Death and Feeling Alone

Death is such an odd thing. One minute you’re rolling along, laughing, singing, or eating ice cream, and the next minute, poof. The person you loved who seemed so real is gone in the flesh.

It reminds me of the childhood game hide and seek, when it was my turn to seek. I’d close my eyes and count as I pictured everyone scattering. Then the search in the dark began. Sometimes I’d find a friend, and other times they’d disappear. I knew their mother had called them home, but there in the dark, it felt like death.

My voice student, Michael, was 21, warm, wonderful, and severely autistic. Earlier this month, I went to an info session with his support team, to help plan a possible job for him. On Tuesday, I listened to him practice for his next recital. His version of I Left My Heart in San Francisco resonated with pure tenor tones. 

Last night, his mom called, sobbing that Michael was hospitalized and probably wouldn’t make it. I told her to go hold him close and hope for a miracle. Today, she said he died.

Six years ago, the last words my mom said to me were, I want to go home. I tried to explain that she had too many broken bones from the accident, but she shook her head and pointed to the sky. Heaven was her next home. 

My thoughts swirl inside of me. I’m all alone with them.

I have no words of wisdom for you, nothing to impart regarding death that hasn’t been written before. I just know it’s frustrating. And complete.  

How to Help a Hoarder

I try my best to do some charity work every week. When I noticed on Facebook that a friend was about to move and had too much stuff, I asked her if she wanted help. “Yes!” she wrote. “I don’t want to be a hoarder!”

On Friday, I spent most of the day at Gayle’s side, along with another friend of hers, Ross. At first, she argued, I am NOT giving any of this away! That gave way to long stories about each item she collected. I acknowledged her need for necessary kitchen items, coats, and umbrellas, then decided to attack what I call shit that sits. 

Gayle, I said, this is not really your great aunt. This is just stuff she liked. At one point, tears rolled down her face, but she never got mad at me directly, which was my fear. We packed up six huge boxes for the second hand store, which Ross took directly to my car, and we filled three large garbage bags with trash. Her teenage children's clothing was stuffed in bags for them to hoard or give away. 

When we stopped for the day, Gayle’s parting words were, let me know when you can come back.

My answer is never. Yet my heart reached out to her. My mom died six years ago and I just recently gave away ten of her ugly flower paintings. Some days I sniff her scarf and feel like a child.

We all hoard something. I have a room full of music that I’ve collected all my life. I’ve played it all, but I don’t need to save it all. I guess the way to help a hoarder is the way we help anyone. Loving feelings, patience, intuition, and emotions. 

I told Gayle I’d call her to pick me up if my car ever broke down. But now I think, how soon can I ask her to help clean out my basement?