There’s no “D” in Carnival

Because some believe “Time heals all wounds…”

Here’s how a trip to the State Fair helped me cope with the stages of grief.

It’s a quote whose origin has long been debated and whose prediction has been refuted by all those who have ever been hurt. I acknowledge the author’s intentions, but perhaps the quote would have been better served if it specified a type of “time”.

Most of us take it to mean that it is the passing of time so we look toward the future and hope that with each advancing minute or day we seemingly forget or find avenues to cope in the same way that time heals a physical scar. But in the end, even with the passing of time, our emotional wounds continue to ache and burn as they did when first inflicted.

Or can it mean that we can also look to times past, perhaps in history or memories, for a remedy? This is where nostalgia comes in. Like a good friend who knows how to pull a quarter out of our ear and make us laugh when we’re feeling down, nostalgia is a great distractor. It swoops in with its bright colors and moving melodies and invites us to step away for a while from all things dark and deafeningly silent. It encourages us to play along and assures us that life has a silver lining…one that glimmers and shines and draws us in like children at a carnival.

It’s been a few days since we’ve been back from our Miami trip and today I find myself sitting on my couch with my legs outstretched, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and lavender flower print pajama pants. I sit staring at my bare feet while the small through-the-wall air conditioner whirs in my ear. My toes still have a tinge of nail polish residue from early summer’s nectarine color craze. The chipped lacquer a reminder that, until today, I’ve been quite busy.

Surrounding me there are both large and small boxes. Some sealed and labeled, while others overflow with fuzzy slippers, men’s ties, photo albums, award plaques, books, and cleaning supplies. In between the boxes, there are piles of hospital bills and miscellaneous papers. Some in my name and others not. A heap of propaganda and advertising mail sits in the center of my living room floor next to large black garbage bags. Throughout my bedroom and dining room there are several colorful mounds of laundry. Some clothing articles are clean while others sit in the I’m not sure, I need to smell it pile. Several hangers are also strewn about.

To any visitor observing my tiny apartment, it may appear as though its tenants are in a period of transition…perhaps moving in or out. To my mother, it would seem like a tornado hit it or that I had been kidnapped while cleaning out my closet. But as still as I sit here on this couch, it does not appear as if I’m transitioning or even moving in any sense of the word.

My attention shifts to a small flyer lying on the area rug in front of me amongst a variety of colorful and saintly prayer cards. A square white cardstock, with a poorly stamped image of a Ferris wheel on it, promotes a local state fair.

I quickly dress and invite you to come along. I can’t imagine that, with the end of summer quite near, you’d turn down a trip to the fair.

We arrive and are immediately overtaken by the experience. The crowds whiz past us in both directions, food stalls emanate a scented mix of barbecue ribs, popcorn, and fried powdered-sugar covered sweets. Bells ring all around us and water splashes about. We hear the clickety-clack of mounting coasters, the swooshing of burlap potato sacks on the giant slides, the thud of bumper cars, and the swirling screams of children as they spin their way into a nauseous tizzy. One can’t help but enjoy the distraction and the careless freedom that it brings. Today, I welcome it all.

John Larkins, author of As time Goes By – Australia’s Fabulous Century, sheds some light on his view of nostalgia. He described it as “the intimate refuge of every man & every woman in a world seemingly gone mad.”

Prior to leaving for our Miami trip, I was embroiled in my own “mad” world which began approximately 8 months ago when I witnessed the death of my buddy, my grandfather, who I had taken care of for the last few years. Born in 1918, he’d seen it all. He had been dirt poor then later went on to meet governors and presidents. He had married and had children, many of them.  He was an adventurer and traveled up until his final month of life when I had taken him on a cruise, taught him to box, and helped him attempt to roller blade. He had lived…and now there he was – dying.

I remember sitting by his bedside when the hospice nurse walked in and handed me a little blue booklet. “You’re going to need this,” she said. The book was bluntly titled Gone From My Sight: The Dying Experience by Barbara Karnes, R.N. In the days that would follow, my bookmark sat parked on the final chapter titled “One to two days, to hours prior to death.”  In between my chats with him and mealtimes, I sat and stared, unwillingly taking peeks at the chapter.

Surge of energy…check.

Restlessness due to lack of oxygen…check.

Fish out of water breathing…check.

Purplish hands and feet…check.

Non-responsive…check?

The book went on to describe the series of final breaths one takes before the physical body becomes “empty” and “the owner is no longer in need of a heavy, nonfunctioning vehicle.”

As offensive as it read at that moment, I was grateful for the technical outline.  In such instances, nostalgia is absent. It knows that, although difficult, such moments cannot be tainted with illusion. We must see them for what they are. In this case, I was to become acquainted with the “universal, inevitable experience we share with every living thing” as detailed in the book, Conversations At Midnight, written by its cancer-stricken author, Herbert Kramer, as he honestly came to terms with his own impending death.

I’ve had other meaningful deaths in my family, but my grandfather would be the first out of five others to die in what seemed like an unrelenting succession. While the means to their ends varied, the process was always the same. A process I’ve come to know as “The Four D’s of Death“.

Denial: This can’t be can’t be happening.

Decisions: Food, therapy, medications, and life support are only a few.

Despair: I can’t imagine life without them. It hurts so much that they’re gone.

Distraction: Diving deep into work, travel, friends, family, or even isolation. The final stage before “time” allegedly heals all those wounds…when we seek out anything that will take our minds off of our pain.

For now, I enjoy the distractions of today…here at the carnival.

Nostalgia sometimes gets a bad rap for not allowing us to face reality, but don’t worry, it knows it boundaries. Those final moments with our loved ones – it knows it can’t touch. But days like today, where the smell of goodies waft in the air, where we walk listlessly from one amusement ride to the next expecting nothing but whimsical thoughts and genuine laughter. Today, nostalgia is our friend.

The night ends with us standing in front of the giant Ferris wheel.

To our right, the twisting Tornado ride has long stopped spinning…its seats hovering unusually quiet underneath the overheating light bulbs.

To our left, the oohs and ahhs of the crowd, as a hypnotist claps his hands, shouts the word “hot dog,” and a silly boy gyrates to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” song.

The towering Ferris wheel above us circles ’round and ’round endlessly. A wheel that in some ironic way symbolizes life. A wheel that keeps moving for some and stops (if only briefly) to let others hop off. Music plays softly and the lights flicker and ricochet off the faces of the riders who, at such heights, all appear to be contemplating the same thing, “To be up here, away from it all – even just for a bit – it’s nice.”

I walk up to the gate and hand the attendant my ticket. I’d like a ride, please.

I climb into my seat, the wheel spins, and I reach the top. I peer down and see you, patiently waiting, but eager to remind me that back home, my place is mess and perhaps I should consider adding a final “D” to my list:

Declutter: The complex emotional process of parting with others’ physical belongings.

As the hypnotist claps and the silly boy continues to shake and shimmy into the night, I wave at you and sit back waiting for my own ride to end.