As I read of the mounting deaths due to Covid-19, my heart connects to the families mourning the loss of their loved ones. I know it sounds trite to say every number is a person who was, and still is, loved and cherished by their families, but it’s true. Loved ones being tallied into an unimaginable death toll, desensitizes others to the pain and sorrow of inconceivable loss. 

Ten years ago today, my younger sister, Angie, 45, died of cancer. A month earlier she began experiencing pinching-like pain in her chest, originally thought to be acid reflux. Pain and shortness of breath sent her to the ER on November 22. Blood work and x-rays diagnosed cancer and pneumonia, which was followed by a blur of procedures and hospitalizations over the next two weeks–a lung biopsy, PET scan, lymph node biopsy, a liter and a half of fluid drawn from her lungs, supplemental oxygen … hopelessness.  Angie’s death, the result of an unspecified, rapidly growing cancer, possibly adenocarcinoma, occurred at 4:57 p.m. on Sunday, December 5, 2010, 13 days after she was diagnosed. 

A few similarities can be drawn between Angie’s illness and Covid-19—a rapidly progressing illness affecting the lungs, the need for supplemental oxygen, death coming shortly after diagnosis, and compassionate, caring medical staff who helped shoulder the pain. A striking dissimilarity is that we were able to be with Angie as she died. 

As devastated as we were by her loss, her husband, her son, and my brother and I were able to be with Angie during the final days and hours before her death. My brother and I had flown in to Denver less than 24 hours before she died, from Illinois and Pennsylvania, respectively. We were able to talk to her, hold her hand, stroke her face, rub her feet, kiss her forehead—meld our love for her into every touch, speak words of love and comfort. It made a world of difference to us; we trust it did for her, too. 

We all want to believe that life will be kind and nothing bad will ever happen to us, or if we have had something bad happen, it acts as a kind of insurance against future misfortune. Sadly, lightning can strike more than once. Angie died five months after the cancer death of my eldest sister, Judy. Our sister, Mary, 15 months my senior, died of cancer in 2000. Never in a million years did I ever imagine I’d live much of my adulthood without my sisters.

I know most people reading this follow the scientific information provided to wear masks, social distance, avoid large gatherings, stay home, even if it means not seeing family and friends during the holidays. For anyone who still questions the need for such measures, please consider the families of the 280,000 people who’ve died, and do what you can—wear a mask, show compassion, love people. I saw a post several months ago from a healthcare professional regarding a person disagreeing with the need for masks. The healthcare professional simply replied, “This isn’t an area where opinion is helpful.” Facts are facts.

Wearing a mask wouldn’t have saved my sister, but wearing one now could very likely save someone, as well as their family from experiencing the indescribable anguish of losing a loved one … and not being there to hold their hand and tell them goodbye. 

Angie, Mary, Lisa.  Easter, April 2000, two months before Mary”s death.

June 24th will mark 17 years since my beloved sister, Mary, 15 months my senior, left this world due to the ravages of cancer. The sting of her death has lessened through the years, and anyone who has lost someone knows you think of your loved one daily – hourly, not only on the anniversary of their birth and death. Enormous gratitude for having had the person in one’s life becomes the focus, while loving memories bring comfort and solace.

During the last week of Mary’s life, a fascinating incident occurred which I have always wanted to share. I believe it engages one’s beliefs, and raises questions about life, death, and our connection to the spirit world.

I arrived at the home Mary shared with her fiancé, on June 14, 2000. The next day, hospice arranged for a hospital bed to be set up in the dining room, centrally located, providing easy access. Many family members and friends visited daily, showering Mary with love and support; lightening the burden of sorrow for all of us. The hospice nurses and caregivers, as well as her family doctor, were the epitome of compassion.

As hospice provides palliative care, Mary was consistently and heavily medicated. However, she still experienced a great deal of breakthrough pain, necessitating a bottle of morphine always within reach. As the morphine dropper was filled, Mary would open her mouth as if a baby bird, eyes closed, seeking relief from the incessant pain that racked her body. As she grew weaker, unable to swallow pills, we—primarily my younger sister, Angie, Mary’s best friend, Lynn, and I, used a mortar and pestle to grind the pills, mix them with applesauce and feed them to her.

Late one evening Lynn was at the house with me, as she had volunteered to take a turn sleeping in the recliner next to Mary’s hospital bed. A necessity, after Mary, frightened and disoriented, had climbed out of her bed during the night a week earlier. Albeit now, Mary was either asleep or semi-conscious most of the time, unable to get out of bed unassisted and spoke on a limited and infrequent basis. Sleeping next to her eased our fears, hopefully hers as well.

As midnight approached, Lynn and I mixed Mary’s medication with applesauce and I attempted to feed it to her. However, after two bites she refused, became agitated and started saying, “One cent, one cent for a soda.” She chanted the line over and over again, then abruptly stopped, appearing calm. Lynn and I talked briefly and decided she would keep trying to get Mary to take her medicine, and I would go on to bed. As I started down the hall I could hear Lynn talking softly to Mary. She quietly called, “Liz, Liz, come back, she’s talking.” I turned and said, “Maybe she’ll take her medicine now?” Quite unexpectedly, Mary, very clearly repeated exactly what I said … except she sounded like a very old man with a strong east coast accent!

I quickly grabbed the applesauce mixture off the kitchen island, making my way around the end of the bed. Mary, who continued to speak like an old man from the east coast during the entire event said, “Better get over here or I’m gonna kick your tight little ass all the way to China!” At the same time, she grabbed the bed railing on both sides and attempted to pull herself up—Lynn and I quickly assisted, and she was sitting up for the first time in days. Lynn and I giggled under our breath as our eyes met in astonishment.

Not quite knowing how to react, I started feeding her the mixture. Mary took a few bites, then stopped, saying she didn’t know what she was eating. She started moving her jaw up and down, as if she was trying to figure out what was in her mouth—she said, “Texture … crunchy.” Then Mary clamped her mouth closed, indicating she didn’t want anymore. I tried to give her one more bite and she said, “No.” I insisted, “Come on.” And she said, “Do you wanna wear it?”  Although her response was out of character and unexpected, Lynn and I didn’t feel threatened, but we both realized we weren’t dealing with Mary. I asked if the person talking was Louise—a person Mary had told Angie and me about a few days earlier. She said she wasn’t Louise, and Louise wasn’t there. I asked if she knew where Louise was or if she had seen Louise, and she replied, “Mr. Louise to you.” Heavily emphasizing, Mister.

I decided to talk to her as if I were actually dealing with an old man from the east coast. I told her (him?) if she took more medicine I’d give her $5. She glanced at me and dismissed my offer with a slight wave of her hand. I offered her $10, and she waved me off a second time. I finally said, “How much money will it take for you to take your medicine?” She immediately replied, “20 bucks and get your tight little ass outta here!” Seconds later, her green eyes distant and unblinking, Mary said, “Gotta go now.” She closed her eyes, leaned back and slowly fell onto her pillow­—as if someone had blown out a candle. Lynn and I met each other’s eyes with bewilderment, breaking into nervous laughter—and not simply because there wasn’t anything tight or little about my ass! We were flabbergasted. Mary went back to sleep – or to whatever level of consciousness she had previously inhabited.

Incredulous, Lynn and I couldn’t fathom what we had just experienced. Who was that old man we were talking to and how did he take over Mary? Was Mary’s behavior the result of her medication, or had we witnessed a phenomenon related to her impending death? Would “he” be back?

Emotionally exhausted from our daily routine and dumbfounded by our experience, I went to bed and Lynn settled into the recliner next to Mary. The remainder of the night was uneventful. The next day Lynn and I related our story to the disbelief and wonder of Mary’s many visitors. Each visitor told the next until the house was abuzz with the tale of our midnight visitor. No one had ever heard of such an occurrence.

In remembering that June night, the very second Mary started talking with an east coast accent, an image immediately popped into my head—that of a 90-year-old man who worked on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. (I still lived in Denver at the time.) In my mind’s eye I saw his soul journeying through space, briefly filling a void in Mary’s consciousness—as if he was just passing through, came upon an opening, stopped in for a few moments, then moved on to his spiritual destination. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to go, or took a detour, or perhaps like Mary, he was terminally ill, and unbeknownst to us, human consciousness is collective and capable of migrating from one mind to another under certain circumstances.

Whatever the case, it was a phenomenal experience in every sense of the word. Mary was 42 years old, grew up in the Midwest, and although she had a marvelous ear for accents, it was not Mary speaking to Lynn and me that night. I am not religious, but I do believe energy moves through a dimension unseen by human eyes and unknown to human minds. I truly believe Lynn and I glimpsed the supernatural, soul—spirit—energy, in transit, journeying to its source after being released from human form. I believe that same energy connects me to all of humanity, as well as to the many loved ones who have journeyed before me—connecting us eternally through thought and feeling—however subtle or sublime.

Birdwatching is one of my favorite activities. Much to my delight, my backyard borders an open space/retention area, drawing a wonderful variety of species. Saturday, I enjoyed the antics of two bluebirds investigating the birdhouse attached to my favorite pine tree.

All of our past is made of memories. Two people can experience an identical event, yet come away with vastly different memories, or perhaps no memory of the event whatsoever. Our memories are forged by personal circumstance; ultimately we live in our minds.

This morning I watched one of my favorite television programs, CBS Sunday Morning, with Charles Osgood. One of the stories told of the fall of the Berlin wall. Today, November 9, 2014, marks the 25^th anniversary of the wall coming down. The Soviets began construction of the wall in 1961; the original wall stretched 27 miles … facts long forgotten – by me.

As monumental as that event was in the world, my memories of it are vague… snippets of people raising their fists, cheering, and climbing on the wall with pickaxes. My attention was focused on an event that occurred the night before. On November 8, 1989, my mother died of a massive stroke, at age 60. Yesterday marked the 25^th anniversary of her death, a monumental event in my life; the memory of which supersedes any other on a local or national scale.

My mother had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain aneurysm in January of 1989. She went on to undergo two craniotomies, several months apart, in an attempt to reroute the blood flow to her brain. The surgeries required her to spend months in the hospital and rehabilitation, before returning home to our family farm. My brother, Patrick, 18, was also living in the home. My father had died of a heart attack in March of 1988.

The evening my mother died, my sister Mary, her voice heavy with sorrow and tears, called me around 9:30 pm to relate the tragic news. Mary asked me to call our eldest sister, Judy. Her line was busy and I remember calling the operator with urgency in my voice, telling her I had to interrupt the call because my mother had died. The operator said she was sorry, and put my call through. I asked Judy if she was sitting down…I have no recollection what Judy said after I relayed the heartbreaking information.

I quickly gathered my clothing, and hopped into my car to head home, stopping at the local gas station to fill up, and for cigarettes (I know…yuck, I stopped 1 ½ yrs later). I went inside to pay, squeezing my way past a man asking the clerk for directions. The clerk wasn’t familiar with the location in question, but I was, so I proceeded to give the man directions. Initially, I remember thinking, “my mom just died, what’s happening in my life is more important than you needing directions.”

At that very moment, in occurred to me we never know what other people are experiencing in their lives. So much of our lives are lived in our minds…unknown to anyone but ourselves. When something happens, whatever it may be, the issue at hand is of utmost importance to the person experiencing it. The lost traveler had no way of knowing my mother had died, he was simply lost and asked for help. Giving him three-minutes of my time didn’t change my situation, but hopefully, it made a difference in his. Kindness is never wasted.

I drove away from the gas station and began my journey home. With tears streaming down my face, I made the two-hour drive in record time. I was welcomed by the loving arms and grief-stricken faces of my siblings. The next few days were a blur – flashbacks of familiar faces, tears, smiles, and hugs. The outside world was distant and irrelevant.

Twenty-five years later, the memories of my mother’s death are intertwined with the “aha” moment I experienced directing the lost traveler. I’m sure he doesn’t remember me, but he likely has much sharper memories of the fall of the Berlin wall.

“When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” ~ Kahlil Gibran