This semester I took an elective course for my major called Psychology of Death and Dying. It sounds morbid, I know, but I didn't know much about death and wanted to see what this class had to offer about the subject.
A few minutes ago I completed my last activity paper for the class. Our activity papers reflect experiences such as those from our field trips (we went to St. Cloud Hospital, Quiet Oaks Hospice, and Benson Funeral Home so far) or something in our personal lives. I chose to write something more personal for my last activity paper, and I wanted to share it:
Experiences Surrounding Death in my own Family
My immediate family has little experience with death and this fact was a factor in my decision to take this course. In our coursework for PSY 345 Psychology of Death and Dying, I have learned that death is a taboo subject and of reasons behind the idea. I realize now that this fact was obvious to me growing up in the way my parents and relatives quietly avoided the subject. Because of this, I understood very little about it, and was in fact not afraid of it. There are a few key instances that I recall where I learned what I know about death before this course.
One of my first memories with death was when our first family dog passed away. I was around 11 years old and my mom picked me up from school that day, which was a clue to me that something was amiss. I can still recall the exact part of Sunnyslope Road that we were driving on that day when she said, “We had to put Rod down” and started choking up. Surprisingly, the news hit me immediately and I remember the constant streams of tears and questions for my mom “why? What happened? Was he too sick? Why couldn’t I say goodbye?” When we got home, nobody wanted to talk about it. In fact, I cannot remember hardly any conversation about the fact that our dog was gone. A few weeks later, I realized that my dad had a canister on his desk, and he told me months later that it was Rod’s ashes. It was rare that Rod came up in conversation, but when he did, my dad always contributed “he was a very good dog.”
Another experience with death was my best friend’s grandmother. It was around 7:00am and Erica and I were in the middle school math classroom together, waiting for classes to begin. She was wearing her glasses and not her contacts, and appeared disheveled. As soon as I got close enough for conversation, she broke down crying and told me that her grandmother passed away. My mouth gaped open for a while as I hugged her, but I could not console her. I did not understand the pain associated with losing someone that close to you. Erica was heavily involved in the funeral and gatherings planning; it was as though I watched her age faster for this time in her life. I watched her slowly heal throughout the next few months and I saw her begin to accept it and even start to talk about her grandmother in positive ways. It was through observing her experience that I came to understand the pain of death, the customs surrounding it, and how to cope.
The last key experience I have with death is the passing of my own grandfather. Prior to his death in September 2008, I remember over the summer overhearing my aunts discussing his worsening health condition. When I inquired as to what they meant and what medical terms they were talking about, they said they did not want to worry me. The only ones I remember was that his stomach was bloated, his body was retaining water there for some reason, and walking looked more painful than usual. I did not worry much beyond that day, though I did make sure to tell him I loved him and hugged him before I left. My grandfather survived triple bypass surgery, falling off a roof, cancer, stints in the valves of his heart, even more surgeries I cannot recall, and more. He even was playing Frisbee that last day I saw him; it was hard for me to believe a man with his strength would someday give out. But, all good things must come to an end, and death is a fact of life. It was only a week or two after I arrived at SCSU, I hardly knew my way around and I did not have any friends yet. I was strolling through Atwood after class when I noticed I had several missed calls from my mom. I called her back, and she dropped the news. I cannot recall her exact words. After I understood the context of her news through her tears, everything is a blur. I could not stand up, I felt as though I would crumble, so I had to sit on a bench outside of Atwood, a bench that I presently pass every day and every day I think about my grandfather when I see it. The next day I found myself in a van with my cousins who live near Brainerd and we are hauling ourselves down to Milwaukee, Wisconsin for his funeral. With no prior experience of funerals, I did not understand how to act. I hardly remember the time we spent in the church; I just remember reading a passage in the bible at the podium: Ecclesiastes 3:1-15, A Time for Everything. At the wake, we all walked through a progression line of my grandfather’s children and my grandmother, hugging and sharing our condolences. I only took a long glance at my grandfather in the coffin, for it was hard to see him like that. Some of my aunts put together beautiful photo boards with pictures of my grandfather throughout his life. I really appreciated that part of the wake because the pictures brought up good memories and funny stories. At the mausoleum later on, I sat with my extended family in the front of the facility. There were soldiers there to recognize my grandfather’s participation in the war. He even received a 21-gun salute and “Amazing Grace” on bagpipes, a song that makes me cry when I hear it even to this day. The healing process took a long time. My immediate family members would talk about it in short stints every once and a while. I believe that it helped a lot of us cope and heal by bringing up his name every once and a while to say we missed him or bring up a memory of him. These days my relatives will post on Facebook every once and a while that they miss him; one of my aunts just got a tattoo that has the word “Dad” in it, in memory of him.
Obviously, my grandfather’s death taught me the most about experiences surrounding death and dying and unfortunately that did not happen until I was 18 years old. I remember thinking “what did I know about death before this? What did I think this would be like?” I must have just been naïve; I certainly was when I lived with my overbearing parents. Although it was tough to learn about death through experience and not instruction, it was the best way to comprehend completely the emotions associated with it. My experiences, in conjunction with this class, have made me more comfortable discussing the topic and I feel better prepared for the future.
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