Time Passing

                                 Forgive my grief for one removed,

                                    Thy creature whom I found so fair.

                                     I trust he lives with Thee and there

                                  I find him worthier to be loved.

                                                                     ~Tennyson

Given but six months to live, it was after 11 months that my nephew, Michael, passed away.  He went more "gentle into that good night" than anyone might have hoped, but -- shall it be said? -- not without dying, which is what must be faced, what must be endured [Link].  Obviously.  Yet through those months, I saw bravery.

He distinguished himself not only in his stamina of enduring those 11 long months, but also in the dignity with which he passed that time -- and more.

He had been in a coma for a about a day before his passing, and so through the night.  In mid-morning his breathing slowed.  He then opened his eyes and looked momentarily at his parents, who had knelt by his bed when they heard the change in his breathing.  With what must have been an immense act of will, given his inability to move muscles and the fact that he had not eaten anything for 49 days, he gave one final nod to his parents in farewell, and within three seconds was gone.

One quote from the cynical House M.D. is, "You can live with dignity.  You can't die with it."  House, in this case, for all his Holmesian attributes, was simply wrong; this 13-year-old boy proved him so.  Science can't explain everything. It knows nothing of the spirit.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

                                   Hamlet (1.5.166-7)

An early entry in this blog concerns the red thread [Link] -- a thread connecting us regardless of where we may be within time and space.  I don't believe time or even eternity is strong enough to break that thread.  Perhaps the sole event possessing the power to break our connections with others is within an act that disregards human connectedness and Love that wove the thread.  I mean Love Incarnate, seen within daily acts of love which carry Him and connectedness to others.

The thread remains, but death?  Well, I'm not sure if it's slack in the line or an uncommon pull upon it.  Whether slack at the other end or a pulling, both hurt.  It doesn't hurt quite so much given that he lived and loved well, endured with faith and dignity, and distinguished himself in passing.  Should he have relinquished Love or human connectedness, the pain of that broken thread would be something more severe.  But no: here is the line, still connected, still present.

The Red Thread

 A brief passage from Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway:

"And they went further and further from her, being attached to her by a thin thread, which would stretch and stretch ... as they walked across London; as if one's friends were attached to one's body ... by a thin thread...."

And so it is with friends, is it not?  No matter where you wander, or where I go, we remain connected as we go through our days.

But more.  There's this, from a Wiki:

"According to [a Chinese] myth, the gods tie an invisible red string around the ankles of men and women who are destined to be soul mates and will one day marry each other....  The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of time, place or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.

"One story featuring the red string of fate involves a young boy. Walking home one night, a young boy sees an old man standing beneath the moonlight (Yue Xia Lao). The man explains to the boy that he is attached to his destined wife by a red thread. Yue Xia Lao shows the boy the young girl who is destined to be his wife. Being young and having no interest in having a wife, the young boy picks up a rock and throws it at the girl, running away. Many years later, when the boy has grown into a young man, his parents arrange a wedding for him. On the night of his wedding, his wife waits for him in their bedroom, with the traditional veil covering her face. Raising it, the man is delighted to find that his wife is one of the great beauties of his village. However, she wears an adornment on her eyebrow. He asks her why she wears it and she responds that when she was a young girl, a boy threw a rock at her that struck her, leaving a scar on her eyebrow. She self-consciously wears the adornment to cover it up. The woman is, in fact, the same young girl connected to the man by the red thread shown to him by Yue Xia Lao back in his childhood."

Some have also seen the thread tied between mothers and daughters; Lucy Kaplansky's CD Red Thread and title song have to do with this myth.

And in Nguyen Du's tale of Kieu, there's this, about two people betrothed, but fates intervene and they are separated:

By the red leaf, the crimson thread,
we're bound for life—our oath proves mutual faith. (ll. 459-460)

It's painful to leave for other places, leaving people behind.  It pulls.  Yeah: we're still connected, but the thread pulls.  And I suppose it's the weight on the pull, the degree of pain, that lets us know who is most precious to us.  Old Mr. Emerson in E. M. Forster's Room with a View perhaps said it best:

The only impossible thing is to love and to part.

In my case, it's not the "for forever" that Emerson meant.

I feel the pull already.  Friends, family...Michael..., but mostly, of course, my love.