Someone suggested I watch the movie Gravity. I can't remember, in
the name of all that is good, under what context she recommended it to
me. It was in March and I just now got around to watching it. Perhaps I
would not have been ready to see it in March.
I can't decide whether I am grateful to her or angry at her for giving me the heads up about the loss of the astronaut's daughter being a central part of the story. Had I not been warned, I wonder, would I have recognized the similarities to my own life in this story? I also wonder, do other people, who have not lost a child, see this simply as a story about surviving in outer space and miss the deeper drama about the loss of a child and how it sometimes makes you want to give up, and how sometimes, somehow, it ends up being your lost child that inspires you to go on?
I was there, this past winter. I didn't want to kill myself. But I almost wanted to turn off all the lights and just wait for death to come get me. It was not a good time and I am grateful to be in a better place today.
And of course, the thing about dying,--how we're all gonna die, and how most of us don't much think about that until we are faced with an imminent threat, like colon cancer (the thing that turned out okay that forced me to consider my mortality), or breast cancer (the thing that has hit a couple of my friends in the last couple of years, and thus far, they are surviving), or lung cancer (the thing that has hit a very kind acquaintance of mine, and she will not be okay--first it was six weeks with no intervention, and then, six months or so with chemo meant mostly to make her comfortable and maybe give her a little more time with her family)--that thing, our reluctance to think about our own mortality, it's a common reluctance, I assume.
Maybe I've done more thinking than most about death and dying, and what my life might be worth. In other words, what price might I be willing to pay to survive, even for an extra month or two? How hard would I fight? What would be the last things I'd need/want to do if I were faced with a fatal diagnosis and had a tight time frame? Who would I thank? Who would I want to spend some uninterrupted time with? Who would I want to help me navigate that passage? These are all questions I've considered and I have pieces of my answers sketched out in my head. I'm ready, if I have any advance warning of my impending demise. I suppose the next good question might be "How am I going to fully live before I die?" I already know I will die, it's just a matter of when will I die, and what will I do with the time I still have?
The threat of cancer, the loss of my adult son, these are two events that have shaped my life and my thinking in the last couple of years and they continue to shape my life and my thinking in ways of which I am not always fully aware. Sometimes things like Gravity trigger unexpected feelings of grief in me. I was warned, but I didn't necessarily need to be warned. My grief is an important part of who I am, and when it shows up unexpectedly, I do my best to honor it as I continue to live.
I can't decide whether I am grateful to her or angry at her for giving me the heads up about the loss of the astronaut's daughter being a central part of the story. Had I not been warned, I wonder, would I have recognized the similarities to my own life in this story? I also wonder, do other people, who have not lost a child, see this simply as a story about surviving in outer space and miss the deeper drama about the loss of a child and how it sometimes makes you want to give up, and how sometimes, somehow, it ends up being your lost child that inspires you to go on?
I was there, this past winter. I didn't want to kill myself. But I almost wanted to turn off all the lights and just wait for death to come get me. It was not a good time and I am grateful to be in a better place today.
And of course, the thing about dying,--how we're all gonna die, and how most of us don't much think about that until we are faced with an imminent threat, like colon cancer (the thing that turned out okay that forced me to consider my mortality), or breast cancer (the thing that has hit a couple of my friends in the last couple of years, and thus far, they are surviving), or lung cancer (the thing that has hit a very kind acquaintance of mine, and she will not be okay--first it was six weeks with no intervention, and then, six months or so with chemo meant mostly to make her comfortable and maybe give her a little more time with her family)--that thing, our reluctance to think about our own mortality, it's a common reluctance, I assume.
Maybe I've done more thinking than most about death and dying, and what my life might be worth. In other words, what price might I be willing to pay to survive, even for an extra month or two? How hard would I fight? What would be the last things I'd need/want to do if I were faced with a fatal diagnosis and had a tight time frame? Who would I thank? Who would I want to spend some uninterrupted time with? Who would I want to help me navigate that passage? These are all questions I've considered and I have pieces of my answers sketched out in my head. I'm ready, if I have any advance warning of my impending demise. I suppose the next good question might be "How am I going to fully live before I die?" I already know I will die, it's just a matter of when will I die, and what will I do with the time I still have?
The threat of cancer, the loss of my adult son, these are two events that have shaped my life and my thinking in the last couple of years and they continue to shape my life and my thinking in ways of which I am not always fully aware. Sometimes things like Gravity trigger unexpected feelings of grief in me. I was warned, but I didn't necessarily need to be warned. My grief is an important part of who I am, and when it shows up unexpectedly, I do my best to honor it as I continue to live.
If you haven't seen the movie and are planning
to, you might not want to look at the quotes below, which I've taken
from the website http://www.imdb.com/title/
Ryan Stone: I know, we're all gonna die. Everybody knows that. But I'm going to die today. Funny that... you know, to know. But the thing is, is that I'm still scared. Really scared. Nobody will mourn for me, no one will pray for my soul. Will you mourn for me? Will you say a prayer for me? Or is it too late... ah, I mean I'd say one for myself but I've never prayed in my life. Nobody ever taught me how... nobody ever taught me how...
Matt Kowalski: I get it. It's nice up here. You can just shut down all the systems, turn out all the lights, and just close your eyes and tune out everyone. There's nobody up here that can hurt you. It's safe. I mean, what's the point of going on? What's the point of living? Your kid died. Doesn't get any rougher than that. But still, it's a matter of what you do now. If you decide to go, then you gotta just get on with it. Sit back, enjoy the ride. You gotta plant both your feet on the ground and start livin' life. Hey, Ryan? It's time to go home.
Ryan Stone: Hey, Matt? Since I had to listen to endless hours of your storytelling this week, I need you to do me a favor. You're gonna see a little girl with brown hair. Very messy, lots of knots. She doesn't like to brush it. But that's okay. Her name is Sarah. Can you please tell her that mama found her red shoe? She was so worried about that shoe, Matt. But it was just right under the bed. Give her a big hug and a big kiss from me and tell her that mama misses her. Tell her that she is my angel. And she makes me so proud. So, so proud. And you tell her that I'm not quitting. You tell her that I love her, Matt. You tell her that I love her so much. Can you do that for me? Roger that.
Ryan Stone: Never mind, Houston, never mind the story! Ah. It's starting to get hot in here. The way I see it, there are only two possible outcomes. Either I make it down there in one piece and I have one hell of a story to tell! Or I burn up in the next ten minutes. Either way, whichever way... no harm, no foul!
[Growls]
Ryan Stone: Because either way, it's going to be one hell of a ride! I'm ready.
It's been a rough winter; it's lasted a few years longer than necessary. Time to take off the shoes and walk in the cool grass.
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ReplyDeleteI haven't seen the movie, so I skipped the quotes. I understand how grief can show up unexpectedly. Love the quote about suffering and growth, all in their own time. Hope you do "walk in the cool grass".
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