the week after
Death. I have a lot of things I want to say about death. The unease with which we broach it. Our seeming inability to address an aspect of life that is the inevitable fate of every one of us. But before going to the conceptual, I'd like to start with the specific.
Two weeks ago Makeena was over at my place, hanging out after a sleepover. After our morning exercises, we were both stretched out on my hardwood floor, exhausted and exhilarated after a rigorous workout, when Makeena, picking up the thread of a previous conversation on grief, asked, "Can you tell me about the week after your mom died?" Her question caught me off guard. Not because of the theme -- a staple of our friendship has been the ease with which she and I can talk about our deepest sorrows -- but because in the three and a half years since mama died, no one had ever asked me that question.
"I don't mind telling you about it. But I think I might cry." She nodded her head and let me know it wouldn't make her uncomfortable. "Okay, here goes."
I had a dream that my mom and I were together. She slipped into bed and patted the spot next to her. "Nava joon, bia," she motioned me over in sweet Persian tones. I slipped into bed next to her and she caressed my arms and hugged me and told me she loved me so much. I dreamt of her the whole night. I woke up and thought how sweet and unusual this dream was. "Tell mama, she'll be so moved!" was my first thought. I got dressed for work, had to be at school at 6:40a.m. to unlock the gates, and told myself I'd call her over a lunch break. At around 10a.m., after I'd done the morning rounds, I was seized with panic. Something is going to happen to mommy. I walked out of my office and onto the parking lot, walking to the back of the building hoping to avoid any students, and started crying. "Baha'u'llah, if You're taking my mom away from me, You need to prepare me, because I'm not ready." Then I tried to brush the thought away. "Nava, you're being ridiculous. There's nothing wrong with your mom." I calmed down and went about my day. I had a meeting after work that night so I decided I'd call home the next day and tell her about the dream then.
The following day was really busy at work and I didn't get a chance to call. I went to the mall after work to pick up some new running shoes, and decided I would call my parents after Feast that night. I went to the Tempe Bahai Center and thought how lucky I was to be part of this amazing community. East Valley was a learning site for the junior youth spiritual empowerment program, and I'd just moved there two weeks ago to start a new job as assistant principal at one of the most successful charter schools in the country. I couldn't get over how amazing my life was and how things were turning out more beautifully than I could have ever imagined. I felt exhilarated and excited and couldn't wait to tell my parents how incredible everything was. I noticed a missed call from my dad and determined to call him once I was home, because I hated being on my phone and driving. While I was driving home my sister called, too. I let it go to voicemail.
I walked into my new studio, spacious and gorgeous, humming to myself and wondering what finishing touches remained. Maybe a potted plant.
I hit my voicemail and listened to my sister's message. "Nava, you need to call daddy right now. It's really important." She sounded serious and worried. I wondered what was wrong. Was it his health?
I called him right away. "Hi daddy!" I said excitedly. "Nava, your mom died," he responded. No hello, no sit down, I need to tell you something. Just the blade to my chest, sharp and swift. My dad had just watched the woman he loved die, unexpectedly, gruesomely, in his arms. He was not equipped to deliver the news with anesthesia.
I screamed. Like a movie cliche. "You're lying, YOU'RE LYING!"
"Nava, sweetie, I'm so sorry. I'm not lying," his voice cracked and he started crying. "I don't know how else to tell you. She died thirty minutes ago."
*************
Two weeks ago Makeena was over at my place, hanging out after a sleepover. After our morning exercises, we were both stretched out on my hardwood floor, exhausted and exhilarated after a rigorous workout, when Makeena, picking up the thread of a previous conversation on grief, asked, "Can you tell me about the week after your mom died?" Her question caught me off guard. Not because of the theme -- a staple of our friendship has been the ease with which she and I can talk about our deepest sorrows -- but because in the three and a half years since mama died, no one had ever asked me that question.
"I don't mind telling you about it. But I think I might cry." She nodded her head and let me know it wouldn't make her uncomfortable. "Okay, here goes."
*************
I had a dream that my mom and I were together. She slipped into bed and patted the spot next to her. "Nava joon, bia," she motioned me over in sweet Persian tones. I slipped into bed next to her and she caressed my arms and hugged me and told me she loved me so much. I dreamt of her the whole night. I woke up and thought how sweet and unusual this dream was. "Tell mama, she'll be so moved!" was my first thought. I got dressed for work, had to be at school at 6:40a.m. to unlock the gates, and told myself I'd call her over a lunch break. At around 10a.m., after I'd done the morning rounds, I was seized with panic. Something is going to happen to mommy. I walked out of my office and onto the parking lot, walking to the back of the building hoping to avoid any students, and started crying. "Baha'u'llah, if You're taking my mom away from me, You need to prepare me, because I'm not ready." Then I tried to brush the thought away. "Nava, you're being ridiculous. There's nothing wrong with your mom." I calmed down and went about my day. I had a meeting after work that night so I decided I'd call home the next day and tell her about the dream then.
The following day was really busy at work and I didn't get a chance to call. I went to the mall after work to pick up some new running shoes, and decided I would call my parents after Feast that night. I went to the Tempe Bahai Center and thought how lucky I was to be part of this amazing community. East Valley was a learning site for the junior youth spiritual empowerment program, and I'd just moved there two weeks ago to start a new job as assistant principal at one of the most successful charter schools in the country. I couldn't get over how amazing my life was and how things were turning out more beautifully than I could have ever imagined. I felt exhilarated and excited and couldn't wait to tell my parents how incredible everything was. I noticed a missed call from my dad and determined to call him once I was home, because I hated being on my phone and driving. While I was driving home my sister called, too. I let it go to voicemail.
I walked into my new studio, spacious and gorgeous, humming to myself and wondering what finishing touches remained. Maybe a potted plant.
I hit my voicemail and listened to my sister's message. "Nava, you need to call daddy right now. It's really important." She sounded serious and worried. I wondered what was wrong. Was it his health?
I called him right away. "Hi daddy!" I said excitedly. "Nava, your mom died," he responded. No hello, no sit down, I need to tell you something. Just the blade to my chest, sharp and swift. My dad had just watched the woman he loved die, unexpectedly, gruesomely, in his arms. He was not equipped to deliver the news with anesthesia.
I screamed. Like a movie cliche. "You're lying, YOU'RE LYING!"
"Nava, sweetie, I'm so sorry. I'm not lying," his voice cracked and he started crying. "I don't know how else to tell you. She died thirty minutes ago."
*************
At this point in the account, my voice cracked and I started crying. Makeena didn't flinch. Just nodded her head encouragingly and let me know non-verbally that I could take my time. We weren't going anywhere and this was a story she wanted to hear. I took a deep breath and kept going.
"We think she died of a pulmonary embolism or a massive heart attack. Her symptoms suited either. But basically, it happened with no warning, within the span of about twenty minutes. It was painful and she suffered. My dad has tried to tell me some of the details but I've never let him. Just the thought of her grasping for air, living her final moments on this earth in pain, makes me sick. I can't think of it or I break down. To this day."
The moments after the call are kind of a blur. I called my sister next and we sobbed together. Both in shock. Both unsure what was next. My sister, so strong, agreed to be the one to call our relatives and let them know. After those calls, some of them started calling me, and the tears would start again. After about an hour of this, I switched into this incredibly pragmatic mode. I called my boss and left her a voicemail letting her know I would be flying home for my mother's funeral. I texted Natasha and told her I would be missing the institute gathering that weekend because my mother died. (No context.) I booked a ticket home.
Natasha called me right away and asked me if she'd read my text correctly. Then she asked if she could come pick me up so that I could spend the night at her house. She didn't think I should be alone. Drew and Ashkon didn't think I should be alone. They both sent their love. Both too unsure in the moment what to say to reach out directly. I told her it was okay. My flight was early and I needed to pack. She asked if she could come over and pray with me. "Okay," I said. Thirty minutes later Natasha, seven months pregnant with twins, was at my door, at midnight, with Soheila and Chandra in tow. They all hugged me. We all cried. Chandra informed me she was spending the night. I shouldn't be alone. "Okay," I whispered again. "Thank you."
We said prayers for her. Chandi sang. They squeezed my hands. I smiled, my cheeks dry, told them I was happy for my mom. Her soul must be rejoicing to be reunited with her parents. Her brothers who'd both died the summer before. I was happy for her, I said. I meant it. The immense grief had not yet hit.
Makeena, "You were in shock." I laughed. "I was definitely in shock. Those girls thought I was so strong, they couldn't believe it. But I wasn't strong. I was in denial."
Soheila and Natasha left. Chandi helped me pack and then we crawled into bed. An hour later it hit me. I climbed out of bed and walked into my closet, closing the door behind me. I sobbed all night, and finally fell asleep in there, curled into a little ball, for two hours, until Chandi woke me up to drive me to the airport.
I made it through security and by the time I reached the lounge, I found a seat in the corner and let myself go. I wept and wept and wept until my head throbbed from dehydration, and still I wept more. An older gentleman had been watching me closely and finally approached me. He sat down next to me and tapped my shoulder gently. "Excuse me, miss, I hope you don't mind this intrusion, but you look like you're in a lot of pain. Is there anything I can do to help you." I glanced up at him and gathered my strength and whispered, "I just found out my mom died." "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry." His wife had been watching us carefully and he motioned her to come over. She sat on the other side of me. "Her mom died," he told her. "Oh dear," she said, her voice full of sorrow. "Can we pray with you?" she asked. "Yes, please." They held my hands and bowed their heads and we all prayed together, silently.
"We think she died of a pulmonary embolism or a massive heart attack. Her symptoms suited either. But basically, it happened with no warning, within the span of about twenty minutes. It was painful and she suffered. My dad has tried to tell me some of the details but I've never let him. Just the thought of her grasping for air, living her final moments on this earth in pain, makes me sick. I can't think of it or I break down. To this day."
*************
The moments after the call are kind of a blur. I called my sister next and we sobbed together. Both in shock. Both unsure what was next. My sister, so strong, agreed to be the one to call our relatives and let them know. After those calls, some of them started calling me, and the tears would start again. After about an hour of this, I switched into this incredibly pragmatic mode. I called my boss and left her a voicemail letting her know I would be flying home for my mother's funeral. I texted Natasha and told her I would be missing the institute gathering that weekend because my mother died. (No context.) I booked a ticket home.
Natasha called me right away and asked me if she'd read my text correctly. Then she asked if she could come pick me up so that I could spend the night at her house. She didn't think I should be alone. Drew and Ashkon didn't think I should be alone. They both sent their love. Both too unsure in the moment what to say to reach out directly. I told her it was okay. My flight was early and I needed to pack. She asked if she could come over and pray with me. "Okay," I said. Thirty minutes later Natasha, seven months pregnant with twins, was at my door, at midnight, with Soheila and Chandra in tow. They all hugged me. We all cried. Chandra informed me she was spending the night. I shouldn't be alone. "Okay," I whispered again. "Thank you."
We said prayers for her. Chandi sang. They squeezed my hands. I smiled, my cheeks dry, told them I was happy for my mom. Her soul must be rejoicing to be reunited with her parents. Her brothers who'd both died the summer before. I was happy for her, I said. I meant it. The immense grief had not yet hit.
*************
Makeena, "You were in shock." I laughed. "I was definitely in shock. Those girls thought I was so strong, they couldn't believe it. But I wasn't strong. I was in denial."
*************
Soheila and Natasha left. Chandi helped me pack and then we crawled into bed. An hour later it hit me. I climbed out of bed and walked into my closet, closing the door behind me. I sobbed all night, and finally fell asleep in there, curled into a little ball, for two hours, until Chandi woke me up to drive me to the airport.
I made it through security and by the time I reached the lounge, I found a seat in the corner and let myself go. I wept and wept and wept until my head throbbed from dehydration, and still I wept more. An older gentleman had been watching me closely and finally approached me. He sat down next to me and tapped my shoulder gently. "Excuse me, miss, I hope you don't mind this intrusion, but you look like you're in a lot of pain. Is there anything I can do to help you." I glanced up at him and gathered my strength and whispered, "I just found out my mom died." "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry." His wife had been watching us carefully and he motioned her to come over. She sat on the other side of me. "Her mom died," he told her. "Oh dear," she said, her voice full of sorrow. "Can we pray with you?" she asked. "Yes, please." They held my hands and bowed their heads and we all prayed together, silently.
*************
"I have never forgotten that couple or their kindness. It was one of the diamonds that shone in the dark. The kindness and compassion of strangers, reminding me of the nobility of our species." Makeena nodded her head in agreement. Then I started sobbing. "Sorry, Mak. I've never described this sequence to anyone. It's been a long time since I've thought about that first week."
"It's okay, Nava. This is normal. Take your time."
"I guess the best way I can describe the feeling I had that week was that every single day I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. My body ached and I had no energy. I was in physical pain, and every morning it would take me a few minutes to remember what had happened and why I was like this. I guess the hardest thing that happened that week was going to the morgue to see her body. It was devastating."
As part of the Baha'i rites associated with death, one washes the body of the deceased and wraps it in a white shroud. The deceased also wears a ring that says "I came forth from God, and return unto Him, detached from all save Him, holding fast to His Name, the Merciful, the Compassionate”. When my mom was 31, her mom died. My mom had washed her body and she used to tell me how meaningful it was to her. I knew that I would wash my mom's body, too.
My dad, sister, and I drove to over in relative silence, late at night, and I stared at the trees whizzing by and the stars shining down, wondering what vistas my mom might be seeing. We arrived at the morgue and were told what would happen when we entered the room where her body was being kept. We were handed gloves and pointed in the direction of her body. I froze in place. My dad and sister walked ahead of me but I couldn't move. Suddenly, I was crashing down on the floor beneath me, my heart beating incredibly fast, grasping for air. I was having a panic attack. "Nava?" my sister noticed I wasn't with them. Then she spotted me on the floor, in the middle of the lobby. "Nava!" she rushed over to me.
"I can't do it, Zhena," I cried. "I can't, Zhena, I can't. I don't want to see her body like that. I don't want to." My sister hugged me and brushed my hair and told me it would be okay and we were going in there together. I breathed in and out and finally stood up. "Okay." We walked in together.
It was very hard to see her body on the table. Her eyes were open but she was gone. My mom was so spirited, her eyes always sparkling with innocent mischief. Her playfulness often on display. Her boundless love shooting out of those tender brown eyes. In that moment, if I had ever had any doubt, I became sure of the fact that human beings have souls, and it is our souls that give us life. This was my mom's body but this was not my mom's essence. Farahnaz was a spiritual being and this was her sacred temple.
We washed it as such. I'm very thankful my sister helped me overcome my panic attack because washing her body, difficult though it may have been, was an incredibly sacred experience for me. I felt so fully the truth of those words on her ring. God had given us His trust, and now we were giving her back. We washed her with rose water, and I shampooed and conditioned her hair, grateful that it was the one thing about her that was the same in life as in death.
I kissed her head, her cheeks. I kissed her goodbye and thanked God for letting her be my mother.
*************
People didn't know how to talk to me after it happened. Some people asked me if I'd "enjoyed my trip home", like I'd gone on some island holiday. My boss noted many months after the "setback" of my having missed the first two weeks of school with kids on campus.
"It's okay, Nava. This is normal. Take your time."
"I guess the best way I can describe the feeling I had that week was that every single day I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. My body ached and I had no energy. I was in physical pain, and every morning it would take me a few minutes to remember what had happened and why I was like this. I guess the hardest thing that happened that week was going to the morgue to see her body. It was devastating."
*************
As part of the Baha'i rites associated with death, one washes the body of the deceased and wraps it in a white shroud. The deceased also wears a ring that says "I came forth from God, and return unto Him, detached from all save Him, holding fast to His Name, the Merciful, the Compassionate”. When my mom was 31, her mom died. My mom had washed her body and she used to tell me how meaningful it was to her. I knew that I would wash my mom's body, too.
My dad, sister, and I drove to over in relative silence, late at night, and I stared at the trees whizzing by and the stars shining down, wondering what vistas my mom might be seeing. We arrived at the morgue and were told what would happen when we entered the room where her body was being kept. We were handed gloves and pointed in the direction of her body. I froze in place. My dad and sister walked ahead of me but I couldn't move. Suddenly, I was crashing down on the floor beneath me, my heart beating incredibly fast, grasping for air. I was having a panic attack. "Nava?" my sister noticed I wasn't with them. Then she spotted me on the floor, in the middle of the lobby. "Nava!" she rushed over to me.
"I can't do it, Zhena," I cried. "I can't, Zhena, I can't. I don't want to see her body like that. I don't want to." My sister hugged me and brushed my hair and told me it would be okay and we were going in there together. I breathed in and out and finally stood up. "Okay." We walked in together.
It was very hard to see her body on the table. Her eyes were open but she was gone. My mom was so spirited, her eyes always sparkling with innocent mischief. Her playfulness often on display. Her boundless love shooting out of those tender brown eyes. In that moment, if I had ever had any doubt, I became sure of the fact that human beings have souls, and it is our souls that give us life. This was my mom's body but this was not my mom's essence. Farahnaz was a spiritual being and this was her sacred temple.
We washed it as such. I'm very thankful my sister helped me overcome my panic attack because washing her body, difficult though it may have been, was an incredibly sacred experience for me. I felt so fully the truth of those words on her ring. God had given us His trust, and now we were giving her back. We washed her with rose water, and I shampooed and conditioned her hair, grateful that it was the one thing about her that was the same in life as in death.
I kissed her head, her cheeks. I kissed her goodbye and thanked God for letting her be my mother.
*************
People didn't know how to talk to me after it happened. Some people asked me if I'd "enjoyed my trip home", like I'd gone on some island holiday. My boss noted many months after the "setback" of my having missed the first two weeks of school with kids on campus.
Sometimes I think people are annoyed that I still talk about her. Still post about her on Facebook. But she was my mom. It doesn't go away. I will love her my whole life and I will grieve her my whole life. No one warns you about the new capacity for grief. That you will experience subsequent losses with more pain and rawness than you had before because a new capacity for sorrow was carved into you. Out of you. Sometimes I think people assume if you believe in the afterlife, you're all good when someone dies. Like the pain of separation is no longer real. But I think of her at every wedding, every movie where a parent dies, every mother-daughter post on social media. Some days I feel tenderness and some days it stings, but it never isn't there. She's always on my mind and in my heart. Her death has changed me and will continue to change me. Still, I thank God every day that she was my mother.
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