remembering marilyn: life and death defined

My dear friend Marilyn died two weeks ago. Cancer filled up her bones, liver and lungs. I believe many of us were in denial of her cancer including Marilyn. Marilyn was life defined. Memories move frantically within. Each memory competing for attention “remember me remember me” they say. And I remember so as not to forget the glorious courageous life defined Marilyn. Maya moves away from my tears and then back again with unexpected hugs throughout the day “are you still thinking of Marilyn”, she whispers in my ear.

I contemplate how much we should or should not shelter our children from difficult emotions, or from the inevitableness of death. I wonder what Marilyn would say about this knowing that she too was sheltered from death when her father died unexpectedly when she was Maya’s age.

I remember hearing a friend of mine from Canada say she refused to read her kids Bambi because Bambi’s mom dies at the beginning of the story. I couldn’t help think, “yes but mothers do die.” Living here in the Village death is intimately connected with everyone. You either know the dead personally or you know someone who did and therefore you become part of the story and share your own stories of death or near death experiences.

Maya touched the possibility of death when her life was almost lifted away in a car accident two years ago. I remember village friends coming up to the house the same evening and saying to Maya “what gyal you almost dead!” Maya was six when the jeep her father was driving flipped over and landed in the drain. Maya pitched out of the jeep and the door landed on top of her head and half her face. Theo peeled back the steel and wedged her head from the wreck. She survived with very little damage with the exception of a warrior scar stretching across the left side of her face. I remember friends coming over during the course of the week to share with us their own stories of death and almost death experiences. One of my friends came and we remembered her son who was killed ten years ago in a car accident. Her son was beheaded in the accident. On a Monday morning my friend was called out of her house to walk to the scene of the accident to identify her 21 year old boy. His back pack was strewn across the road with parts of his brain scattered on top. The whole village went down to the accident that day. I stayed home. Despite my hesitancy to go that same evening to my friends home I went with the rest of the village. I grew up believing the first night of death was reserved for the immediate family however soon learned that death is everybody’s business here and you are expected to be a part and give whatever support you are able. I remember my friend holding me tight before she was swept away by another long hard embrace. I remember the children running in and around death free and yet present to the sorrow.

After Maya’s accident I was grateful for the stream of neighbors landing on our doorstep sharing their stories and expressing death matter of factly and yet with a gentle presence of life left behind. Today the accident isen’t a story to be hushed but is a tale of courage, forgiveness and strength. If you ask Maya about the scar on the left side of her face be prepared for a gripping story!

I think Marilyn would have liked the direction this blog took. The contemplation of death and pain and sheltering or not sheltering those we love. Marilyn’s choice to live life to the fullest was evident in everything she did and said. I cant help wonder if sheltering us from the inevitableness of her own death was a conscious choice or part of her legacy to be life and death defined.