"Amazon’s Alexa might soon replicate the voice of family members - even if they’re dead.
The capability, unveiled at Amazon’s
Re:Mars conference in Las Vegas, is in development and would allow the
virtual assistant to mimic the voice of a specific person based on a
less than a minute of provided recording."
I'm not sure what to make of this. Personally, I'm not sure it would do much to help with my grief. To me, hearing someone or some thing pretending to be my mother is not the same as hearing the actual voice of your loved one, even if it's from years ago. But who knows? Maybe there's another perspective here that I'm not aware of.
Over at DignityMemorial.com, Dr. Therese Rando, a clinical psychologist in Rhode Island here in the United States, has written an article: "12 Insights into Grieving After the Death of Your Loved One". Among her insights: "It Takes Time" -- even though many of us have this preconceived idea that our grief is automatically healed by the 6-month or 1-year mark. Also: "Grief is Personal and Unique" -- everyone has their own individual relationship with the deceased, and everyone processes grief in their own way.
One particular excerpt from her article really stood out for me:
"In our society, there is a curious social phenomenon. On the one
hand, we have relationships with dead people all the time. We learn
about dead people in history, are influenced by them in philosophy and
are moved by them in the arts. We celebrate holidays to remember them,
dedicate buildings in their honor and visit museums to see how they
lived. In virtually all aspects of our lives, we are in a 'relationship'
with the dead.
However, on the other hand we are told that we have to 'get on with
life' and 'let go and put the past behind.' It seems that in Western
society it is acceptable to have a relationship with a dead person as
long as you didn’t know that individual personally. This is why you
could be criticized for displaying a certain photograph of your departed
loved one, but it is permissible to have Princess Diana's face on a
memorial plate hanging on your wall. Clearly, there is a double
standard."
Dr. Rando brings a lot of insight and wisdom to the subject of grief, and the whole article is absolutely worth reading in its entirety.
Are humans the only species on Earth capable of expressing grief and sadness when family and other companions die? I've oftentimes wondered on that possibility. Jessica Pierce, of "The Smithsonian Magazine," wrote a 2018 piece asking that very question: "Do Animals Experience Grief?" Pierce looks at the argument from both sides, and cautions us as to the appropriateness of ascribing human emotions to animals. Nevertheless, Pierce believes that animals may, in fact, grieve and mourn in similar ways that humans do. The following images could help us ask whether animals are purely instinctual creatures, or whether they are capable of feeling loss in a way similar to how us humans experience death and loss.
I spend a fair amount of time on Reddit. While there's plenty there that can be depressing or discouraging, there's also a lot that can be helpful, educational, and/or inspiring, even for those of us who are trying to navigate our way through grief and loss. The original poster on this one particular thread, which unfortunately was recently deleted, was lamenting about how losing a close relative was so difficult, because each day that passed meant that the time when she last saw her now-deceased loved one was getting farther and farther away. User ditka529 commiserated with her:
"This
resonates with me. One part of me is proud of myself for making it
through nine months, and the other part is sad that the gap between the
last time I saw my dad just gets bigger. I’m so sorry that you’re hurting."
And then user Kaykay987643 came up with this beautiful response:
"I don't know if this will help (and i guess it kind of depends on your
belief system), but a lady in my grief group looks at it a different way.
That every day that passes is one day closer to being with them again. I
find this quite comforting."
Note: This is a re-post from March 12, 2022, with some additional edits.
by Stephen Wirzylo
I realize it has been a VERY long time since I posted updates to
America’s Canceled Highways (my previous site). In fact, when I look back, I realized my
last post [there] was back in May of 2021. Nothing since. There’s obviously
a reason for these sorts of things. In 2020 and early 2021 it felt like
I was working my tail off during the pandemic, just so I could keep my
head above water and stay busy. By April of 2021, it seemed like things
were looking up for me and my family: my work schedule was settling
down, which meant I would have a little more time to visit my parents in
the Cleveland area. My mom and dad and I were fully vaccinated, and it
seemed like we were about to turn the corner on the pandemic. I was
feeling more hopeful than I had in a while.
Milton
Then summer came. By early July my family and I noticed that our
older cat Milton was not doing well. He had been slowing down a little
bit in recent months – he was 14 years old, after all. But by July I
noticed that he clearly was not himself – he was eating very little, and
he was very lethargic and withdrawn. He moved from spot to spot in the
guest bedroom at my parents’ place, trying to get comfortable. We
scheduled a visit to the vet, and the earliest they could see him was on
August 5. We decided we would make him as comfortable as we possibly
could in the meantime.
Milton relaxing in bed
On my next visit to my parents, I spent the night in the guest
bedroom with Milton. I heard him growl a couple times during the night –
I think he was in a certain amount of pain and discomfort. By morning I
was feeling a little distraught. I then went to my backpack and pulled
out a prayer card I had recently purchased from a religious gift shop
that I had stopped at a day earlier. It was a prayer card that had
immediately drawn my attention: St. Francis of Assisi’s prayer for sick
animals. Seemed very appropriate, I thought.
When I took the card out of my backpack, I went back to the guest
room, lay down on the bed, and recited the prayer on the card. It
couldn’t have been more than two minutes when I had finished the prayer
that I saw Milton get up from his spot on the floor, come up on the bed,
nestled in beside me, and started rolling around like he was his old
self. I don’t know how long it went on – maybe half an hour. His eyes
lit up and he started interacting with me in a way that I hadn’t seen
since he had gotten really ill. He eventually jumped off the bed and
went back to his corner and withdrew again, but I am hard-pressed to
think of an explanation for all this. Had I witnessed something
extraordinary? Or was it all just a coincidence? Either way, I remember
getting real emotional for a while whenever I recollected this.
The day came when my dad and I took Milton to the vet, and we found
out that he was actually suffering from an extreme case of constipation.
At that point we felt relieved and hopeful. Milton was admitted to the
hospital, and treatment began. Sadly, some of the blockage escaped into
his bloodstream, and he developed hypothermia and sepsis as a result. My
dad went to the vet to say goodbye. Unfortunately I was back in Toledo
at the time, and I told my dad I didn’t want Milton suffering a minute
longer than he had to, hence my decision not to come over. I wonder if I
made the right decision. Milton was put down on August 10.
I remember crying a lot over the next few months. Milton had been
such a wonderful cat: loyal, loving, inquisitive, easy-going. It just
broke my heart that he was no longer around. I do remember in the weeks
during he was sick, and in the first few weeks after his passing, I
remember seeing monarch butterflies everywhere, probably more than I had
ever seen in my life. At one point in mid-November, as I was driving
through Henry County, Ohio, I started crying again, and I said out loud:
“Milton, I love you and miss you so much!” It was no more than half an
hour after that, as I was driving along U.S. Highway 6, that I looked up
and saw a sign as I crossed an intersection: “Milton Road”. I wonder
what would have happened if I had turned off and gone down that road….
I had no idea at the time that this was just the beginning….
Mom
A couple weeks later, on December 1, my dad called to tell me that my
mom had been admitted to Avon Hospital. He remarked that she had gone
downhill the previous day: she was hardly eating or drinking anything,
was sleeping almost the entire time, and when she was awake she was
talking incoherently. My mom had been really ill for a long time: she
was diabetic, and back in 2015 was diagnosed with early-stage kidney
failure and cirrhosis of the liver. She was admitted to the ICU, induced
into a coma, and put on a ventilator. I was able to come that day and
get in for a visit, and I was hopeful she might pull through. That
Sunday, I returned to Toledo, thinking that my mom might be getting
better. She had briefly opened her eyes on Saturday and was initially
responding well to treatment.
My dad called me again on Tuesday, December 7, with those dreaded
words: “You better come.” I got back to Avon Hospital as quickly as I
could, and I remember on the drive over just how horribly gray and
barren and depressing the landscape was that day. My dad and I met with
the head doctor of the ICU. We were told that my mom had had internal
bleeding in one of her pancreatic ducts. The bleeding had stopped, but
her whole body had gone into shock to compensate. As a result, Dr.
Panthan told us, her body was destroying red blood cells faster than it
could regenerate, and she was looking at multiple organ failure.
At that point, my dad and I were in no doubt about what should be
done. Over the years, my mom had told us that she never wanted us to
take extraordinary measures to save her life. And we realized she had
virtually no quality of life at that point. We called my brother and my
mom’s sister so they could say goodbye via telephone – my mom was
unconscious so there was no way she could respond – and then we gave the
medical staff permission to take out the ventilator and the other
equipment that was keeping my mom alive. My dad and I inched closer to
the bed – my dad holding mom’s left hand, and I holding her right one. I
couldn’t help but take notice of how discolored her hand was – my mom
always had an extremely fair, some would say pale, complexion, but the
back of her hand was now an off-color reddish-brown.
My mom and dad on the first day of their marriage……..
And the last day………….
My dad and I waited with bated breath as the nursing staff removed
the ventilator and the other equipment that was helping keep my mom
alive. We had no idea how long she would last? Maybe a couple more
hours? Maybe into the night? Actually, the wait turned out much shorter
than we had anticipated. It couldn’t have been any more than a minute
that my mom’s breathing ceased – there was absolutely no gasping or
struggling. She went as quietly as any person possibly could have. We
realized at that point that my mom’s life had been hanging in there by
just a thread. I remembered that when I was asleep the previous night
before my mom’s death, I was awakened to hear what sounded like three
distinct knocks on a metal pipe. Had this been a sign as well? Was I
being given a message that my mom’s death was imminent? I had no idea at
the time, but I found out later that some people have recalled the old
superstitious belief of “The Three Knocks of Death”. Again, I had no
idea what I encountered that night. A benevolent (or possibly
malevolent) spirit? My own fevered overactive imagination?
Dr. Panthan came into the hospital room at 6:25 p.m., and quietly
told me and my dad that my mom “had gone to another world.” We sat in
the room for half an hour after that, just sitting and talking. Then we
realized that other patients in the hospital might very well be waiting
for an ICU bed to open up, so we figured we best be on our way. I
remember walking in the hospital parking lot out in the cold back to my
car, the heavy weight of that moment resting on my shoulders. I don’t
remember a whole lot over what took place the following two weeks – I do
remember the extremely kind neighbors bringing food, people sending
sympathy cards, going to the funeral home, but I don’t remember a whole
lot else….
Looking back, I realize that my mom had overcome a lot with her own
health. She had survived mono and a bad case of viral encephalitis when
she was 19 years old, back in 1969. At the time she could hardly walk or
talk. The doctors had told my grandparents hat she had a 70% chance of
dying or being disabled for the rest of her life. She rallied and beat
the odds. She struggled with back pain and chronic fatigue for many
years, until she was diagnosed with liver cirrhosis in 2015. She was
starting to show symptoms at that point, and the projected life
expectancy for symptomatic cirrhosis is 1-3 years. My mom lived for 6
years. I thought when she went to the ICU that she might be able to defy
the odds yet again, but I was sadly mistaken. Years ago, before she
became very ill, my mom told me that she hoped that if she felt well
enough, she could live to be 90. She fell 18 years short of her goal.
Both her parents had outlived her in age; my grandfather had made it to
78, my grandmother to 85. I suppose I could look at the glass
half-empty, but to look at it as half-full, I realize that my mom
overcame much, and perhaps I should be more grateful that her life was
as long as it was.
Carter
When I came back to see my dad on December 29, I noticed that
something was not right with our dog Carter either. He would hardly eat
anything, including his favorite dog treats. He was vomiting up
everything, including water. He also had a difficult time getting to his
feet with his back legs. My dad and I agonized over what to do. We
called the vet and they gave us advice on what we might do, but Carter
didn’t respond to any of it. On New Years Eve, my dad took him out for a
ride in the car during the late afternoon. Nothing else seemed out of
the ordinary. When they came back, Carter just plopped down a few feet
from the front door, not wanting to move. He started moaning and
whimpering. “Bring him over to me,” my dad said as we sat on the sofa
together, trying to figure out what to do. The vet was on reduced hours
and operation due to the holiday, and we decided we would try to make
Carter as comfortable as we could until we could take him in. Carter
quieted down as my dad gently stroked and petted him. A couple hours
later, my dad said his leg pain was bothering him, so I gladly took
Carter and placed him in my lap. We decided that he would sleep with us
that night so he wouldn’t have to be alone. We would call the vet again
the next day.
Carter in his younger and healthier days…..
I remember Carter settled down in my lap, and as I petted him he
seemed to settle down. I remember praying and telling him how much we
loved him. As the evening wore on, his breathing became faster and more
labored. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I saw my water bottle on the
nearby table. I dribbled a few drops into his mouth at the time – I was
afraid of pouring too much and risk choking him. Carter licked up the
water. My jeans were wet from the water and his tongue, but I didn’t
care in the slightest.
At 11:50 p.m., I saw Carter open his eyes, open his mouth, and arch
his head backwards as he was lying on my lap. It was kind of hard for me
to describe, but he had an expression on his face that I’m not sure I
had ever seen before – he had this look of peace and serenity and, at
the same time, of joyful excitement on his face. It lasted about a
minute or so, and then I saw him bury his head in my lap. His breathing
then slowed down, and then stopped. I broke down sobbing as I cradled
him in my arms, loudly calling out his name: “Carter! Carter!” My dad
and our younger cat, Bonnie, sat across from me on the couch, watching
yet another member of our family leave their earthly life, 5 minutes
before the start of 2022. Carter was such an easy-going and good-natured
dog. He never lost his patience with us, even when there were
occasional times we would get a little impatient with him. He didn’t
have a mean or aggressive bone in his body. If anything, he wanted to be
friends with everybody. He was so enthusiastic about all the little
things in life. We humans, I think, could learn from that.
In the early months of 2021, I remember Mom telling me that she had
something in mind for Dad when the time would come to say goodbye to
Carter . “I have the perfect gift for your Dad when Carter is gone,” she
told me. “It’s a picture frame that has words on it that say: “Thanks for everything. I had a wonderful time.” At
that point in time my mom thought she would outlive Carter, when Carter
wound up outliving her, even if it was only by 3 ½ weeks. Carter had
had a lot of health problems over the last couple years as well,
including diabetes and severe cataracts. I wonder if my mom’s death was
what finally pushed him over the edge. Perhaps he needed to go be with
her, or maybe my mom really needed him. I just couldn’t get over that
Carter was gone, too, after I barely had any time to process the loss of
my mom.
Dad
I noticed that Dad’s breathing and mobility was getting worse after
Carter passed. I asked him if I needed to call an ambulance or take him
to an urgent care clinic. I noticed his belly was extremely swollen. My
dad said he didn’t think it was necessary, although I could clearly see
him struggling. My dad, however, has always maintained a calm and even
stoic demeanor about life’s circumstances, including his own. He went to
his doctor in January, the day after Martin Luther King Day. His doctor
told him to go to the hospital. We dad went to the E.R. at Fairview
Hospital, where he was admitted right away. Multiple liters of fluid
were drained from his abdomen. His breathing and mobility greatly
improved. A couple days later he was discharged and came home. Although I
was greatly relieved, I remember feeling scared. Was my dad going to go
next? And then would I be next? As of early March, there hasn’t been
any more death in my family. (As of April 30, 2022, this has still held up. *knocks on wood*)
Dad recovering in the hospital
Last summer, when I was emotionally distraught over Milton, I
remember my mom telling me: “Stephen, you need to have more faith in the
way the world works.” My mom was right. I’ve come to realize that in
spite of all my professions of faith, in spite of all my interest in
spiritual matters, in spite of all my years doing lay ministry within my
church, I’m beginning to think that maybe, perhaps, I don’t have quite
as much faith as I thought I did. Maybe I’m wrong. I know that I’m
definitely not as strong and courageous as I would like to be. I’ve
always been a crybaby. I realize that I had also been living in a state
of denial and delusion, thinking that my mom and the pets were not as
sick as they really were, that some new medications and/or treatments
could turn them around.
My mom was no stranger to grief and loss, either. But really, who is?
I find it fascinating that in our world, death and dying is still a
taboo subject in many quarters, even though we pretty much all have to
contend with it at some point. Recently I unearthed an audio recording
of her and me talking with each other from 2005. There was something
almost transcendent hearing my mom’s voice again, as I listened to her
crying to me as she recalled the deaths of her own parents, just as I
now find myself crying over losing her. At one point Mom says to me: “I
had a feeling I wouldn’t be very good when my parents died. I was
stronger than I thought I would be….but it did hit me hard.” It hasn’t
been lost on me either that my mom died the same day (December 7) as her
maternal grandfather, who she was close to, 59 years later.
I realize I’m not the only one who has dealt with multiple losses,
and there are other people in the world who are dealing with even more
than I am. One of the women at the church I work at, Crystal, lost both
her mother and her father in early 2020, only to have her husband die in
front of her at a rest stop on Christmas Day while driving home after
visiting family. A co-worker at another job I had, Chrissie, lost her
mother and father a few months apart in 2020 – they were both in their
early 60s – only to be followed by the death of her 47 year old brother
last year.
When you lose a loved one, especially multiple loved ones in such a
short period of time, their absence doesn’t necessarily feel like a void
– as the author of one of my books on dying and grieving has stated,
the loss(es) feel more like a massive earthquake, and you still feel the
major aftershocks in the weeks and months afterward. As others have
mentioned, you start to believe that everyone’s life is inherently
fragile and that everyone you know is on the imminent verge of death.
Some days it just feels like my brain is broken, and I still haven’t
put all the pieces back together, months later. Some nights I toss and
turn, unable to get into a comfortable sleeping position, and then I
start feeling pains in my chest. Maybe my heart is broken as well. Other
days it has felt like I’m living in a bad dream that I simply can’t
wake up from. I remember many a morning in the weeks afterward where I
would wake up with this sense of dread and terror in the pit of my
stomach after experiencing everything that had happened in the previous
months. Thankfully, these symptoms have alleviated somewhat.
To paraphrase a line from the movie “No Country for Old Men”: “This
world is hard on people.” An untold number of us have dealt with
unimaginable hardship and loss over the last couple years – it makes no
difference what your skin color, politics, religious beliefs, geographic
location, or whatever your work is. There’s no question that life has
been very hard on a very large number of people. Whether it’s losing
loved ones, losing jobs, losing homes, losing your health….as I write
this, war continues to unfold in Ukraine, with untold numbers of people
having their whole lives uprooted, upended, shattered.
If you, dear reader, have read this far, I want to thank you from the
bottom of my heart. I’m sure that life has handed you more than its
share of stresses, losses, and disappointments to you, especially over
the last two years. Know that you are not alone.
As for this site, if I can regain the mental clarity to continue on,
you might see more posts here at some point in the future. I just don’t
know yet. I want to thank all of you, dear readers, for your comments
and insights. They have not gone unnoticed. I also, from the bottom of
my heart, want to thank all the staff at the Cleveland Clinic’s Avon and
Fairview Hospitals and Avon Lake Animal Clinic for doing everything
they could for me and my family.
I also want to thank ALL my family and friends and neighbors who have
provided support to me and my dad during this extremely difficult time
(I don’t want to start naming people because I know I’ll leave someone
out!) If it weren’t for all of you, I don’t know if I would still be
here.
And to Mom, Carter, and Milton: I hope you know that you are all
deeply loved and deeply missed. I hope you’re all having a wonderful
time, wherever you are.
