Reminders of Mortality

Posted: March 26th, 2011 under Life beyond writing.
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Diana Wynne Jones died (of lung cancer, the stories say.)    For reasons that aren’t really that important, she’s another YA author whose work I first ran into as an over-40s adult, and immediately fell for, and sought after, and read and re-read.   Her books made me laugh, scowl, worry…I don’t remember if I ever actually cried while reading one, but my breath came short and I had to turn pages really fast sometimes.    That, to me, is one of the signs of a good book–as being re-readable many times is another.   Her books were certainly re-readable.

She died at the same age my mother died.   That’s pure coincidence, but when it comes to matters of life and death–birth dates and ages at death–you notice these coincidences whether you want to or not.   She died of cancer.  My mother didn’t–she died of chronic renal failure that led to heart failure eventually; she lived 32 years past the “dead in six months” prognosis she was given when I was 13.    But friends of mine have died of cancer…and one of them I sat with as she died, in a roomful of friends (we took turns holding her, as she seemed more comfortable that way, and we sang to her.)  Another coincidence that means nothing but sticks out in my mind: that dying friend’s  last name was Jones.   Others have died at a distance, where I couldn’t see them one last time, but could mourn them right here, in the depths of my memory of their younger selves.

When I worked in the local EMS, and the rural clinic,  I saw a fair bit of death–the young, usually from trauma; the middle-aged from trauma, sudden cardiac death, early stroke; the old from stroke or heart attack or cancer or just getting too damn tired of life…unacknowledged suicides of those who didn’t want to go into a nursing home, and one murder by spouse tired of caring for bedridden spouse.  (If you’re going to choke your bedridden spouse to death, best not to do it with a cut on your hand that’s been stapled up rather than stitched–the staples leave defining marks on the neck.)

I saw the results of a foolish belief in immortality in the young whose carelessness ended with their blood and brains smeared on the asphalt or over the tables and floor of a bar.   I saw the results of genetic accidents in the sudden deaths from aneurysms and enlarged hearts that hid inside apparently healthy bodies, in infants born with cystic fibrosis and other inheritable conditions.  The results of uncontr0lled emotion in those who had been shot and stabbed in fights over nothing worth dying for.   And in those of the age then that I am now…the erosion by aging and its diseases of the life they had known for the half century or so before that.

We all know birth is a death sentence.   We all know the time between birth and death is what we have–however long or short.   How we spend that time–what we do with that time–defines us (and defines us differently to different people.   The hero of the revolution to followers is the dastardly traitor to those displaced by the revolution.)   And as we get older, the reminders of our own personal, inescapable, mortality become more frequent and more intrusive.   A stutter now and then in the heart that once beat smoothly at any speed necessary.  An old injury that starts hurting again.  Joints that stiffen more quickly, and loosen more slowly.   A little tremor…a little weakness…and always lurking in the shadows, the big ones: cancer, heart, stroke, dementia.   We could of course be killed any time–today, the next hour–by the unexpected betrayal of some body part or the intentional or accidental acts of others, but the unexpected becomes more expected the longer we live

Dragging this gently toward the other main topic of this blog, writing, the reality of death is why writers, including Jones, include death in stories.    Writers know they will die, just like everyone else.   Writers’ parents die.  Writers’ siblings die.  Writers’ spouses die.  Writers’ friends (and enemies) die.    Reminders of mortality are all around us, all the time.

Jones knew that, in her own body as well as in what she had lost of people she loved (and probably, if she hated anyone, people she hated.)   According to one report I read this morning, she chose to discontinue chemo to live her last almost-year without the anguish chemo causes…she wasn’t going to get a cure, so the cost/benefit ratio, as the medical economists put it, wasn’t on her side for more chemo.    The friend I held in my arms for some of her last hours chose to continue treatment up to the last week or so, hoping for another remission.    Some people argue for the virtues of one choice over the other.   I argue for the freedom to choose, and to have a dying person’s choice respected, to not have someone gnawing on their decision to shape it to the gnawer’s ends.

I had picked up Michael Dirda’s Book by Book: Notes on Reading and Life the other day,  and Diana Wynne Jones is one of the writers he references, describing her in the “Who’s Who” section in the back as “…major English writer of fantasy for children.”    The section of this book on “Last Things”  continues one of the themes of Dirda’s books, on reading and “making a life” (in the old terminology.)    We are reminded, he says,  by both the outward “real” life and by books that all we have to work with is the space between birth and death…but he also argues that doing things  that contribute to civilization (among them writing a book of worth)  “are the  sorts of triumphs available to any of us. ”

Jones wrote books.   Many books.   Many good books.  As I was not privileged to know her I do not know what, besides books and a capacity for friendship she contributed.  I do know that her books affected me, the middle-aged reader, and my husband (ditto) and we recommended them to others.   I had not discovered her work when I wrote the first Paks books…but they had become part of my reading background when I started this new group.    Did her work make a difference in mine?  Almost certainly–everything I’ve read, like it or not, is “an influence”  for or against something.   She is one writer whose influence–if it’s at all visible (among so many other writers I’ve read, it may or may not be obvious) I welcome.

Today is today and you who read this are alive, as am I writing it.    So today, and especially if you’re a Diana Wynne Jones fan, go do something.  Plant a garden or a single pot; cook a tasty meal for yourself and maybe a friend or your family;  hold someone’s hand who’s grieving with the troubles of life or death;  paint a dingy room;  photograph a flower or an icicle…do something…maybe something you’ve delayed doing…maybe something you’d do anyway…because today is the day you’ve got, and this is the day I’ve got, and she didn’t waste her days.  Nor should we.

12 Comments »

  • Comment by Margaret — March 26, 2011 @ 11:45 am

    1

    Elizabeth, your musings on life and death, and the importance of the Present Moment, are very much in keeping with what I am going through personally and I thank you for them.

    I have been to funerals when I did not know the person, but was there to support someone I cared about in their grief. Many times the deceased is spoken of lovingly, their personality, accomplishments – their life -described and celebrated. I have felt the sorrow of never having known them, of having missed an opportunity.

    So now I try to be more conscious of the people I am around, the acquaintances who seem like just “ordinary people”. I want to build my awareness, my appreciation, of who they really are, to see them as special, individual beings who enhance the beauty of the world we live in. I want my life to be enriched and changed by our shared experiences.

    There is a colleague I work with, who used to rather annoy me. Then I found out she writes poetry, and I read some. It was poetry that spoke to me, that had depth and wisdom and delightful insight. Nothing about her has changed, but I see her completely differently now. I enjoy her and feel comfortable around her. The behaviors that annoyed me no longer do. It’s as if I had known her before as a cardboard cut-out and now she is in 3-D with warm flesh and pulsing blood and dancing eyes. When we interact, it is a Present Moment that is is fuller and richer and I am glad she is part of my life.

    Thank you for reminding me that this is the day I’ve got, that I needn’t waste it, but be glad and rejoice in it. No icicles here to photograph, but plenty of crocus and daffodils.


  • Comment by elizabeth — March 26, 2011 @ 12:01 pm

    2

    Margaret, thank you for this. How wonderful that you found a way to see past your co-worker’s annoying behaviors–and that she had found a way to show her other sides to the world. You are a bridge for her now.


  • Comment by Jonathan Schor — March 26, 2011 @ 2:25 pm

    3

    Diana Wynne Jones – one of the better ones. I shall look at Howl’s Moving Castle again. And I sincerely hope that this is not a trend – many of the living authors I like and enjoy are aging – some are dropping off.


  • Comment by elizabeth — March 26, 2011 @ 2:59 pm

    4

    Well, Jonathan…we’re all aging all the time, and we lose writers every year. So in the sense that time passes and so do people…yeah, it’s a trend. Though I often wonder why the ones we’d just as soon lose don’t go first…or maybe we really only notice the ones we miss the most.


  • Comment by Carolyn Rau — March 26, 2011 @ 3:13 pm

    5

    This makes me tear up. A connection I made with a young girl was begun through sharing Diana Wynne Jones’ books (I own more than the library does). She fell in love with the books and her whole family read them.

    Thanks for writing this. It is a beautiful tribute.


  • Comment by Moira — March 26, 2011 @ 5:18 pm

    6

    No comments, because you’ve said it all. But thanks.


  • Comment by arthur — March 26, 2011 @ 6:17 pm

    7

    This is Arthur. Diana Wynne Jones dead? I hadn’t heard. Your talk about dead reminds me of the Phil Ochs song “When I’m Gone.” But life being so fragile just makes it all the more precious. It’s like the rejuvenants in the Familias Regnant universe. They were physically alive, but dead in the sense that they used every minute of the time they had. It also reminds me of Jesus’s parable of the talents. I never used to understand that story, but I think maybe I do now. It’s fear that causes the servant to bury the talent in the ground, not fear of his master, but fear of… success, maybe. He’s a acomplished man and is well off doing exactly what he’s always done. Why should he risk his position and his masters disfavor for only the chance of doing better. The servants afraid to go forward and afraid to go back. The story always made me angry at the master… who was he to say a man was good or no good on a test like that?


  • Comment by Linda — March 26, 2011 @ 6:57 pm

    8

    Thank you for your thoughts … and your advice to create something.

    This afternoon I painted a seascape based on a photo I took last fall just after my Father died. That afternoon I went to walk the beach, away from the house which was both too crowded and too empty. Thank you for reminding me to take time to do it now.


  • Comment by tuppenny — March 27, 2011 @ 1:00 pm

    9

    Some time ago I came across the autobiography that DWJ had posted on her website. It started out stating that she wrote the kind or books that she wrote because of the life that she had led. The autobiography that followed read like the sketch of a novel. I recommend it to all who have loved her books.


  • Comment by Jenn — March 27, 2011 @ 6:13 pm

    10

    Thank you for letting us know about DWJ.

    I think my favourite book of hers was a Tough Guide to Fantasy land. I never laughed so hard.

    She had such a wonderful way of writing. May she rest in peace.

    Thank you for your thoughts on death. I work in palliative care and have been at the bed side of many people as they cross the threshold to eternal life. It never gets easy and yet in the midst of it there is a great beauty. I am grateful that in my life death is not seen as the end only the beginning. It gives me hope.


  • Comment by genko — March 28, 2011 @ 2:57 pm

    11

    I just lost a friend this last week, and am incredibly sad. It has affected our whole community, and I’m hopeful that the funeral scheduled for Thursday will bring some healing. It will be good to see his partner again (they lived across the country), but what a way to do it.


  • Comment by Martin LaBar — March 29, 2011 @ 7:14 pm

    12

    A fine tribute!


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