Movie Tuesday: How to Die in Oregon

I've written about this movie before, but that was prior to people actually reading my blog.  Like last week's post, this is a documentary, probably the most powerful, beautiful documentary I've ever seen and I've seen a few.  It's about the Death with Dignity law in Oregon.  So, watch the trailer.  And if you can, watch the film.  It's out on dvd now.  I'd love to hear what you thought about it.  Yes, it's controversial, but I guarantee this film will get you talking about death.  And that's an important talk to have.

Okay, brave readers, who has seen this film?  Anyone live in Oregon?  Talk to me.

Monday Mournings: The Death of a Sister

Susan Oloier, author and writer; mother and wife. In my previous life I was a third grade teacher and Reading Specialist until my husband and I decided to quit our jobs, sell our house, and buy an RV to travel the U.S. for a year with our then two-year-old son. Now I write and take care of my kiddos. I was raised in the Midwest, lived in Phoenix for quite some time, and now reside in SW CO.

DW: Who was the person who died?

Susan: My sister-in-law, Sara. Her death last year dealt a devastating blow.

DW: How old were you at the time?

Susan: Early 40s.

DW: How old was the person?

Susan: 36

DW:Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

Susan: It was sudden and tragic. Sara was driving home from work, and there was a horrible car accident. No one else was involved. Somehow, she wound up hitting a concrete light pole. I believe they had to use the jaws of life to extricate her. She was taken to the hospital with countless injuries. I can still picture her lying there—so much herself, yet so very different. She never did wake up, so my brother was faced with some extremely difficult decisions. To this day, no one knows what happened.

DW: Did you and Sara ever talk about death?

Susan: We never really talked about her death. Though, I would occasionally bring up the life-limiting diagnosis of my younger son with her. She was so warm and loving with him; very compassionate.

DW: Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before this person died?

Susan: Yes. Many. Family pets (don’t laugh), all of my grandparents, aunts and uncles, two miscarriages, a close friend to cancer, and way too many children of other families who had children with Trisomy 18—my son’s diagnosis. In fact, after Zane was born, we were told to expect him to die within a few months. So death seemingly has been a companion lately.

DW: Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving?

Susan: I found people to be very supportive. There was a lot of family around after Sara’s death. But everyone was really in shock. I helped my brother and Sara’s parents plan out the memorial, and I helped officiate. So, in addition to grieving, I found myself in the role of supporting my brother’s grief, as well.

DW: Is there anything you wish you’d done differently with Sara?

Susan: I wish I would have reached out to her more, gotten to know her better. We were just coming to a point where we were feeling so much like sisters. So many times I get caught up in the minutiae of life that I tend to let too much time go by between calling someone. Maybe we’re all a little guilty of this. But it will always be my regret with Sara. I wish I could tell her how much she meant to me. But somehow, I believe she already knows that.

DW: Was she buried or cremated?

Susan: She was cremated.

DW: Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share?

Susan: I believe grieving is a life-long process sometimes, especially when death is untimely. I learned this from all the babies and children who have died as a result of complications associated with Trisomy 18; I’ve learned it with Sara. One critical thing I’ve discovered is that loved ones don’t want us to forget those who have passed. So we need to keep talking about them and not be afraid of hurting those who remain by bringing up their names. They’ve already been through the worst. We need to keep them alive in spirit, in heart, and in memory. It’s when others stop asking and talking about the deceased that it becomes especially painful.

DW: I couldn't agree more. Last but not least, were any songs played at the memorial that were

important to Sara?

Susan: There’s one from Rascal Flatts that was their wedding song, but it’s still too painful to have you play that. I can picture them dancing together at the reception to it. Instead, my brother made a slideshow using In My Life by the Beatles. Listening to it (even today) brings me to tears and makes me think of the memorial. It is so very fitting, though. And Sara’s parents are huge Beatles fans.

This one goes out to Sara...

A Memorial Day Remembrance

This Monday is Memorial Day in the United States, a day to remember the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces. I have invited one of my classmates at Goucher to share her experience of burying her father at Arlington Cemetery.  Tracey Emslie has been a journalist for many (many, many) years.  She is a Navy wife and an Air Force mother.  Her Dad was an Army PFC.

Day is Done by Tracey Emslie

The Chaplain closed his book and stepped to one side. The six members of the honor guard remained immobile, holding the American flag stretched taut above the urn as soft rain dripped from the overhead canopy. It was peaceful, if you didn’t mind the hum of traffic on the other side of the niche wall.  Eight more soldiers stood at attention on the green, grassy rise to our right.  Seven of them held rifles.  One stood apart.  A crisp rifle volley cracked the quiet; three rounds of seven simultaneous shots producing the traditional twenty-one gun salute.

When the after-echo of the shots fully died away, the eighth soldier put a bugle to his lips and produced the twenty-four traditional, haunting notes of Taps, letting them drift over row upon row upon row of starkly simple, white markers inscribed with the name, rank, and dates of birth and death of those interred at Arlington National Cemetery.  Composed by Civil War General Dan Butterfield, the bugler’s soft lullaby to the setting sun—and death—may be the only truly lovely sound to come out of a war.

There are restrictions concerning who can have full burial rites at Arlington: those killed in battle, those awarded major medals, Presidents and the like top the list.  Most of the others are “inurned” in the niche wall or Columbarium.  The common link for all is significant service, but despite the elegant uniformity of the markers, all their stories are unique and often complex; like my Dad’s, for instance.

He enlisted in the army as soon as he turned eighteen.  A year later, he was driving an ambulance; a medic dodging artillery barrages in the snow and fog of the Ardennes Offensive without enough food, clothing, or medical supplies during that largest, bloodiest battle of World War II.  89,000 American casualties. 19,000 killed. He was again behind the wheel of his ambulance, 14th in line to cross the Ludendorff Bridge over the Rhine at Remarge, the 9th to arrive at the other side.  Five vehicles ahead of him were blown up, including one immediately in front of him that was being driven by a friend.  Not long after he returned from the war, his mother committed suicide and he had to identify the body.

He drove race cars.  He became a brilliant engineer.  His “doohickies” that enabled the creation of F-111 fighter jets made the cover of Aviation Weekly.Twice.  Eventually almost totally deaf, he actively welcomed social isolation.  He could drip charm when he chose, but was a supremely absent father and grandfather who managed to alienate three successive wives, any number of family members, and all of his subsequent caregivers as Alzheimer’s took its brutal toll.

After the playing of Taps, the honor guard folded the flag once, twice, then into a triangle of white stars on a blue field. It was presented on bended knee to my brother, with “appreciation from a grateful nation.”  An Arlington Lady, one of a cadre of volunteers who attend every funeral to ensure that no one is buried alone, presented a condolence card from the Secretary of the Army and his wife.  Dad’s ashes were placed in the niche wall.  I put a modern postcard from Bastogne featuring a poetic tribute from Belgian children to the Ardennes veterans alongside it. It said they were the children those who died never had. The marble cover was screwed back on.  The honor guard went on to another funeral.

We walked up the hill to pay tribute to the Tomb of the Unknowns, where a solemnly marching guard helped a group of schoolchildren lay a wreath.  On our way back down, we drew aside for seven dark, gleaming horses clip-clopping their way up the hill.  One was saddled.  Six were in harness, pulling a caisson bearing a flag-draped casket as another rifle volley and another rendering of Taps played in the distance.

Photo by Tracy Emslie

400,000 starkly plain, white gravestones.  400,000 stories; some long, some tragically short.  They perform thirty funerals a day.  There are now so many dead that there is a three to six month waiting list.

If you’d like to take part in a future Monday Mourning post and share your experience with my readers, reach out to me!

Last, but certainly not least, help me do my little part to save the USPS. I bought a TON of stamps and if you sign up for my newsletter, I will send you some swag (stickers, bookmarks and now buttons!) from my debut novel Forever 51.