My fascination with death began…
a lot earlier than you might think! Following is a short story I wrote describing my first memory regarding death and how weirdly interested I was in it. I’m sure all of you have some memories that are extremely vivid, regardless of how long ago they might have happened, this is one of those memories.
The Letter Edged in Black
So many people in this line of work have an honourable story, a special occurrence that led them to where they are now, answering the call of the Death Doula. For many, it was the lingering death of a loved one, a long road of bittersweet caregiving for some and for others, a harsher, quicker parting without time for any of the preparation needed to allow for some comfort or some order to fill a chaotic emptiness.
There have been brushes with death – my father so many years ago, some uncles and aunts, even some friends from school – but my first awareness of my fascination with death happened when I was just a little girl. My favourite uncle, Uncle John, married to my mother’s sister Inez, were both visiting from Detroit one summer. Now this was a special occasion with a capital “O” in my little life. We only saw Aunt Inez and Uncle John once, maybe twice, each year. To say that I adored Uncle John would have been an understatement; perhaps the mysteriousness of so few meetings fanned the flames or perhaps Uncle John himself did, regardless, the connection had been cemented in my young heart before my memory was old enough to remember. In fairness, Uncle John had fathered seven children in his first marriage, so he had probably become pretty good at knowing how to handle kids.
At some point, Uncle John and I sat down to listen to some records on the family turntable in the living room. It was the 70’s and the turntable was housed within a large piece of furniture, which included the speakers as well as a large television. Not a large television by today’s standards but certainly, back then it would have been impressive. It would have been more impressive if it had actually worked, but in my lifetime it never did. The turntable could still turn a record though and other than my sister’s orange portable turntable with a daisy sticker on the lid, off limits to her little sister, this would have been our only option.
Uncle John would have been sitting on our couch, a snazzy white vinyl thing with red piping. Most likely, I would have plopped myself on the floor to avoid having to peel my sweaty legs off of the couch.
I played for Uncle John my latest favourite song. I’m not sure what he might have been expecting really, maybe the Beatles, or the Beach Boys or the Bee Gees. The band doesn’t really matter but he definitely would have been expecting something happy and catchy, something to which he could tap his toes.
What he got was an old Johnny Cash number entitled “The Letter Edged in Black”. I’m not sure what I loved most about this song. It could be the organized efficiency of edging the letter in black so that you knew the contents would herald somber news. What genius! Edging the letter in black gives the reader time to sit, perhaps prepare a cup of something warm and comforting, possibly gather others to share in whatever heartache is about to envelop you. It could have been the lyrics, nothing captivates me more in a song than the lyrics, particularly lyrics that weave a tale, taking you in and out between those intricate threads of connection, never sure where you’re headed. This melody tangles you up in the mess of this son’s life at every turn, the father writing to let him know his mother died and that his father needed him, alluding to harsh words spoken in a time before and regretted forever after, the promise of forgiveness within this letter. I’m not sure if it was Johnny’s mastery of singing or my seven-year-old imagination that kept me spell bound, feeling the torture of the son’s regrettable and irreversible angry words, the heartache of the father and the missed opportunity to reconcile with the mother in this lifetime. I don’t recall feeling upset or scared or worried, sad or melancholy perhaps, but mostly curious, wanting to know more about this event that some think of as final, and that some do not, this thing called death that I hadn’t yet experienced and couldn’t yet comprehend. This was something that I knew was momentous in people’s lives and certainly Johnny sounded miserable, but somehow, there was something else lingering inside, something that I’ve since decided is a feeling of peace. It’s grown since then, an undeniable feeling of peace, beauty and hope that’s so entwined with death for me that the push to share it is irrefutable. Of course, there’s sadness, grief, selfish longing for what once was and what will be no more on this side of the veil but permeating it all is something bigger and something that needs to be talked about.
To Uncle John’s credit, I don’t remember a look of horror on his face nor do I recall his words being critical, shocked though he may have been. I can’t even tell you exactly what he said to that seven-year-old girl, I only know that somehow, he lovingly got across to me that this was a unique interest of mine, not one in which many people might share. He, in just a few words, made me feel special like he always did and somehow, didn’t quash this morbid curiosity of mine. He had the power to do so, this was UNCLE JOHN after all, but he didn’t, he kept that keenness intact and encouraged it to blossom. And it has, Uncle John, it has.