My condolences. My mother’s last days with my brother and me were similar.
Thoughtful, funny and curious about her family but she was ninety- eight, outlived two husbands and her two youngest children and she was ready.
The last picture of her, hours before she died is moving and for me, comforting. She is staring ahead, already away from us but the odd combination of determination and peace makes me less afraid.
Hi, Gill -- I'm the fellow who asked that last question. I didn't at all mean to be challenging the powerful insights that you shared. Rather, my question came out of past experiences of feeling that hope has dwindled into the sad certainty that something unwanted (death of a loved one) is going to happen. I really liked your response, and I admire the time you took to reflect on it before speaking. What you said about your mother's passing (for which I offer my sincere condolences -- I've lost both my parents, and I know how heart rending it is), and how you and your family could choose how to respond to that sad necessity, and choose to take beauty and grace from it, was powerful wisdom, and I thank you for it.
I might add, too, that my reason for attending the event in Kitchener (apart from being an admirer of you going way back to your show with Jay Ingram) is that my wife has had long covid for more than three years. Knowing that you have recovered is heartening.
The day after your event in Kitchener, I went to a coffee shop (where I am again right now) and jotted down my thoughts about hope. They're a bit rough, but here they are:
The sun will come up tomorrow, Annie sings, but that’s no true, at least it’s not a certainty. It’s possible that the sun, in the cosmological sense, won’t come up: there’s a slim chance that the Earth will collide with an asteroid that will knock it out of orbit), and it’s very possible, possibly probable, that the sun won’t come up in the metaphorical sense that things will be brighter and better tomorrow. There’s no guaranty of that. Things might be better tomorrow or they might be shittier. That’s why we invented hope. We hope that it won’t rain tomorrow, the day of our daughter’s wedding. We hope that our lost dog will be found. We hope that our oncologist will have good news. When you think about it, most of our waking hours are spent hoping about something or other, big or small, actively or in the back of the mind. Faith (to me) is less interesting. The devout—many of them anyway—believe that their faith in a god, expressed in the form of prayers, can convince him/her/they to intercede in the clockwork of our lives. But hope: when we hope, are we hoping “to” something, some mysterious agent in the Department of Optimism that will make things work out the way we want? For that matter, do we really believe that hoping about something will make it more likely? I don’t think so. The entire wedding party can hope that it won’t rain tomorrow, but they surely don’t think that their hope will change the barometric pressure that will cause tomorrow’s weather. Or this: my oncologist comes into the room with a folder in her hand. I’m hoping, hoping so hard, that it will be good news. But my hope won’t change whatever the radiology report already says. That news is already typed up, and just waiting for the folder to be opened. Que sera sera. So why do we hope? Maybe we hope to keep our worries at bay (worry is really the upsidedown version of hope: we worry that it might rain tomorrow and the groom and bride will get soaked, but our worry doesn’t affect what’s going to happen). Hope takes our worries and lifts them up and puts them into a box, like Schodinger’s cat, that we won’t open until the time comes, or rather, until time unfolds what is going to happen, and we find out whether Boots is alive or dead, that it’s raining or it isn’t, that Farley will be found or not, the tumor gone or not. I don’t mean at all that leveraging hope to put our worries in a box is a cop out. Rather, I think it’s a form of “positive expectancy” (a term psychologists use) that makes us more able, more capable, of moving forward when the future is unknown and scary. Hope doesn’t change things around us — it changes us.
Gill, this is beautiful. Thank you. My mother enjoyed getting to know your mother at the Belmont - proof that there is, even in our old age, the possibility of forging new friendships and building connections - maybe an act of sweet defiance against the certainty that time is short. I wish you peace as you grieve this loss and celebrate a life well lived - right to the end.
So sorry for the loss of your Mom, Gill. Sitting with her and now sitting with your sadness are, in my experience, the kinds of life events that become unexpected blessings.
Sending you solace and comfort as you grieve the loss of your mother, Gill 💕
Gill, I'm so sorry to hear this. Deepest condolences from your West Coast cousins.
My condolences. My mother’s last days with my brother and me were similar.
Thoughtful, funny and curious about her family but she was ninety- eight, outlived two husbands and her two youngest children and she was ready.
The last picture of her, hours before she died is moving and for me, comforting. She is staring ahead, already away from us but the odd combination of determination and peace makes me less afraid.
Hi, Gill -- I'm the fellow who asked that last question. I didn't at all mean to be challenging the powerful insights that you shared. Rather, my question came out of past experiences of feeling that hope has dwindled into the sad certainty that something unwanted (death of a loved one) is going to happen. I really liked your response, and I admire the time you took to reflect on it before speaking. What you said about your mother's passing (for which I offer my sincere condolences -- I've lost both my parents, and I know how heart rending it is), and how you and your family could choose how to respond to that sad necessity, and choose to take beauty and grace from it, was powerful wisdom, and I thank you for it.
I might add, too, that my reason for attending the event in Kitchener (apart from being an admirer of you going way back to your show with Jay Ingram) is that my wife has had long covid for more than three years. Knowing that you have recovered is heartening.
The day after your event in Kitchener, I went to a coffee shop (where I am again right now) and jotted down my thoughts about hope. They're a bit rough, but here they are:
The sun will come up tomorrow, Annie sings, but that’s no true, at least it’s not a certainty. It’s possible that the sun, in the cosmological sense, won’t come up: there’s a slim chance that the Earth will collide with an asteroid that will knock it out of orbit), and it’s very possible, possibly probable, that the sun won’t come up in the metaphorical sense that things will be brighter and better tomorrow. There’s no guaranty of that. Things might be better tomorrow or they might be shittier. That’s why we invented hope. We hope that it won’t rain tomorrow, the day of our daughter’s wedding. We hope that our lost dog will be found. We hope that our oncologist will have good news. When you think about it, most of our waking hours are spent hoping about something or other, big or small, actively or in the back of the mind. Faith (to me) is less interesting. The devout—many of them anyway—believe that their faith in a god, expressed in the form of prayers, can convince him/her/they to intercede in the clockwork of our lives. But hope: when we hope, are we hoping “to” something, some mysterious agent in the Department of Optimism that will make things work out the way we want? For that matter, do we really believe that hoping about something will make it more likely? I don’t think so. The entire wedding party can hope that it won’t rain tomorrow, but they surely don’t think that their hope will change the barometric pressure that will cause tomorrow’s weather. Or this: my oncologist comes into the room with a folder in her hand. I’m hoping, hoping so hard, that it will be good news. But my hope won’t change whatever the radiology report already says. That news is already typed up, and just waiting for the folder to be opened. Que sera sera. So why do we hope? Maybe we hope to keep our worries at bay (worry is really the upsidedown version of hope: we worry that it might rain tomorrow and the groom and bride will get soaked, but our worry doesn’t affect what’s going to happen). Hope takes our worries and lifts them up and puts them into a box, like Schodinger’s cat, that we won’t open until the time comes, or rather, until time unfolds what is going to happen, and we find out whether Boots is alive or dead, that it’s raining or it isn’t, that Farley will be found or not, the tumor gone or not. I don’t mean at all that leveraging hope to put our worries in a box is a cop out. Rather, I think it’s a form of “positive expectancy” (a term psychologists use) that makes us more able, more capable, of moving forward when the future is unknown and scary. Hope doesn’t change things around us — it changes us.
Thank you, Gill. -- Mark Morton
A lovely response
I just want to express condolences to you and your family for the loss of your mother.
Also to say, it sounds like you responded perfectly to the gentlemen with the last question.
Gill, this is beautiful. Thank you. My mother enjoyed getting to know your mother at the Belmont - proof that there is, even in our old age, the possibility of forging new friendships and building connections - maybe an act of sweet defiance against the certainty that time is short. I wish you peace as you grieve this loss and celebrate a life well lived - right to the end.
So sorry for the loss of your Mom, Gill. Sitting with her and now sitting with your sadness are, in my experience, the kinds of life events that become unexpected blessings.