). In a letter to her grandmother, Jenna Bush Hager (whom I think is the cutest) said: “You did things on your own terms, up until the very end, and now you’re reunited with your little girl Robin.”  I love this thought, particularly how much comfort it must bring to those grieving. Who doesn’t want to think of their beloved in a place of warmth and love? And, if it is indeed such a reassuring thought, why can’t I be similarly comforted by it? Clearly, this is just a rhetorical question as I couldn’t begin to explain any of it to you and I’m not sure that I even would want to try.

Just so you all don’t think I’m a cold-hearted bitch (for this reason, at least), I do believe that those we love live on in our hearts and in the way we choose to live our lives. I think about my grandparents often and refer to them, or things they told me, frequently. I even called someone a good doobie recently (a term my grandmother often used that didn’t remotely imply what it does today). And, while I would love to think that I will “meet” my grandparents again one day, their memories will have to be enough to sustain me for now.

Sorry for the morbidity but the last couple of weeks have obviously left me thinking. These thoughts aside, I will share a little funeral humor from this weekend to brighten your day. For those of you who don’t know, when you come from a Jewish funeral to a home sitting Shiva, there is generally a pitcher of water and a bowl outside the front door for visitors to wash their hands. This tradition is the ritual which distinguishes a mitzvah (worthy act) of honoring the dead from the mitzvah of comforting the bereaved. At Shiva this past weekend, my dear (though not Jewish friend), who has attended numerous Shiva’s, informed me that she always thought the pitcher of water was for guests who were so thirsty from the funeral that they couldn’t possibly take another step inside the house without a sip of water. If you could only imagine… this literally made me laugh out loud! On the one hand, while confused that she didn’t think the water pitcher should have accordingly been placed at the cemetery, I was exceptionally happy that there weren’t any drinking cups near the pitcher or we would have had a major Shiva faux pas on our hands.

Funeral humor aside, I am seriously wishing for only good news in the upcoming months and nothing but happiness and celebrations. I would love to hear your thoughts on death and the afterlife, should you wish to share. In the meantime, Shiva water all around & L’Chaim!