"Jesu By That Shuddering Dread Which Fell on Thee"

Those words were the opening lines of a poem and hymn composed by Cardinal Neuman. We sang them in the Seminary, often during Holy Week or Lent. The hymn described the death throws of Jesus on the Cross and indirectly our deaths. As the poet says, "Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."

I fear that final moment of death as much, if not more, than the next guy. I think what becomes a pit in my stomach is the very thought of separation. Recently, I watched a BBC production: "A Rather English Marriage." The story pivoted around the relationship of two men whose wives had died, almost simultaneously, in the same hospital. The tragic perception of loss is demonstrated through poignant flash backs.

In the events of my life, if there is anything about death that I recall in looking at someone else's death, it is the experience of loss and separation. Death is so final. This process began for me at age five when my grandfather died.

His death was the passing of a patriarch. The scene is still vivid in my mind today as it was then: the hand carved crucifix over his bed, a faint smell of urine, my aunts and uncles kneeling around the bed, Aunt Kate leading the Rosary, Grampa, eyes closed breathing peacefully with an occasional snort of air, then the chorus of "Holy Mary Mother of God...." and Grampa wakes up. He looks around and says, "Why are you all crying? Who in the hell, is doing the dying?" He then appointed Aunt Kate the head of the family and told us he would be waiting "on the other side" with Grandma and his son John... and that there was nothing to fear. He then quietly went to sleep forever.

This was my first experience of defining death as separation. There would be no holding me on his lap and the pungent smell of Plow Boy Tobacco, no more story telling. He became the empty chair at our family gatherings. I miss his presence, even today!

My dad's death would follow a year later. Unlike my Grampa who died at 89 dad was 41. I was almost seven. Dad had been sick for several months. A simple kidney infection would kill him. He had just returned from the hospital. Mom would try to cook him her best meals. Dad could not eat. He would try and tell mom he was sorry. About what I don't know. Then there would be his raving at night. Mom called it uremic poisoning. One night, late, mom called the priest. Mom set up a little table with a cross and holy water on it. I was hiding in the closet. Dad kept struggling, trying to get a breath of air. Father put his finger on his forehead, his hands and feet. Dad struggled. Dad did not want to die. Mom tried to come to hold him. The nurse held her back and sort of put a white towel in front of dad. Then there was no struggle, no sound. Mom began crying. The undertaker came. They took dad away in a cart that had a rubber sheet around him. The images linger forever in my mind.

No longer would I hear dad sing to mom, "Peg Of My Heart." No longer would he bring ice cream home to surprise us. No longer would there be the smell of cigarette smoke in the house. No "special" Sunday breakfasts of his gourmet fried Irish potatoes with eggs and sausages. No loud laughter - just tears. He became the voice in my memory without a body. Mom wore black for a whole year and the piano was covered. Dad was gone and would not return. That was the message.

Then there followed years later, my Uncle Jim, Aunt Kate, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Nell, Uncle Mike, and finally my mom. Each one of these people took care of me as a kid without a father. Each one was pulled from my heart. Each separation left a keloid, a thick scar in my heart and my mind.

Mom's death had a special impact on me. She was my birth mother in this life and the life to come. Her death occurred at a time on my path when I had doubts about almost everything. How could I be certain there was a life after this one?

Mom witnessed to me what was to come. She literally died in my arms praying her favorite words, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul." Mom left this world trying to describe to me and my sister, Mary, what she was already experiencing "on the other side." While I have lived life with a different way of praying, I hope to share in that final moment and mystery as she taught me.

My mom was the last member of her family to die. There were now several empty chairs at family gatherings and silence where there had been voices. As Mom was the end of her generation, her passing sent a covert message: "You are next."

Never did I think I would live longer than my sister. Mary was the definition of stability, the rock of Gibraltar. She was always there, a home body. Then cancer struck. In little more than a year, she too was "on the other side." She told me she would wait for me. I was here alone. I had no one to talk to, no one with whom to share family memories of birthdays and Christmas's past. Between Mary and me there were no secrets, no matter what. Those sharings are now "on the other side." And I am here with only memories.

"Death, where is thy sting," is not the issue, for those who continue to live. The issue is the fence around the yard without the home. So when I think of the day my wife, Phyllis, or certain dear friends won't be there, I already hurt. Or when I think my wife or friends may be here and I won't, I hurt for her. "Jesu, by that shuddering dread which fell on thee..." lingers long in my heart, today and forever.