Awareness of Mortality

Question

Whether it's a sick individual, a knight battling a dragon to the death, a racecar driver in a tail-spin, whatever - how about stories or poems about the awareness of one's own mortality?  No rules except try to keep it under 300 words.  Here's a suggested list:

a

the

and

so

his

my

whether

why

she

an

Comments

Great challenge giraffe.  I'll be getting in on this one.  Not today though, it's Valentine's Day!

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Second that, Doug.  -- Giraffe,  I hope you contribute something of your own too -- I am sure you have something to say on the subject.

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I do of course and that's the problem.  Giraffe sure knows how to hit my buttons.  I have to chew on this for a bit, but I will definately be contributing.  Death, the final answer and the ultimate solution...

Answer 1

murray.maclean

 

the neighbors, acadians mostly

and stolid as germans

told us of the winter he fed their families

when summer frost killed all the crops but his own

they remembered how an unregistered deed long before

gave him title to his neighbor's farm

and how he signed it over, free

and they laughed when they told how his wife birthed children painlessly

while he lay on the sofa in agony of labor

i met him when he was very old, and had that same day

come home from hospital, come home to die, they said

we had returned his bachelor nephew from a three-day drunk

gave him a ride home from town in our old pickup with 'keep on truckin' on the side

his wife -- second wife, they said his first wife died,was bitter in the kitchen

had to do the wood and animals alone

she offered us no cup of tea, excused herself

then she returned from the front room: "he wants to see you,

wants to shake your hand."

at the east window he was sitting, in his wheelchair

his white hair was haloed by the morning sun

he leaned forward, solemn, and shook our hands, thanked us

 his eyes were soft with joy, his formality a courtesy

in deference to our being mired in youth

i didn't have to be a mystic to see he was shining with white

and golden light;  all the neighbors saw it, you could tell

and he was clear and clean as a little child

but where a child is innocent he was keen as an eagle

a long time past he had learned to crawl, to walk

learned the language, and then the skills of work

and all the politics of life and love

now he was frail as thistledown, but steady

and eager for the threshhold to appear

i'm not a poet nor a writer so i get at what i'm saying any way i'm able

most people don't even try to use words for things like this

but it's something i like to pass on if i can

what he showed me that day,  i know for certain -- and it is this

we may learn from this world but we are not made of it

we pass through and out the other side

Comments

"Keep on truckin' and "deference to our being mired in youth" says it all.

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Thanks.  You are a perceptive reader for sure.  That is a true story .  .

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Nice to see you are back up and running computer wise.  Now I see said the blind man:)

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thanks -- sorry to have made thinkwrites so messy -- just couldn't stay away! ;0  
  btw how do you make it stop double spacing all the lines?

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Been super busy so I haven't had much time for commenting so this is the first time I read your piece.  Perfect example of using an exotic writing style to achieve an effect.  Held me spellbound throughout.  Would love to read more like this.

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See my final entry at the end.

Answer 2

And This With Love

 

 

Even as I dwelt among you

I knew the time would come

to close a chapter I had opened

on life and all things done.

Knowing that my days were counted

I chose my life to be

a reflection of my spirit’s calling

through friends and family.

I called all I met a special friend

and all I loved my own.

I knew that when we bonded in love

we never walked alone.

I lived my life with full acceptance

of the joy I knew was mine –

that by giving of myself to others

God’s light in us would shine.

I chose all manners of expression

in the things I loved to do

and the sharing of each moment

was special between me and you.

And so with love I lived

and now with love it ends

and too with love I say farewell

to my family and my friends.

But don’t think that I have left you

for in you I’ll always be

a spark of light, a touch of love

and a living memory.

I have no regrets in passing

now that my time on earth is done

for in this walk with God I know

my journey has just begun.

This is my greatest walk in life;

my spirit free to roam.

With life more than I ever knew

as now I journey home.

 

 

Ronnie Carroll

Comments

Beautiful and deep. Bravo.

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Thank you. The poem has been used in several memorial services (with my permission).  RC

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Sometimes the simplest messages are the most true and undeniable.  Nice one.

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Deeply moving and truly a gift to those remaining. Thank you for the beauty you express in such simple words. God bless you.

Answer 3

o my Beloved i do not fear to die

i know i'm part of You who loves this i

and brute death hides a gentle mystery

will You keep the me . .  or set i free?

Comments

That's interesting.  What kind of machine are you typing on that won't allow you "space" to breathe?  Your words become a jumbled mess with the strange punctuations.

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I'm on my old Mac running Tiger -- my new Mac with Snow Leopard is at the doctor's.  It is OK til I send it but it lands on Thinkwrites all collapsed.  I will edit & fix when I get the new Mac home -- hopefully.

Answer 4

Either humor or humorless.  Not what I had in mind for this challenge, but it's a start.

The End

When is it truly the end? Or has it already come upon us. We walk like shells of our former selves trudging our way through our mundane daily tasks. Beep…get up…one eye quivers as the brain deems it “wake up” time. A few limbs move, but your heart is not in pace with the rest of your body so you wind up looking like a zombie from a non-chick flick. Zombie, what a word. Who thought up that one? The mere use of the zzzzzzzzzz in the word makes it too “busy” to be a slug dead person. Z words like zip, zoom, and zap denote action. The walking dead look more like a bloody flour sack limping along to the sack race. Oh, here I go again using another “action” word…race. I’ll stop now.

Lying beneath a cold mound of moist earth my skin becomes saturated. The green bile leftover from all the fluids sucked out and pumped in courses thru collapsed veins. My heart sewn back together like a rag doll from childhood beats once, then stops. Flickers of light exploding like faint stars come into my view, but I realize they are just leftover dreams shattered by the temptress who killed me.

She, being the demon and divine one that I loved and hated at the same time towers over my grave cackling at the site of the fresh earth. She had won the battle. I was stone cold and she was cold as stone. We both shared blank looking eyes, but for different reasons.

Death, is it the end? Or is it the beginning of something. We’d have to talk to the dead to find out. I guess I’ll claw my way out of this hell hold grave and grab the bitch and ask her… 

 

Comments

Consciousness from inside the grave?  Different.  I thought that the temptress was a drug of choice or greed he still craves even though she killed him.  It's got a unique, wild feel (for you).  I'd like to see the concept expanded on.

Answer 5

 

ON HIS DEATH BED

“Son” the grandfather said, to the confused twelve year old crying at his feat “The seasons constantly change, there is no stopping them.  Sumer will give way to fall. The cold will come. All ends. Spring will continue to follow winter for only so long.

“We all have a birth and an death, the glorious carnival we have all lived in is a state of disillusionment. The world is plunging towards the flame. The carousel continues to turn, us riders in blissful ignorance. The calliope plays, drowning out the voices of the few who choose to recognize what’s coming.“

“We are all wearing rose colored glasses that hide the reality of our predicament. We rely only on feelings and paper-thin notions of immortality and righteousness. Faith is checked at the door.

“But why” asked the boy's father listening from the door, “What can you say? What words will shatter their false beliefs and save them from their ugly fate?

The old preacher lying on his deathbed released his last great piece of advice, “The sad truth is there is nothing you can do.”

“Yet you must keep screaming!” the son’s son exclaimed continuing his grandfather’s famous sermon, “There is always hope as long as you always speak

The now oldest male in the family completed it. “Who knows? Your voice may be the one that gets through; you might slow the carousel down just enough to allow them freedom. Your voice could be the first thing they truly hear."

Comments

I love reposting things on Thinkwrite I really love this challenge though and i'll probably write something original for it!

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Wow just noticed the word list this will take some editing lol

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Leo,  As doug insinuated - Is time a mask we put on to avoid the harsh realities?   You add: Can we break through to those stuck on a carousel?  Maybe slow them down momentarily?  This is getting interesting.

Annierosie suggested this theme in response to something I said so it's all her fault.  I like the responses and soon I'll enter one myself.

Answer 6

MORTALITY FOR TODAY

Each day I face my own mortality. I'm brave about it in a weak sort of way. I made it through yesterday so odds are good I'll make it through today. I know I'm dying not just in the way all people know this could be the last breath we take. No, I know in that I need surgery to clear major blocked arteries in my neck and in the groin area, but...and this is the twist. Lots of people need that surgery and are holding back out of fear. I'm holding out because I have no choice.

Every day I face the option of a stroke or a heart attack and I have come to accept it as the way I need to live. My first days of knowing this made me a basket case, crying, mourning, and living in absolute fear. When my heart chimed in with stenosis and major blockage there as well, my chances decreased and all the drama increased in my life. My prayer state  took charge and went into overdrive. Every saint, every person, every intercessor was called on and the morbidity became too much to tolerate. 

I can't have surgery due to complications from my COPD and my major lung complications which would turn me into a vegetable. But relief came in the form of acceptance. And true acceptance. Not just mouthing the words, "Oh, I accept this. We all have to go some time.' I prayed and asked for guidance about how I wanted the end to be. I asked my family and friends to do specific things that I wanted so they would remember me in a certain way. My favorite songs and hymns: Be Not Afraid; Take Me Home; and He Ain't Heavy. These were always loved by me at wakes and funerals and I wanted to have a nephew sing the first two, and a group of friends singing the third.

Daffodils, and the pants set I've already picked out are on the agenda. And my good bye letter to each family member and friend has been written and prepared. None of it is done to invoke tears but to remember the love we shared; the laughter we let ring out; and, just eased spending the last minutes together. I don't see this end as a point of sorrow and pain but a movement forward that will allow me to move on to rest and peace and no more pain. And it will provide those gathered around the chance to have one last happy moment with their old friend conjuring up a memory down in time that may just spark another laugh or a giggle or two. 

Morality is inevitable, but the joy of it is planned and I'm ready for when it comes. 

Comments

It's one of those dichotemies like:  You can remember your dream when you wake up, but can you remember your waking life when you're dreaming?  Making plans like that are the same sort of thing.  I like your logical twist.

Answer 7

This is either nonsense or sensible rambling.  Happened in a weird moment.

IT'S IM-, GOD.  IT'S IM- 

I'm no different or better or worse than anybody else.  We all get our 15 minutes of fame.  One person can be better looking or have more money, talent or good health and a higher IQ.  Another might have poverty or average looks or a strong, loving family and sense of community.  Nobody is any 'better' than another.  Some just act that way.  They are the lower mortals (or "Peajongs").

The middle mortals are the satisfied.  With no ambitions or strong emotional drive, they love taking orders or being told what to think or do.  They are called the Quazhonis because so many are in jail.

On and on the levals of mortality are vast and they all enjoy fighting with each other so much that sometimes you can't tell a Pieulamisse from an Avnitector.

That's why I've always chosen the opposite - Immortality.  To be another J.S. Bach, Leonardo daVinci or thomas Edison, or another Susan B Anthony,  Joni Mitchell or Cleopatra.  That way I could create a lasting imprint on the sands of time.

Why does the Im- mean so much in changing the meaning of a word?  To "Print" is to duplicate mechanically.  But to leave an "Imprint" means to leave a strong, lasting impression. (Pression is an attempt to move while Impression is a strong. successful one of those.)

Mortality and Im-mortality have a common bond. One seeks the impression in terms of years of fame while the other seeks it for the lasting impression and depth of the moment.  I finally realized that the two are the same (Im- or not).

My friend was terminally ill.  She told me "It's amazing how green the grass looks when you know this may be the last time you see it.  The sky is so blue and birds are so important (Im + portant) that you forget about your ills."

I guess I'll just sit back and forget about immortality for a while.  I'm working on a cover letter to give to God when I see -Im.  I really want to impress -Im.  It begins "Got a light for an aging punk rock singer?"  My God has a sense of humor.

Uh oh.  The Peajongs are after me again so I gotta run. 

Comments

I'd go for sensible rambling. It was a good read and quite thought provoking.
There is one word, however, that defines all of us and doesn't fit into your pattern - imagination. Or does it?

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You are right.  It doesn't fit.  It boils down to "image" which comes from the Latin 'imago' so the im- is hard wired into the root.  It means copy or picture.  Imagine means to conjure up images that aren't recognizable to the physical senses.  Imagination is the ability to do that.  It was fun to research that on dictionary.com .

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giraffe has plenty of "im"agination, but I don't think that word fits with his word list.  I was about to give up and tell you off when I got down to the "sands of time" line, but you pulled it back up and the rest of it was superb.  So, let's see, was that a grand review or an "im"patient one?

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Well, Doug.  Everyone has a different response to everything.  I'd be interested in knowing what you wanted to "tell me off" about.  I like having an effect.

Answer 8

 

Common Apathy

An average of 154,889 people die every day.

But she chose to ignore this, because knowing the entire population of her town dropping dead in one day wouldn’t be drastic enough to change the average comes to close to admitting her life is virtually meaningless.

He however knew the rates he had, for the last three months, increased the average by one every day. His hunger never really subsided, he could not stop killing. He didn’t care weather he was caught, he didn’t ask why. He simply lived to kill.

Leaving her office alone at a quarter to midnight she was not afraid.

Watching from the dark spot across the street he began to feel the anticipation.

Twenty steps to the parking lot, thirty more to her car, and only one street light out among hundreds. Stepping into the shadow she heard his breath, felt his touch, and for the first time she recognized the truth of her own mortality.

In that second he felt evil, he recognized the importance of each life; no matter how insignificant they looked. He could have stopped in this moment only. Each time there had been a single chance to re-evaluate his decisions. If he had even once done this instead of muscling through the proverbial gag reflex, then the peace and worth he felt would have been more than enough to stop all future suffering.

Unfortunately, he had not.

 

Comments

I know i already responded but this one was written specifically for this challenge and it fits better i think

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Another good un, Leo.  Does "he" ever feel a sense of mortality?  Or are his deeds a systematic way of avoiding that?

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I think "He" is only aware of his mortality in the moment he is aware of his um...  morality

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Same thing.  He doesn't recognize his morality very often either.  He supresses his conscience through more evil acts.  He increased the average by one every day.  That's just my take.  It could mean a million things to different people.

Answer 9

Giraffe:  So sorry I demolished your rules, but you know how ThinkWrite works my friend.  This one came straight from the heart so don't expect a polished post.

 

My View

Yes, I love to write about graves, ghouls, psychopaths, monsters and even the occasional love story. Funny how my musings tend to be surrounded or encompassed by morality. So Giraffe so and so poses a challenge to explain ones ideas about mortality whether it be by story or poem or other device.

How about the truth, as I see it of course. No need to shed a tear or even shake your head in disgust. This brain knows all too well about mortality. I may not be the expert, as the only experts in the field are planted in a field.

I have two young boys with terminal illnesses and a father who has a bone cancer that once it stops smoldering will surely kill him quickly.

Ok, enough already….here’s my story and there could be many more, but I’ll keep it at one.

March 15, 2007

A child is born, one we already knew had Cystic Fibrosis. His older brother also with CF had a hard first year constantly being besieged by lung infection after lung infection. In the first year and a half he spent sixteen weeks in the hospital at two weeks a pop. Oh, that’s right…a child is born. It was a long labor and everyone was pretty spent. Neney and Pap were there the whole time with us except for a brief stint in the hallway for Pap as he couldn’t bear seeing his daughter giving birth. I did my ceremonial cutting of the umbilical cord and the rush of the weigh in, temp check, etc, etc began. Our little one returned to the room later on and threw up once. It was a strange color of green which scared us and the nurses. He was in the ICU moments later as the green spew was bile. Phone calls were made, tests were ran and then he was transported down the street to Children’s Hospital. It was everything I could do to keep my wife from getting out of bed and going. My father in law went with me and after we arrived and found the waiting room we sat. We waited…I paced the halls…a thousand thoughts ran through my head. It was three hours before a nurse came out and said we could go back into the NICU. There he was, tethered to hoses and wires, bangs an bongs going off all around, nurses scurrying back and forth from incubator to crib.

Hushed voices…the voices you hear when you are at a funeral and everyone is murmuring.

My little baby…

Waiting…

NICU docs finally made it around and said that he had ruptured his intestines which unfortunately was caused by a blockage undetected and caused by CF.

I never saw that one coming…I had lived through the lung infections, breathing treatments, pushing a stroller around a corridor a millions times while an IV machine tagged along, and hoped that this would be the last time.

My little baby…three operations, four months in the NICU, his legal address was Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh, near death after swelling up like a beach ball with fluids and finally saved by a special machine flown in from Wyoming..

They have a new hospital now, but I can still feel those hallways. I still suffer the maddening aftermath of that trauma to my brain. How can one beautiful child turn his father into a “post traumatic stress syndrome” basket case and I never fought in a war.

A child is born

This father mourns

Each passing day

Death comes closer

Please let me have them longer

Let me be the cold lifeless body in the ground.

Shhhhhhh…. 

Comments

I'm at a semi-loss for words, Doug.  You've demonstrated very well how one person's concept of mortality can (and has to be) different from another's.  There's no right or wrong with that.  I hope you got something enlightening out of writing this piece, because I'm sure we all did.  thanks.

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I wish I could get something out of writing something like this.  It's not difficult to write; it's difficult to live with.

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I can only imagine....  To me, writing out frustrations can be a good catharsis for screaming into a pillow or having a good cry.  Like Tevye yelling at God when he's alone, it can improve my mood.

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God...that's a whole other subject...

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It is, it is.....  I'll try one.

Answer 10

Memento Mori

Although we all face that last great event when the truth will at last be found, even if that truth is itself simply a final end, none of us know when our death will happen. It can be guessed at or estimated by insurance sales men, but whether you like it or not, welcome it or fight it, it will come to all of us. When Death comes for us and takes away our human shell, the unanswerable question, will, at that very moment between existence and finality be at last known.

What form Death will take is likewise a mystery. Is he (or even she) a black hooded figure, a white angle or a mere metaphor for so strange an event that mortal minds cannot comprehend? Is his duty just to end or to guide us to a new re-incarnation? Will my fate be to await that last great trumpet call, when all will account for their actions in life? Will time stand still and allow me to ask all those questions, those so many questions that have concerned me throughout my earthly existence? Will I be able to ask and will I be answered if I dare to ask why we are here in the first place?

Mortality may be feared by many, yet it may be a friend to the poor, the hungry and those in pain or sickness. It is an end to uncertainty and whatever it brings it will be a new beginning. Life is for the living, so live life to the full and let the dead bury the dead, but never forget that we are mortals and that our final hour of existence, a time that no man knows, is approaching and approaching faster than some may know!  Memento Mori.

Comments

Saxon,  there's always a (morbid?) curiousity about what goes through someone's mind when they know their end is very near.  Are they afraid or anxious or welcoming?  Only they find out.