Category: dying

death, dying, Life

Beginning: Beauty and Funerals

Christa Avampato

“Beauty once seemed to me to be an accident of nature. But now that I can see my life on my face, I realize we earn the way we end up looking. Time, it seems, gives us all a chance to really be beautiful.” ~ Ann Curry

“Nature gives you the face you have at twenty. Life shapes the face you have at thirty. But at fifty you get the face you deserve.” ~ Coco Chanel

My Uncle John passed away last week. A kind, generous man, we was one of the people who figured prominently into many of my childhood memories. He was one of those people whom I always felt so lucky to know and love. He lived into his 90’s despite an abundance of health problems for many years. He was a miracle man, a real-life version of the comeback kid.

His funeral served as yet another reminder to me that everything that surrounds us is temporary, that this is all changeable. It reminded me of what Brian and I talked about last week – that a life just spent out on the ledge isn’t really living at all. You need to have the existence you want, and no one can define that for you except you. People will try – they will tell you where and when to go, who to go with, and what you should do when you get there. During Uncle John’s services I couldn’t help but think about the idea that in the end our legacies are about the choices we make, and the ripple effects we cause in the wake of those choices.

There was a poster board of photos at John’s wake. Some of them I’d never seen and some of them I hadn’t seen in many years. I was a tiny baby in the ones I was in. My grandparents were there, as was my dad, looking many years younger than I remember them and with wide, wide smiles. I loved seeing those images and yet it was hard for me to see them, too. Particularly with my dad, I was reminded of all the lost potential, the lost opportunity that he could have had, that my whole family could have had, and in particular that I could have had if only he had gotten the right help at the right time.

I think losing people like my Uncle John is easier than losing people like my dad. John lived a full, loving life. He was grateful for his days and was able to overcome extraordinary hardships. (I found out at his funeral that he had served in the U.S. Army’s First Armored Division during World War II, the first Americans in WWII to go into armed battle.) My dad, by nature, was not grateful and there wasn’t anyone in his life who asked him to be more accountable and responsible for the life we lived. In his eyes, life happened to him. In my Uncle John’s eyes, life happened and no matter what, he chose to love life again and again. My Uncle John took full advantage of all opportunities at his doorstep, and lived a wonderful, long life as a result. My dad did not.

So we have a choice – not necessarily of when it’s our time to move on from this lifetime, but certainly how we spend each of our days in this lifetime. We can choose what we stand for, how we spend our time, and with whom. We either choose to make and take opportunities, or just react to life as it happens. Given the very stark contrast of the lives and passings of my Uncle John and my dad, I know which way I’m going. Do you?

death, dying, gratitude, happiness, peace, religion

My Year of Hopefulness – Trinity Churchyard

Christa Avampato

A happy side effect of losing close family members at a young age is that I never feel uncomfortable with the concept of death. I often talk to my relatives who have crossed-over. I think about them all of the time; I find reminders of them everywhere; I feel their presence in my daily life. On and off in my life I’ve done volunteer work in nursing homes, with hospice, and in critical care facilities in hospitals. It’s something I’m considering doing again – there’s so much to be learned about life from the dying.

Because of my comfort with death and dying, I find comfort in places like cemeteries. They’re such peaceful places. On my lunch break yesterday, I went to do an errand and went past Trinity Churchyard, this tiny plot of land that sits at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. It’s a small green haven among the concrete and constant construction in the area. It is the final resting place for a number of famous New Yorkers, Alexander Hamilton being the most iconic figure there. I couldn’t resist stepping inside for a moment. Once I crossed through the gate, the noise of the city seemed to dissipate. I don’t know how that happened. The sunshine seemed a little brighter, the air felt a little sweeter. It actually felt homey.
Much to my relief, many other people were seated on the benches that are dotted along the cemetery paths. People enjoying their lunch, talking with friends, sitting quietly, thinking. It was a sweet thing to see the living and the dead co-exist in such an easy harmony. It’s exactly what a final resting place should be.
I felt drawn to take a look into Trinity Church as well. I felt like I was peeking into someone’s home. It’s a fairly small church when compared to the likes of St. Pat’s or St. John the Divine, but it feels warmer, like a place where you could take your problems and worries and ask for help. In the main hall, I felt like I was so close to something holy, a kind and empathic ear.
In the back of the church there is a small chapel meant for quiet contemplation and prayer. There was a man at the front weeping, softly. He must be going through a very hard time. I lit one of the candles just outside the chapel and took a seat in the back. I thanked God for helping me through these last few weeks, offered up my immense gratitude for my wonderful friends and family who have been so supportive and helpful.
Just before I left, I found myself saying a little prayer for the man at the front of the chapel. I don’t know him, will probably never know him. I don’t know what he’s going through but it must be something very difficult. I prayed that the same strength I’ve found in the past few weeks will touch him as well, that somehow the strength and positive outlook that’s been such a gift to me will find its way to him also. With all of the abundant blessings in my own life, I felt that it was the least I could do.
death, dying, experience, family, friendship, grateful, gratitude, human factors, loss, sadness

My Year of Hopefulness – Trade-offs

Christa Avampato

Be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars. –Henry Van Dyke

A friend of mine recently lost his father and as we talked about loss, we delved into the topic of trade-offs. It’s part of life to enjoy good, happy times for a while. And yet somewhere in the back of our minds, we are conscious of the fact that these moments are fleeting. Part of experiencing life, and love, and a connection to others also requires us to have the ability to let go. It’s an odd and scary thing if we think about it too long, so it usually comes to us as a passing thought, and then we send it away.

I used to have a very hard time dealing with the loss of someone. It seemed so unfair to me to have someone we love taken away. Was it really worth it to feel a connection to people? Did it make sense to spend so much of our very brief time on this planet cultivating relationships with others that eventually fall away, for one reason or another.

Many years ago, a friend of mine was dealing with the loss of his grandfather. Knowing how much he loved his grandfather and how close he was to him, I expressed my extreme sympathy for his loss. And without a tear in his eye or a choked up feeling in his throat, he said, “Please don’t be sorry. I’m not.” I just couldn’t understand. How on Earth could he not be sorry?

“I had this amazing person in my life for so many years. I was so lucky to know that kind of love and closeness to someone for so long. He taught me an amazing amount throughout my whole life that I’m able to pass on to others. He was such a gift and I’m so grateful that I had the opportunity to have him in my life.”

I think about this conversation every time I or someone I care about must deal with losing someone. It’s so hard to imagine letting go, and I find that emphasizing the gift of their presence in our lives for however long we have them eases the sadness. It doesn’t eliminate the sadness and it doesn’t betray the person’s memory. It just helps us keep perspective, and we helps us to begin to understand that it is all worth. The cultivation of relationships is what this life we live is all about. They are the very essence of human experience.