I Want the Peace

 

“People die.” She said. That line was stated to me nearly seven years ago, by a childless woman, who’d just lost her husband who I’d been taking care of for a number of years. I was still in her life as a therapist taking care of her mother and once in a while herself when she’d moved too many boxes as she was having repairs and the like done around her home and her mother’s home a few miles away. She, being about a decade older than I and had been retired from teaching for some time now, was alone in a near empty house. A house much bigger than my home with my husband, two children and three pets.

I took her thoughts in stride. She was sad, as she’d just lost her ailing husband. She was well aware that he’d pass; however, I knew the exact day he’d die ten weeks before. I remember coming home and being upset after the session at their home and stating, “I know someone will die before Memorial Day ends, and that they will not see June 1^st.” My husband looked at me dumbfounded, “I’m so sorry Jody.”

I remember nearly three decades ago when a man lay on my table and I knew if he didn’t receive proper medical attention, he would be dead soon. Yet I knew too that his death could be prevented. That day I gently told him as I held his leg, feeling the unusual warmth of illness in it. I warned him, advising him to see his doctor immediately or if he noticed anything sudden changing get to the ER.

Days later, he had an annual, after he’d seen his internist who’d never bothered to touch his leg nor do a complete exam, the internist declared that he needed hernia surgery. The man called me about 72 hours after he’d been in my office to tell me that he was getting prepped for hernia surgery with his cardiologist in two days that he had to cancel his next appointment with me for a few weeks.

I later gathered that perhaps I was wrong about an infection brewing in his leg. At the time unknown to me then, I wasn’t wrong. Two days later this man was getting examined by his cardiologist as a pre-op for hernia surgery, the cardiologist knew this man was in deep trouble and had him go from his office into the hospital to save his life from the infection brewing that I’d sensed six days prior. The man died within 48 hours from then in the hospital from the infection which had gone to his heart.

This would not be the last time I sensed death, denial or incredible improvements after meeting people, or touching their bodies. Looking back, I was bewildered as to if I truly had that knack to know when or what was going on with someone’s body when they either hadn’t known or hadn’t expressed it. Neither were their family members expecting such.

I can’t claim that I always know exact days or hours, but I get a rough estimate and then at the end of the workday I reflect on sessions with them for whatever reason. The reason could be to stay guarded as to not be too dreamy on miracles that my real world could become more shattered upon the death of someone I was treating.

Over the years, I’ve had to decipher thoughts of the unknown and premonitions I’d received in order not to feel a sense of dread. I can say I have been this way since I could remember. As a child, I just knew to pray and remain vigilant in my observations. Back then as a child I didn’t worry about why I was like this; however, now I wonder a bit. I wonder more so now because I currently have the time or rather make the time to ponder these thoughts.

Since I have closed my therapy business over five years ago, I reckon how I listen to people on the phone that think I about. If their name persists in my mind for weeks on end, I research to see if they are still alive. Or if I feel it is appropriate I call them and say, “I’m just checking in to see how you are doing.” I’ve read that correctly, lucky enough.

Most of my friends have been older than I. So, now what I am facing are friends and acquaintances dying. I expect either to witness it on social media, texts sent to me or a phone call. The older they are, sometimes it’s the expanse of their family and friends that I find out rather quickly of their passing. However, I can say if I’ve spoken with them, I usually can tell by their voice as to when or if they’re on their way out.

Seventeen years ago, I lost a client to cancer who I’d admired tremendously. We truly connected; she said good-bye to me seven weeks before her passing. From her hospital bed, she asked, “Can I give you a hug?” I replied, “Absolutely.” We hugged. I felt her death in that hug and for the next 24 hours after that I could barely stop crying. After I’d left her home that day, I was a mess. The next morning before work I was ready to back out of our driveway with our children seated in our minivan ready for school, I began to cry. It was not something I did in front of our children, except on Mother’s Day when I’d get cards from them at the breakfast table as those were tears of joy.

Funny enough, neither I nor our children cried at their father’s funeral. We cried before and after it privately. I’ve been that way about funerals most times. When that woman passed seventeen years ago, instead of crying I was angry. There were a few reasons for that. I went for a run after her viewing at night, ran and cursed to God for fifteen miles. Mind you, I’d already run fifteen miles before work and family earlier in the morning. I was that angry.

This wouldn’t be the last time, someone’s death who was a client would affect me and dribble into my personal space. Another woman in the late 1990’s was dying, she was one of the young mother’s I’d gotten to know who was dying and who had young children. After her death, I couldn’t feel the joy when I ran. I would run with tears in my eyes for three months, and sometimes the pain of the loss had become so great, I would stop in the middle of the run, stand there on the roadside or sidewalk feeling as though I’d collapse as I’d cry, hard.

I had nurse about thirty years ago who was a client. She’d felt that my long-distance running had to be torturous. I remarked, “No. It’s not. I’m airing it out. I’m airing out what no one can feel.” Years later an ultra-running coach, who was a doctor and ultra-runner himself said, “I run to get rid of my demons. You know you run to fight your demons.” I was a bit stunned when he’d stated such to me. A handful of years later I found his statement to be true.

Moving forward to the past week, I contemplated the fact that most of my friends have been much older than me. I have a best friend turning 80 next week. I have two good friends this year soon to be age 70, whereas I am turning 64. These three friends who are my ‘top-tier’ friends I’ll have known for 34 years, 45 years and 28 years respectively.

Over the last four years I’ve lost friends ages 79, 80, 81 and 95, two within 24 hours of each other. I had a friend in 2016 pass just before his 70th birthday, then nearly the exact date a year later another friend who I’d lost touch with died suddenly at age 65.  Three of those six people, I was stunned at the timing of their deaths. It seemed sudden. One I’d heard her voice, too she mentioned she wasn’t going to be around much longer. I believed her, she passed 12 hours after we got off the phone. I was the last person to speak with her before her death. I heard the voice of the 95-year-old just as her 95^th birthday was approaching and I knew she had suddenly aged. Upon her passing I had to pinch myself, because it seemed as though in all our meets, and phone conversations she was close to my age. Yet even her children were a decade older than I. I’d known both these women well over 30 years each. I never reckoned with our age differences.

Here now, I write stories. I help people write and edit books. I write books and screenplays as well. I continue to run daily outdoors. I’m there for our children. It’s coming up on a year since the last of our pets have passed, which feels unusual. It’s been a while since I’ve ran 100 mile weeks, fought, grappled and bukoo years since I’d competed athletically. I stopped working outside the home this past September. All the loner-ness which I’d mostly accepted, since this is not the first time of my being alone. This aloneness is deeper, more chosen. I only want nature around me. I’ve never liked noise all that much. I despise it even more now. Most days I fear being invited, I know I’ll have to figure out how to decline any invitation. I want no care. I want privacy and I want the world to be a better place for the children. I want to listen to the wind; I want the peace I’ve always dreamed of. ----Jody-Lynn Reicher