Ernest Hemingway shot himself on July 2, 1961. Though bent he was still a tall man so the gun fit nicely underneath his neck. It would have felt cool. He could reach the trigger with his toe. He knew there was nothing to wait for—shock treatments had wiped out the important parts, the discussion in his mind that could be written down, the stories. What is a writer without his stories? His memory?
“Death is like an old whore in a bar—I’ll buy her a drink but I won’t go upstairs with her.” Ernest Hemingway, “To Have and Have Not” Finally though, the old whore has her way. Every story has an ending writ in the stars.
The Beauty Of Planet posted this poem. I thought it was worth posting. I also think it’s worth noting that it’s not death we’re dealing with, but loss. It isn’t that they’re dead, it’s that they stay dead.
YOU DON’T JUST LOSE SOMEONE ONCE You lose them over and over, sometimes in the same day. When the loss, momentarily forgotten, creeps up, and attacks you from behind. Fresh waves of grief as the realisation hits home, they are gone. Again. You don’t just lose someone once, you lose them every time you open your eyes to a new dawn, and as you awaken, so does your memory, so does the jolting bolt of lightning that rips into your heart, they are gone. Again. Losing someone is a journey, not a one-off. There is no end to the loss, there is only a learned skill on how to stay afloat, when it washes over. Be kind to those who are sailing this stormy sea, they have a journey ahead of them, and a daily shock to the system each time they realise, they are gone, Again. You don’t just lose someone once, you lose them every day, for a lifetime. Credit: Donna Ashworth
So much has been happening that it has been difficult to even attempt a sort-through to post. Indeed, where to begin.
First, I had another (twice now) trip to the hospital—pericardial effusion—wherein the people all thought it was a heart attack. It wasn’t. Either time. But apparently all of the medical paraphernalia thinks I am so they go with that rather than my insistence “I’m not having a heart attack!” *sigh* So. Now they have to find the cause of my attacks which are painful beyond belief.
In the operating room: The most exciting part of the whole thing is that I coded—yes, died!—and that’s where it got interesting rather than just painful. It was no big deal at all and there were no lights and out-of-body experiences or awareness or floating. Nothing. A great big huge black nothing.
Just before the Black in a millisecond I had an awareness something was happening and a wondrous peace wherein nothing mattered and then… Another second and I woke up, knew I had been “somewhere” and asked what happened. They said I coded twice (wrong count, only one, extended) and they had to resuscitate me. So while trying to “save my life”—in a non-heart attack—they killed me.
It is impossible to describe because the observer, and all consciousness was gone. As soon as we say nothing—we have something. It is an experience that can only be experienced. I do think that I stayed in my body because I wasn’t gone long enough. It was less than a minute. Perhaps it takes longer for the full-death experience.
It should be noted that this was Not a heart attack. It was Not heart failure. It was that my heart stopped. Those are all different things. Apparently the heart stopped due to the dye they were inserting into my veins to find the blockage (there was none) that was causing the heart attack that wasn’t.
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Meanwhile. During and after recovery I’ve been doing a rewrite of a novel I wrote a while back called “Last House.” I was always fond of it and thought it should have another look through. I also wrote a short story and entered it in a couple of contests. That’s in addition to the family history I pluck away at and photos with comments I send to the family.
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And the Snow! We’ve had a couple of snow storms that have been just glorious. The dog and I go out at all hours to play and enjoy. Especially deep into the night when no one else is around. It’s so incredibly joyous with mounds of white and blowing wind and the silence and the glory! Watching a black dog jump and run against all of this becomes a thing of the Spirit. Other worlds hover about, waver in the light that suddenly glints against the sweeping snow.
Mary Oliver is such a poet as speaks to our hearts, our souls, without cleverness or opaqueness. She is open, and opens our love and pain with the beautiful pictures she paints of all of the states and passions we pass through.
What it is like until the other dies. And why it is more than final when gone. And why longing has new meaning, a new edge. Another part of self erased.
“I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning, never stops. The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance.” Jeanette Winterson – Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 