Goodbyes

Online goodbyes

When a popular homeless man named "Mr. Butch" died from a motor scooter crash in the Boston area last summer, the news spread quickly. People from around the country began posting tributes in an online guestbook through Legacy.com –- which hosts obituary sites for newspapers. They shared their grief through stories and reflections about Mr. Butch, who was a fixture on the streets for three decades.

"You asked me for change one winter night in '87," one admirer named Tania wrote. "I didn't have enough to get home and was walking across town, we chatted for a while, you cheered me up and bought me a token, and then remembered my name for the next 20 years. Thank you for your big heart. You taught me to always look for the positive side. RIP"

Years ago, these kinds of tributes were possible only in person or on paper. But today, the Internet gives people an outlet for their sorrow and a chance to connect virtually with others feeling the same way. After the horrific killing of students and teachers at Virginia Tech in April 2007, for example, I was struck by the power of social networking sites like Facebook.com to enable mourners to express their prayers, condolences, shock, anger, and dismay over the tragedy.

Don't get me wrong; I'm a big fan of well-crafted newspaper obituaries. But one advantage of these online tools, it seems, is that they help paint a more complete picture of individuals who have died -- and the difference they made in their lifetimes.

I recently learned that Ruth-Ann, a former bunkmate from summer camp in Maine years ago, passed away just shy of age 50. Although I had not seen her for 35 years, and we were not particularly close as kids, I felt compelled to visit her online guest book and post a note to her family. Today I see that several fellow campmates have left notes, and reading them -- along with the heart-wrenching comments from Ruth-Ann's children -- reminds me how many lives each of us touches during our time on Earth, no matter how short or long.

By offering a chance to publicly honor those who have died, the Web helps take some of the sting out of our grief.

A professor's lasting lecture

It seems almost impossible to talk about "goodbyes" without mentioning Randy Pausch. As you may know, Dr. Pausch is a Carnegie Mellon University computer science professor who is dying of pancreatic cancer. He is 47 years old.

Last fall, after doctors predicted he had only a few months left of healthy living, Dr. Pausch gave a "last lecture" to a crowd of students, colleagues, and friends. He focused not on his illness but on achieving his childhood dreams, helping others reach theirs, and the things that matter most in his life -- including his wife and three young kids. After a Wall Street Journal article and video hit the Web, millions of viewers saw it. That let to media coverage around the world and a recently published book, "The Last Lecture," expanding on the lessons of his talk. To make sure the project didn't take too much time away from his children, he talked with co-author Jeff Zaslow during regular bike rides to preserve his strength.

Randy Pausch's message about living life to its fullest has resonated with people because, I think, of his passion, courage, and candor in the face of a deadly illness. In a world full of cynicism, his optimism and humble, boyish nature are refreshing, and his lessons profound: Never give up. Apologize when you screw up. Tell the truth. Listen to others. Show gratitude. Find the best in everybody.

You can watch the lecture, learn about pancreatic cancer, and get updates about Dr. Pausch's health status on his home page, at http://download.srv.cs.cmu.edu/~pausch/

Objects of our grief

When a fire destroys a home, it's always a relief when people and pets escape unharmed. What really matters, of course, is that they are safe. Material objects can be replaced.

That is true. But some objects -- the ones that remind us of a loved one who has died -- really can't be replaced. These things may evoke a person's hobby, like my dad's collection of fossilized stones from Michigan that he didn't have a chance to finish polishing, or the person's presence, like the soft blue quilt that reminds my friend Cyrisse of her mom, who died recently of cancer. Wrapped in the quilt at night, Cyrisse can sense her mother's embrace.

Although it can be achingly sad, the act of going through a loved one's belongings can be an important part of saying goodbye. It can also turn into a memorable event.

After my grandmother, Eloise Smiley Bradley, died in Kansas City, Mo., in 1990, we found a trunk in her apartment filled with items that helped us chronicle her life. My cousins, aunt, and I gasped as we unwrapped and unfolded beautiful mementos from her 90 years of life, among them the tiara she wore on her wedding day to hold her veil, locks of her hair from before it turned white, lacy and embroidered linens, and a Bible presented by her future father-in-law when she was 15.

There was also a spectacular "crazy quilt" stitched in the late 1880s from hundreds of pieces of silk and velvet. That quilt, which was given as a wedding gift to my great-great grandparents, was in perfect condition -- as if meant to be found and cherished by us. It's now in my home as a colorful connection to my grandma Eloise and our family.

It is an object, yes. But it is irreplaceable.

Do you have a story about saying goodbye by going through a loved one's belongings? Let me know at goodbyes@rcn.com.

The end of an era

A chance encounter at a convention in the 1940s led to a nearly 60-year-long friendship between Al and Mike. Both men worked in their family businesses in Massachusetts, Al in textiles and Mike in lumber, and both eventually ran their respective companies. Over the years, they played tennis and skied together, celebrated holidays, and watched each others' kids grow up. They spent a lot of time together.

Al and Mike also consoled each other when their first wives passed away. For example, after Al's first wife died at a young age, Al started going to temple every morning and evening to say kaddish, the Jewish mourner's prayer. One day, Mike called him and said, 'You gotta come skiing.' When Al said he couldn't because of the mourning period, his friend convinced him that he could pray after a day on the slopes.

As Al recalled it, "Mike brought up a 'kaddish kit' that contained about a dozen prayer books and skull caps, and he'd go around the base lodge picking out people he thought were Jewish and saying, 'I need you downstairs for 15 minutes at 4 o'clock.' And we'd have a service in the boiler room at Cannon Mountain [in New Hampshire]."

Mike was that kind of friend.

Years later, when Mike was in his 80s, he developed pancreatic cancer -- one of the deadliest forms of the disease. It came as a shock because Mike had lived such a seemingly charmed life.

Al is now retired, remarried, and in his 80s as well, and he told me about what happened after Mike got sick and about the poignant goodbye between these two lifelong friends:

"I saw him in the hospital, and boy, he was very yellow-orange looking; you could see things really weren't working. It was a tough visit," Al said. "He went home from the hospital, and at first it seemed he was in a period of denial. Then there was silence; if you called, you didn't get through to him. As I experienced this pulling away by him, it was hard to understand and accept. I felt rejected and didn't realize how sick he was.

"Then one day I got a call, and I understood. 'Could you come over next Wednesday at 11 o'clock? Mike wants to see you. He wants to say goodbye to you.' Mike was a very orderly guy. He didn't like you to drop in to the house; he would like you to call ahead and make a date. Of course I said 'yes,' and I made it my business to go over then.

"When I went over, Mike was in bed. He had gotten an elevating bed so he could prop himself up. He says, 'You know, we've been friends for a long time. It's been a very nice friendship. And I just want to say thank you for everything and say goodbye.'

"It was really tough. I knew it was the end of an era, and it brought back a lot of memories. We talked about old times and some of the fun we had. We had a few laughs and a few cries and then called it a day. He died in about two weeks."

Then Al added three simple words packed with 60 years of meaning: "I miss him."

Consider this . . .
Having the chance to say goodbye to someone you love is a privilege.

An Iraq war goodbye

The ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have claimed thousands of lives and left countless people –- spouses, parents, children, siblings, and comrades –- on all sides without the chance to say farewell in person.

Some survivors were fortunate to have recent letters, e-mails, or phone conversations where they could exchange "I love you" sentiments. I'm sure all will search for ways to come to terms with these losses, with the emotional holes left in their lives and hearts.

In her riveting book, "The Long Road Home," ABC News correspondent Martha Raddatz recounts an Army platoon's ambush by insurgents in Iraq in 2004 and the valiant effort to rescue the pinned-down group. In one poignant scene toward the end of the book, she shows us Lieutenant Colonel Gary Volesky, a highly respected U.S. Army commander who had just taken over responsibility for Sadr City in what was supposed to be a peacekeeping mission. It turned out to be anything but peaceful, as the 24-hour urban firefight with insurgents left eight soldiers dead and more than 60 wounded, along with hundreds of casualties among the Iraqis.

Four of the deceased U.S. soldiers -- Robert Arsiaga, Eddie Chen, Stephen Hiller, and Forest Jostes -- lay in a refrigerated storage truck at Camp War Eagle on April 5, and Volesky felt compelled to see their bodies, "to spend time with his fallen soldiers," she writes. "Let's say goodbye to our boys," Volesky told Staff Sergeant Major Don Garner, whose job was to watch over the enlisted soldiers at the camp. The two men embraced, then stepped inside the truck to find four black body bags lying side by side. Each of the soldiers had died almost instantly.

As Raddatz tells it: "Garner leaned over the first bag, the one farthest to the left, and slowly pulled down the zipper. It was Arsiaga. He had died of a gunshot wound to the head. Volesky, who'd never lost a soldier in combat, knelt down and closed his eyes, touching Arsiaga's shoulder briefly.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered."

Volesky then unzipped the bag holding Sergeant Eddie Chen, a gunner in his 30s. "Volesky had known Chen better than the other dead men," Raddatz notes. "He ran his hand along Chen's arm, apologized to him, thanked him.

'Goodbye,' he said softly."

He repeated the ritual with the last two bags. "All four men were still in their bloody uniforms, though portions had been cut or ripped away during their last moments of life as fellow soldiers had fought to save them. After a few minutes Garner zipped the bags closed. Volesky and Garner both stood, humbled and overwhelmed. Volesky wondered if there was anything he could have done to mitigate the risk his soldiers had faced, and would continue to face. He took one last look. Then the two men turned and walked back to the TOC [Tactical Operations Center] in silence."

This tender, heart-wrenching scene takes place after many pages of chaos and terror in Sadr City, as well as scenes back home, as family members receive knocks on their doors from uniformed individuals who have come to deliver dreaded news about their husbands, sons, and fathers.

Raddatz's book is not an easy read because of the material, but it is gripping and important. And her account in the refrigerated truck is a powerful reminder of the sacrifices being made and the very human desire to say goodbye.

Turning tragedy into tribute

When you lose someone you adore, you need time to grieve –- to work through feelings of shock, sadness, anger, fear, loneliness, and yearning. Mourning involves readjusting to life without your loved one –- as someone said to me recently, rebuilding your life around a gaping hole.

Developing rituals to celebrate a person's life can help with grieving. For example, Saul's wife of 40 years, Barbara, drowned while in Israel years ago, and although he had no chance to say goodbye, Saul found a meaningful way to honor her memory and devotion to learning.

Barbara had spent six months in Israel, doing what she loved most: studying ancient Jewish texts and doting on her grandchildren. Eager to explore the Holy Land, she suggested that she and Saul, a professor who had been teaching in the United States, visit Northern Israel with a group sponsored by an environmental organization. The excursion included several parents and many children.

As Saul recalled to me, "We drove to the site where the hike was to begin and dropped off the children and four adults, including Barbara. The guide gave permission for the children to enter the Dan River. The other drivers and I drove to the place where the hike would end, parked our cars, and returned together.

"When we arrived, Barbara was missing. It turned out that while the water seemed calm at the bank of the river, a short way out it was turbulent. A child of about 10 had entered the river and went out too far. When he began to scream, Barbara went in after him. Both were caught up in the current, but the boy grabbed an overhanging branch and saved himself. Barbara was dragged under and drowned.

"Barbara gave of herself throughout her life, and this extended to her final act," Saul told me. "I remember praying for her to be alive, but it was not to be. I guess she was needed on high. Losing her in a second without the chance to say goodbye is, in its own way, as terrible as watching someone you love waste away. She was my best friend, my teacher, my soul mate."

To honor his late wife, Saul launched an annual study evening in Jerusalem in the late 1990s. Held on the anniversary of her death, the event brings together members of different Jewish movements who gather on a rotating basis in each other's synagogues for a keynote lecture and classes. Many of the attendees come because they knew Barbara.

Building bridges between people who might not normally mix "very much fits Barbara's personality and her ability to work comfortably with many different groups," Saul said. "She was a very special human being.

"The masses of people who attended Barbara's funeral [and mourning period] offered tangible evidence of what she achieved in her lifetime," he reflected. "I still encounter people who tell me about the gifts of time and energy that she gave them. It is fitting that, at least once a year, Jews with different commitments come together to remember Barbara and to study –- which was one of her greatest pleasures."

Consider this ...

You can honor someone by carrying on their work.
Celebrating someone's life with an annual event is another way of saying goodbye.

Young@Heart moves

I had the chance to see Boston's preview of the documentary "Young@Heart" last week, and I found myself laughing, crying, and laughing again -- and moved by its candid portrayal of aging and, yes, goodbyes.

The charming film chronicles a chorus of seniors, called Young@Heart, as they rehearse for a concert in Northampton, Mass., where the group is based. Their program? Not the usual barbershop quartet repertoire but rock, soul, and punk tunes by the likes of The Clash, the Bee Gees, and James Brown.

We follow the elders as they struggle with challenging lyrics, physical ailments, and farewells to fellow singers. But director Stephen Walker also captures their passion for singing, their ability to laugh at themselves, and their power to inspire.

Perhaps the most moving scene shows Young@Heart performing at the local jail, shortly after learning that one of their own has died. The stooped but spry seniors, clad in jeans and sneakers, connect with the younger inmates through their music, and their presence seems to send a message to the prisoners that they care and that there is hope for the future. It's a stunningly poignant moment.

Hats off to Walker and to Bob Cilman, the founder and longtime director of the chorus. Cilman coaches the senior citizens with his own humor and passion, choosing songs with fitting titles about growing older, like "Should I Stay or Should I Go," "Stayin' Alive," "Forever Young," and "I Feel Good."

You can't help but feel good -- and sad and joyful -- after seeing this film, which opens soon nationally.

To watch the trailer, visit The New York Times April 6 Movies section, at http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/405749/Young-Heart/trailers

And let me know what you think, at goodbyes@rcn.com

A nine-year goodbye

Margaret was a pianist and voice teacher who relished food and friends, but Alzheimer's disease robbed her of those pleasures. Over a nine-year period, as she slipped further into her disease, her daughter Susan said "goodbye" to pieces of her mother's personality as they disappeared.

Although her mother's death left an emotional crater, Susan cherishes the time they had together. This is how Susan described their long goodbye about a year later:

"My mom was one of these people everybody liked. She was popular and vivacious. She always had a take on life that was unusual or made you think in a different way. I learned early on that she was a wealth of information. She had a natural ability to put her finger on an issue and know, 'This is what it's really about.'

When she was in her early 70s, my mother would forget things, but I'd think, 'We all forget stuff from time to time.' Alzheimer's started to rear its ugly head when she was around 75. I'd say, 'Let's go and do this,' and she would reply, 'What are you talking about?' And I'd say, 'Mom, we just talked about this five minutes ago.' Then she would start to wander. She'd leave home and couldn't remember how to get back –- or even why she was out.

I moved back home, to her apartment in the Bronx. That was fine for awhile, but then I needed help and had an in-home aide for a couple of years. Then my mom became belligerent, so I started searching for a 24-hour, seven-day-a-week place. The nursing home I chose kept the seniors occupied; my mom would get up in the middle of the night, and they'd have a drawing class at 3 a.m. She spent the last five or so years of her life there, and I was able to visit before and after work.

Maybe because we were so close, I could sense when an aspect of her personality was about to disappear, and I think she did, too. Whether she would press my hand, give me a hug, or put her head on my shoulder and look at me, moments later some portion of her would finally go. It was as though on some level, she was trying to convey, 'I am moving on to something different, and we need to recognize that so its passing is easier.'

Every six months to a year, you could count how many people my mother stopped recognizing. I was the last one. It was about a week before she passed away, and she had not been physically well. I remember the last time she looked at me with recognition. She squeezed my hand, and I said, 'It's OK, Mom, I know.' Sure enough, within a couple of hours, she had no clue who I was.

About halfway through the illness, she could no longer play the piano, which was a big loss because she used to do that every day. She could still enjoy listening to music, but she couldn't identify with being able to play or even remember how music is made.

My mom also began losing the ability to taste things. She couldn't tolerate many solid foods, so she ate mushy stuff and needed someone to spoon it to her. She loved chocolate to the bitter end, so I'd bring a Hershey bar and make sure it was soft enough to gum down. That would be her evening treat, and then she'd fall asleep. Even on her last day, I brought her some chocolate, and she had a little nibble.

I kind of instinctively knew that was probably the last time I would see her. I whispered in her ear that I loved her and said, 'See ya on the other side.' She died at 5 o'clock the next morning.

Our final goodbye was quite natural and felt like the right time. I was somewhat relieved that she was going somewhere where everything would be restored to her. I think the saddest moment came earlier, when we realized we didn't know how long this illness was going to last, that it was progressive and that she would deteriorate. We had a series of conversations about what she wanted, and my mother was adamant that her condition not interfere with my life. She said, 'If it gets too wooky for you -– that was a word she would use –- don't be afraid. If you need to put me into an institution, don't feel like you're doing something wrong.' She always said it was important that I move on with my life.

I've incorporated my mom's spirit in my life, so I don't feel she has left my universe. When I'm in trouble or feel anxious, something she might have said comes to mind, and it's almost as if she is trying to tell me something. I miss having someone I can talk to without fears or reservations; she was the only person I could tell anything to and knew it would be accepted without judgment. I only hope she felt the same way about me."

Consider this:
Being open about serious illness and dying can make the end easier.

A fathers's gift

When someone is nearing the end of life, what matters most are not the memos written, the meetings led, or even the money earned. For most people, what matters most are the individuals in his or her life.

"The specter of death reveals our relationships to be our most precious possessions," palliative-care physician Ira Byock points out in his book, "The Four Things That Matter Most." Byock urges people at life's end to express their love, thanks, and forgiveness, as well as to say goodbye.

That's great advice. But it's also important to remember that a goodbye doesn't define your relationship with the dying person; it reflects it. If the conversation doesn't go as well as you had hoped, that doesn't cast a negative shadow over your years of friendship or connection. There are also times you just can't be there to witness a loved one's death.

Jonathan, a New England school administrator, lost his dad suddenly without the chance to say goodbye. But the fact that they had enjoyed a solid rapport over the years helped him accept his father's absence more easily. This is how Jonathan described that loss to me:

"My dad was an English professor, and his doctor had just given him a green light to go back to work after heart bypass surgery. He was at New York University Medical Center for an appointment, and he got in his car to head home but realized something was wrong. He pulled over on Madison Avenue, put the car in neutral, and died. He was 56, and I was in my late 20s. It was really tough to not say goodbye, but we'd had a very open relationship.

After his death, I realized how lucky I was to have such a present parent. My brothers and I had plenty of time with him when we were growing up. Although later on we were not in constant communication, I always knew my dad loved and accepted me for who I am, and that his strength was my strength. At the time of his death, nothing was left unsaid –- and what I felt most was thankfulness for having been his son.

Consider this . . .
A goodbye can affirm your relationship, but it doesn't define it.
Take the time to tell someone how much you care –- while he or she is alive.