"Timor Mortis Conturbat Me" (Reprise)

The one thing about growing older is that you reach a point where you realize that every day brings you closer to losing someone you love----a parent, a friend, a pet, a spouse.  This is of course true throughout life, but for most of us, losses prior to middle age are much more widely spaced.  Then suddenly you reach a point where a lot of people you love are at or near the end of life.

I think this might be at the root of the panic and depression so many of my friends seem to be experiencing.  Even the medication doesn't help all of them.  One who has always been a pillar of strength is currently caught up in a depression/panic spiral and nothing seems to help.  I remember very well what this is like and indeed have to be pretty vigilant in staving off similar feelings of my own. 

This time of year isn't good for me in any event since---for example---it is exactly seven years ago tomorrow that I had to switch off the respirator for my previous husband.  And having my dear, dear father-in-law hospitalized for cancer has simply brought to the forefront all these fears.

How do you prepare for it?  There ought to be some way to integrate death and dying into life---to learn to die well and to experience other deaths with some sort of grace and intelligence and clarity.  But thinking about losing anyone I love creates in me a sense of raw, helpless panic so absolutely overwhelming that even if I knew what sort of "work" would do the job, I doubt I could do it. 

At present, one of my colleagues----a dear colleague as opposed to a close friend----is taking several months off work to have a hip replacement surgery performed.  It's hard to take in that she's at the point when this is necessary.  It sounds like nonsense when I think about it.  But thinking that I am fifty also sounds like nonsense.  There are many things I like about midlife---more things I like than I don't, if you count them up without weighting any of them.  But the omnipresent anxiety about losses that can't be controlled by working hard or being very good indeed takes a lot of the gloss off the good moments. 

I feel certain that there must be ways of reframing reality to put all this in the correct light.  After all, I am a religious person; and I don't think our lives here are our final reality any more than our dreams are.  I am not afraid anymore of my own death, but I am terribly, terribly afraid of having it come near me in other ways.  Any loss seems like too much. 

Also I know that people do adapt.  They do it by surviving a lot of loss.  My mom is incredibly offhand and stoical about her own death, having attended so many funerals (and being in poor health).  She's positive that she'll wake up in "Heaven" and see my dead father and my grandparents.  And maybe she will.  But this is of little help to her daughter, who still needs her mother. 

I know this isn't a problem that can be solved.  I don't know whether it makes me feel worse or better to reflect on the following poem by William Dunbar, the man---according to Wikipedia--- considered responsible for the first printed use of the word "fuck."

It's interesting how in the poem he struggles with the issue just as hopelessly as I do.   The last few lines---the comforting homily---always felt to me perfunctory at best. 

William Dunbar (1460-1520)

Lament for the Makers

I THAT in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world's vanitie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He spairis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
Themself from Death may not supplee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
That made the anteris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

And he has now tane, last of a,
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Death lies verily;
Great ruth it were that so suld be:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Sen he has all my brether tane,
He will naught let me live alane;
Of force I man his next prey be:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone,
After our death that live may we:—
        Timor Mortis conturbat me.

I wonder if "James Afflek" was any relation to Ben?

I was going to say I wonder if Dunbar survived his illness.  But of course we know the answer to that. ----------