A Tombstone Head and a Graveyard Mind
November 16, 2022 9:03 AM Subscribe
What is it like to be 41 and meet the thing that will likely kill you sometime before you turn 45? A reflection on saying goodbye to it all.
Written by MetaFilter's own, MsMolly, in 2016. Posted today as tribute on her birthday.
On a brighter note, here's a project she made: Obsolessons, a compendium of bad advice from the past.
Written by MetaFilter's own, MsMolly, in 2016. Posted today as tribute on her birthday.
On a brighter note, here's a project she made: Obsolessons, a compendium of bad advice from the past.
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posted by briank at 9:20 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by briank at 9:20 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
that was both sadder and somehow not as sad as i was expecting.
posted by misanthropicsarah at 9:21 AM on November 16, 2022 [10 favorites]
posted by misanthropicsarah at 9:21 AM on November 16, 2022 [10 favorites]
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posted by Kattullus at 9:41 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by Kattullus at 9:41 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
it is indeed sad, but also so affirming of what is good in life. bittersweet, I suppose. she knew she was dying but had enough time to be conscious of those good things, to treasure them for a bit.
I know so many people with cancer right now (mostly all doing quite well) and just had my mammogram yesterday. lots of feels.
posted by supermedusa at 9:42 AM on November 16, 2022 [3 favorites]
I know so many people with cancer right now (mostly all doing quite well) and just had my mammogram yesterday. lots of feels.
posted by supermedusa at 9:42 AM on November 16, 2022 [3 favorites]
Dang. That she wrote this imagining she might have a handful of years left-- as little as that already is-- and then, seeing in her profile, that she ended up passing away only a few months after publishing the piece, was a bit of a gut punch.
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posted by dusty potato at 9:56 AM on November 16, 2022 [12 favorites]
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posted by dusty potato at 9:56 AM on November 16, 2022 [12 favorites]
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posted by jameaterblues at 10:01 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by jameaterblues at 10:01 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
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posted by The Great Big Mulp at 10:13 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by The Great Big Mulp at 10:13 AM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
Thank you for posting this.
You shake your head in surprise because, of all the things that have surprised you about dying slowly, the greatest surprise is how much you still want all of the things you used to want. You feel alone a great majority of the time, because yes, you are dying, but probably not yet, and people don’t know what to do with you when you’re living in that liminal space. You regret that when you made a new friend years ago who was dying from a brain tumor you held back on doing things with him, because surely he wanted to spend time with people who were closer to him. Surely his mind was turned to things besides making new friends. You realize from this side of things that he was probably lonely a lot of the time too and just wanted to spend some time being normal for a while. You regret that you didn’t give him that.posted by spamandkimchi at 10:22 AM on November 16, 2022 [16 favorites]
Oh man, brutal, beautiful. Fuck cancer so goddamn much. As I enter middle age I find myself thinking more and more about mortality, but now I know that I've yet to really grapple with it. My grandmother's rice cooker and coffee grinder are in my cabinets...
posted by signsofrain at 10:22 AM on November 16, 2022 [5 favorites]
posted by signsofrain at 10:22 AM on November 16, 2022 [5 favorites]
That's a lovely piece. Odd to say 'I enjoyed it' but I guess I did. It has a nice, almost reassuring feel of 'this is how it should be' about it. At 72, I am now 7 years older than my Dad was when he died. A man of few words but a big heart he said his good byes to me with a glass of malt, mine was full, his empty, he raised it with a smile and a 'cheers!' and said, 'I can't enjoy a drink anymore, Son.' It wasn't a complaint more a simple recognition of how lung cancer had stripped him. And a look, held a little longer than usual, which said 'it's time for me to go.' We hugged. I grieved him then and six months later was as at peace by his graveside as he was at saying goodbye. He apologised to my Mum with a quiet, 'Sorry, Boss' which she puzzled over but spoke volumes to me. He was sorry to leave her to live alone. For him, it was time to go. I hope I will know and effect my departure with the grace, acceptance and kindness he showed. Thanks for posting this ewok_academy. Rest in peace MsMolly.
posted by dutchrick at 11:16 AM on November 16, 2022 [39 favorites]
posted by dutchrick at 11:16 AM on November 16, 2022 [39 favorites]
What a beautiful and honest reflection. Thank you for sharing this, I had not read it before.
I've now pastored eight churches in a variety of settings. I have no idea how many funerals I've presided over - but I can remember with great detail the time I spent bedside with folks preparing to die. Hundreds of memories.
Some of the most hilarious conversations I've ever had were held with dying people - and learning to receive their humor with grace was challenging, at first.
My dear friend Jim - we'd just been organizing his move down to Naples where he could finally get around to retiring. His doctor suddenly gave him three months - we moved into a hospice setting, instead. He was pissed that he was going to die in the winter in Michigan.
I was waxing something theological when he suddenly slapped the table and shouted, "Holy shit!" "What is it, man?" I asked.
"I've gotta cancel my trash pick up!"
He wrote his own eulogy for me to read (because he didn't want me filibustering his own damn funeral). He title it, "Just a note in passing."
Another, Joe, was 50 years old. I carried him through an awful divorce and then presided at his second wedding - he had about a full year of wedded bliss to one of the most angelic humans I'd ever met.
He felt terrible about burdening his new husband with his anguish.
Eventually I would come to his home and sit beside him on his bed and cradle him in my arms. He was this big, bear of a man, and I'm not, so it was always a bit awkward, but we developed a rhythm. Sometimes he would sob while I simply held him, typically for about a half hour, his husband in the next room fixing us all some tea.
And he would gently speak into my shoulder about his fear and his intense feelings of loss - he once said, "I am too in love with this world to leave it behind." This haunts me because I also enjoy this place.
Bedside with "Molly," - a famous celebrity of a bygone era. I knew the funeral would have both senators in attendance and others who had loved her, or at least wanted the world to know that they loved her. An easy funeral, as well, as all celebrity funerals are. Everything is already out there. So much to celebrate.
But she was passing and doing so in stubborn silence.
I remember brushing her perfect hair, not knowing what to say, mustering all of the "non anxious presence" I could possibly muster as an endless train of visitors passed through the room.
If she was "too full of visitors" she would ask me to pretend as though I was reading the Bible to her. "Don't actually read the damned thing, though, it's far too depressing."
Once, when she was looking off into the middle distance, I absent-mindedly (and somewhat stupidly) murmured some pastoral pabulum, "Oh Molly, you are so deeply loved. So deeply love by so many. You know that, right?"
And she simply said, "No, I don't. I really don't."
We will all go in our way, it's one of the very, very few things that is left more-or-less completely to ourselves. We cease borrowing the oxygen, we make space for more lives filled with glory and wonder. But we never really leave. We are this thing, together, whether we live or die. The creation is a closed loop. It's all there is - we can't get out of it or away from it even when we die. It is all still, simply, there. Undiminished and complete. Whole.
Personally, I find this deeply comforting.
posted by Baby_Balrog at 11:22 AM on November 16, 2022 [89 favorites]
I've now pastored eight churches in a variety of settings. I have no idea how many funerals I've presided over - but I can remember with great detail the time I spent bedside with folks preparing to die. Hundreds of memories.
Some of the most hilarious conversations I've ever had were held with dying people - and learning to receive their humor with grace was challenging, at first.
My dear friend Jim - we'd just been organizing his move down to Naples where he could finally get around to retiring. His doctor suddenly gave him three months - we moved into a hospice setting, instead. He was pissed that he was going to die in the winter in Michigan.
I was waxing something theological when he suddenly slapped the table and shouted, "Holy shit!" "What is it, man?" I asked.
"I've gotta cancel my trash pick up!"
He wrote his own eulogy for me to read (because he didn't want me filibustering his own damn funeral). He title it, "Just a note in passing."
Another, Joe, was 50 years old. I carried him through an awful divorce and then presided at his second wedding - he had about a full year of wedded bliss to one of the most angelic humans I'd ever met.
He felt terrible about burdening his new husband with his anguish.
Eventually I would come to his home and sit beside him on his bed and cradle him in my arms. He was this big, bear of a man, and I'm not, so it was always a bit awkward, but we developed a rhythm. Sometimes he would sob while I simply held him, typically for about a half hour, his husband in the next room fixing us all some tea.
And he would gently speak into my shoulder about his fear and his intense feelings of loss - he once said, "I am too in love with this world to leave it behind." This haunts me because I also enjoy this place.
Bedside with "Molly," - a famous celebrity of a bygone era. I knew the funeral would have both senators in attendance and others who had loved her, or at least wanted the world to know that they loved her. An easy funeral, as well, as all celebrity funerals are. Everything is already out there. So much to celebrate.
But she was passing and doing so in stubborn silence.
I remember brushing her perfect hair, not knowing what to say, mustering all of the "non anxious presence" I could possibly muster as an endless train of visitors passed through the room.
If she was "too full of visitors" she would ask me to pretend as though I was reading the Bible to her. "Don't actually read the damned thing, though, it's far too depressing."
Once, when she was looking off into the middle distance, I absent-mindedly (and somewhat stupidly) murmured some pastoral pabulum, "Oh Molly, you are so deeply loved. So deeply love by so many. You know that, right?"
And she simply said, "No, I don't. I really don't."
We will all go in our way, it's one of the very, very few things that is left more-or-less completely to ourselves. We cease borrowing the oxygen, we make space for more lives filled with glory and wonder. But we never really leave. We are this thing, together, whether we live or die. The creation is a closed loop. It's all there is - we can't get out of it or away from it even when we die. It is all still, simply, there. Undiminished and complete. Whole.
Personally, I find this deeply comforting.
posted by Baby_Balrog at 11:22 AM on November 16, 2022 [89 favorites]
Thanks Baby Balrog, people’s personal stories like that are one of the things that kept me coming back to MF. Feels like a while since I’ve seen one, perhaps I’ve been looking in the wrong spots.
posted by Jon Mitchell at 1:08 PM on November 16, 2022 [8 favorites]
posted by Jon Mitchell at 1:08 PM on November 16, 2022 [8 favorites]
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posted by ghharr at 1:13 PM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by ghharr at 1:13 PM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
To those of us who sit beside you, trying to stop fat, hot tears dripping pointlessly
for the umpteenth time,
we know you know we know you know.
It was unbearable too. To all the (younger) sisters out there.
Yes, it's hard. I wish you all well.
posted by Jody Tresidder at 1:19 PM on November 16, 2022 [4 favorites]
for the umpteenth time,
we know you know we know you know.
It was unbearable too. To all the (younger) sisters out there.
Yes, it's hard. I wish you all well.
posted by Jody Tresidder at 1:19 PM on November 16, 2022 [4 favorites]
She was my student, and after her graduation a good professional friend.
I hate what she went through so, so much, and I miss her.
posted by humbug at 1:28 PM on November 16, 2022 [17 favorites]
I hate what she went through so, so much, and I miss her.
posted by humbug at 1:28 PM on November 16, 2022 [17 favorites]
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posted by LobsterMitten at 1:39 PM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by LobsterMitten at 1:39 PM on November 16, 2022 [1 favorite]
That's a lovely story, dutchrick.
Thanks Baby Balrog, people’s personal stories like that are one of the things that kept me coming back to MF
Agree, Jon, agree.
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posted by BlueHorse at 2:08 PM on November 16, 2022 [5 favorites]
Thanks Baby Balrog, people’s personal stories like that are one of the things that kept me coming back to MF
Agree, Jon, agree.
.
posted by BlueHorse at 2:08 PM on November 16, 2022 [5 favorites]
So nice to hear she had such good friends. Everyone should but not everyone does.
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posted by Glinn at 3:38 PM on November 16, 2022 [6 favorites]
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posted by Glinn at 3:38 PM on November 16, 2022 [6 favorites]
Posting this on her birthday, not the day of her passing, is very thoughtful and, truly, loving.
Her words were simple and true and hard and kind. They reminded me of the best of Mary Oliver's poetry - unsparing, with a hard kernel of love.
The slowly-then-all-at-once way of death by cancer puts us on our heels, then on our knees.
I was a thousand miles away for the last year of my mother's dying, then home when she died. Later, I found notebooks of countless recipes, grocery lists, to-do lists, punctuated here and there with brief notes expressing her loneliness, her fear, her sadness at the narrowing of her world. She was a nurse, tough as nails (trained in Philadelphia and the Army in the Sixties) and warm as sunshine. Nobody laughed like Martina.
At a memorial reception in the last hospital where she had worked, I read testimonials from the families of patients she had cared for, thankful for the hours she spent with their loved ones. I wasn't there for her in that way - I was in college, in a bad relationship, utterly wrapped up in my self. She spent her hours imaging family meals and ordinary errands, the stuff of daily life. I pray someone heard her voice.
posted by Caxton1476 at 4:28 PM on November 16, 2022 [11 favorites]
Her words were simple and true and hard and kind. They reminded me of the best of Mary Oliver's poetry - unsparing, with a hard kernel of love.
The slowly-then-all-at-once way of death by cancer puts us on our heels, then on our knees.
I was a thousand miles away for the last year of my mother's dying, then home when she died. Later, I found notebooks of countless recipes, grocery lists, to-do lists, punctuated here and there with brief notes expressing her loneliness, her fear, her sadness at the narrowing of her world. She was a nurse, tough as nails (trained in Philadelphia and the Army in the Sixties) and warm as sunshine. Nobody laughed like Martina.
At a memorial reception in the last hospital where she had worked, I read testimonials from the families of patients she had cared for, thankful for the hours she spent with their loved ones. I wasn't there for her in that way - I was in college, in a bad relationship, utterly wrapped up in my self. She spent her hours imaging family meals and ordinary errands, the stuff of daily life. I pray someone heard her voice.
posted by Caxton1476 at 4:28 PM on November 16, 2022 [11 favorites]
You are.
Until you are not.
I was fine until I read these last few words. What a tragic waste and, indeed, fuck cancer and fuck it hard.
posted by dg at 7:47 PM on November 16, 2022 [3 favorites]
Until you are not.
I was fine until I read these last few words. What a tragic waste and, indeed, fuck cancer and fuck it hard.
posted by dg at 7:47 PM on November 16, 2022 [3 favorites]
I don't have any stories to share but I'd like to give a lot of people here great big hugs.
posted by ZaphodB at 11:47 PM on November 16, 2022 [6 favorites]
posted by ZaphodB at 11:47 PM on November 16, 2022 [6 favorites]
Thanks for posting this. I just got back from a weekend in my college town, visiting with a college friend with stage 4 lung cancer. She's never smoked a day in her life, and is only 51, and it feels very, very unfair. We've grown apart over the last few years, as friends do, so I didn't hear about her diagnosis until several months after she received it. Without me knowing, she'd already gone through several grueling rounds of chemo. That stopped working, and she's now part of a clinical trial, that, so far at least has minimal side effects. The thing that surprised me the most was...she was herself, just with shorter, and newly curly hair. We didn't talk much abut her diagnosis, or her prognosis, instead focusing on her cats, and the shenanigans we used to get up to. It was weird, and lovely, and yeah...fuck cancer.
posted by csox at 6:00 AM on November 17, 2022 [4 favorites]
posted by csox at 6:00 AM on November 17, 2022 [4 favorites]
Again I wonder why I am still alive and a young person is dying.
posted by aiq at 9:25 AM on November 17, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by aiq at 9:25 AM on November 17, 2022 [1 favorite]
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posted by evilDoug at 12:55 PM on November 17, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by evilDoug at 12:55 PM on November 17, 2022 [1 favorite]
This sums up a lot of my feelings about my own cancer, which I rode a wave of technology to remission. Thank you for posting it.
posted by Thrakburzug at 4:24 PM on November 17, 2022 [3 favorites]
posted by Thrakburzug at 4:24 PM on November 17, 2022 [3 favorites]
fuck cancer
posted by bendy at 11:19 PM on November 19, 2022 [1 favorite]
posted by bendy at 11:19 PM on November 19, 2022 [1 favorite]
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posted by ewok_academy at 9:11 AM on November 16, 2022 [16 favorites]