Recently, a dear friend’s reflections about her mortality made me recall my own thoughts on a matter that most, including myself, would rather not dwell on. Since the birth of my first daughter, I have often pondered my own mortality, but have quickly staved off the disquiet brought on by thoughts of annihilation of the body--at best, and absolute oblivion--at worst. On the converse, the thought of eternal life in God is none too comforting either. The vexation here lies not in the premise, but rather in the understanding thereof. Philosophers have long posited that finite beings are incapable of grasping the full meaning of eternity since it is, by nature, something outside of the parameters of time and space. Still, that doesn’t help “on the ground,” as one tries to envisage living forever and ever and ever. I think there is some type of hadith that instructs us to leave these matters aside, for too much contemplation of them can addle the soul. I strongly believe this to be true.
Anyway, that brings me to what prompted this post in the first place. Back in the summer, routine would have it so that I walked along the back parameter of the Bohemian National Cemetery. I was initially unaware of the name since I was walking along the back side. The names on the headstones were intriguing and I began to look them up on the internet to see if I could trace their origins. Shortly thereafter, I drove along the front and saw the official name above the entrance gates. Curiously, after Labor Day, I noticed that the grounds were void of the usual post-holiday paraphernalia, i.e., flowers, wreaths, stuffed animals, etc. It struck me as odd since Labor Day, for many, marks the final visitation before the cold/snow sets in. Then I began to read the death dates on the headstones--most had died in the early to mid part of the 20th century. I was struck by the number of people who died young—perhaps there was some kind of epidemic that afflicted this immigrant population. Then I realized why this particular cemetery was so different than many of the others in the suburbs, which are perennially dotted with tokens of remembrance. The death dates indicated that these people, for the most part, are no longer even a distant memory in anyone’s mind. Mothers, fathers and children—they have been dead for so long that they aren't even an echo in time. They had been forgotten in the strongest sense of the word, the memory of many obliterated/non-existent. A headstone that read “Mother,” caught my eye. It was embossed with the familiar image of mother cradling child. She died at my exact age.
After a moment, I realized that the sadness that had come over me was not for this unknown woman and her now dead child/ren (grandchildren), rather it was personal melancholy rooted in egotism and my own exaggerated sense of self-importance: someday, in the not so distant future, that headstone would be mine and after the generation of my children and perhaps grandchildren die off, I will be nothing more than a faint memory, if that: that old woman on the rocker who used to blather on about her time spent in "what was that country that grandma went to, the one that King Bush III blew up back in the 20s (2020s that is), and then colonized?" Okay, I will stop with the morbid thoughts and blighted attempts at humor.
Anyway, since I have given birth, I have been thinking more about my own mother, who died when I was a bit older than my oldest daughter. It may seem odd, but I have long resented her, sort of subconsciously, for leaving me at such a vulnerable age (I think all of childhood is vulnerable, but that being said, I don’t think there is a good age at which to lose a mother). I think about how scared she must have been the night she was wheeled out on a stretcher, her aneurysm (undiagnosed at that time) making speech difficult. Imagine all the things we take for granted. She couldn’t turn to look at me but found the strength to mumble “Goodbye Cathy.” Two hours earlier she had been doing mundane chores, like feeding the cat and doing dishes--and suddently she was "preoccupied" with one last task: dying. That’s the last time I ever saw her alive as I wasn’t allowed to visit her during her two weeks in intensive care. I don’t think I would like those memories and am glad I was spared from that. I wish I had never attended her wake either. Quite a morbid custom—the viewing of the dead. I will never view another dead body, InShaAllah. And now the woman who bore and nourished me is just a skeleton in the dirt, and has been so for years and years. As a child, I used to wonder when the very last of her skin decomposed, or the last remnants of her physical state disappeared. Was there a moment in time in which she transitioned from a dead body to a full skeleton? I hardly ever visit her; the living and the dead don't make good bedfellows--cemeteries are a blaringly advertisement of what’s up ahead in the distance. That being said, I think I will go soon. What depressing thoughts. I don’t mean to be uber dramatic, in fact those who know me, know that I hardly talk about this topic—not because it is difficult, but it just isn’t very relevant. It saddens me to know that if nature follows its course, I will precede my children in death. Of course, this is how I hope it will be since God forbid that I would have to contend with the unfathomable alternative. God protect us all and make us strong.
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