Saying Goodbye

We humans are such a trusting lot.  When we go to bed at night, we believe that the sun will come up in the morning.  We assume that we have a tomorrow.  We play out our lives not willing to believe that things can change in an instant, never to be the same again.  The play Our Town portrays this when a young woman dies and is given the chance to go back to her family for one more day as if she were still living, only to realize that they aren't focusing on what is really important in life.  She is dead.  She gets it.  They aren't, so they don't.  And so it is.

A family of my acquaintance in the school district where I once taught is learning this lesson the hard way.  The last of their five daughters just graduated from high school last May--beautiful, bright, athletically talented, and full of future promise.  Then she was in a terrible car accident.  She was put in a drug-induced coma to try to control brain swelling, but then developed Acute Pulmonary Distress Syndrome as a result of her injuries.  She was already on a ventilator.  The doctors did everything they knew how to do to help her lungs heal, but nothing was working, which prompted doctors to tell the family that there was nothing more they could do for their daughter.  There is no happy ending here.  The parents are now charged with the notion of "pulling the plug" on their baby.  They have determined that Meredith's organs will be donated because she is young and strong and would have wanted it.  It's a way of saying goodbye without actually having to sever the string that binds her to the world.  (God bless the family!  I had one of her sisters in class.)

I have written endlessly about my family's nomadic life in the Navy before I was 10-years-old.  In that year, we went back to civilian life as my father was put on inactive duty.  My brother was only 4 at the time, so he spent his entire school career in one school district and in one house.  My sister was a Senior in high school.  She got the worst of it, having to say goodbye to friends over and over again as we moved wherever the Navy sent us.  I, however, was on the cusp.  When we were stationed in Danville, IL, we were there for four years.  Unheard of!  It was long enough for me to make a neighborhood friend.  Susan Kochell and I were inseparable buddies, in the same class at the local school.  We'd been friends since second grade...only lived a block away from each other.  BFFs!  And then, at the end of my 4th grade year, Dad was sent to Japan, and we with him.

The day we left town to go to California to meet the ship that would take us to the Orient, we stopped at Susie's house to say goodbye.  The car was packed to the gills for our cross-country trip.  No one even got out of the car.  Susie's family met us at the curb for our final farewells, and as it came time to depart, all I could do was sob in deep anguish, "I don't want to leave!"   I think it broke my mother's heart, but my own heart was broken.  After we were a few miles down the road, I understood that we were on a great adventure and there would be no turning back.  I carried on.  I had no other choice.

Through all of my military youth, I learned not to look back.  Saying goodbye in those days meant "I will never be here again or see you again."  That is such a heavy thought.  So final.  Thus, it becomes difficult for me to do justice to endings.

The last time I saw my beloved grandmother alive, I had the sense that it would be the last time.  She showed me her grangrenous black foot when prompted to do so by my mother.  Baba's eyes were hollow and distant.  She knew she was dying, and so did I.  (It had already been decided not to put her through amputation surgery since her prognosis was already dire.)  In the moments before I left her that day, I kissed her as I usually did and told her that I loved her as I usually did and then said, "See you later."  It wasn't exactly the kind of deathbed sendoff that I would have wanted.  She looked so very alone in that bed, surrounded by several family members who loved her dearly...and it hit me that dying is the loneliest thing we do.  No one can come with us.  I didn't say the kind of goodbye that maybe I wanted...but what is the best thing to say?  I wasn't in charge.  Her children--mostly my mother--were in charge.  I put my faith in my relationship with that grand old woman to believe that she knew how I felt about her.  Never alone.  Never, never alone!

When my own mother passed away, none of us were with her.  It was a sudden and unexpected departure.  Mom was my best friend and confidante.  I wasn't there with her...and it bothered me...but I also comprehended that I probably would not have handled the end well.  I am 100% certain that my mother's last conscious thought was about who would care for my dad in her absence.  I'm happy to say that we all stepped up to do just that.  We "closed ranks" as my military uncle--her brother--suggested, and I have no regrets about my relationship with Mom.  Still, saying goodbye was plenty tough.  I remember putting my head on the shoulder of the funeral director as I was entering the funeral home saying, "I don't think I can do this."  He said, "Yes, you can."  It was such "Mom" thing to say!  It was all I needed to bring strength from my toenails to get through the day.

Still, I have problems with goodbyes.  Who wants to say, "In case I never see you again, here's how I feel?"  No one.  We plan for tomorrow, sometimes without planning for the hiccups that can happen between now and then.  When I started living alone, I tried  to cover some bases about things should I become disabled, etc.  And you'd better bet that the last thing on my mind and on my lips as I slip into oblivion will be love for my children and family.  I have done my dead-level best to live a good and honest life.  No one can ever accuse me of not working hard enough to do so!

The bottom line for me is this:  Life is short and fleeting.  If I leave you or you leave me before we've had a chance to finalize our relationship, it's okay.  Eternity is forever.  I gave you the best I had.  I can only assume that you did the same for me.

I think the Hawaiians say it best:  We don't say goodbye.  We just say Aloha.  I'm good with that.