The Wind Phone

Grief is a funny thing. It wants to come out and, like water, finds every little crack and crevice.  And we, strange creatures that we are, try to prevent it from coming out at "awkward" moments. At least I do. "Now is not a good time." "I need to be alone, when life has calmed down, when I have space and time to grieve."

Hah.

Grief will come out, no matter how much we may try to patch the cracks and crevices and redirect it into a more discreet pathway. It is, ultimately, a good thing, to let grief find expression, to give it free rein to say the things that we need to say. To cry the tears we never cried. To rage and roar against the stupidity of fate and death.

But it's still not an easy thing.

A few weeks ago, watching the news, I saw a little piece about phoning loved ones, from an old rotary phone mounted on a random telephone pole in Vancouver. Just pick up the receiver and dial their number, waiting for the dial to make its slow return to the starting position. Call them up to tell them that you love them. Or miss them. Or are thinking of them. Of course, the phone is not connected to anything. Rotary phones are now quaint, nostalgic items and, dare I say it, antiques. There is no one on the other end of the line, but that's not the point.

Sometimes, all we need to do is say what we need to say. Without any response. No interruptions. No fear of a reaction. No hurt feelings. Just say what needs to be said and then listen to the wind and the silence and know that you have been heard.

Kind of funky.

These types of phones have a name—wind phones. They started in Japan a decade or more ago, as a way for people to express their grief. We are all so good at bottling it up, containing it, hiding it. Don't let it show. Because after 3 months, shouldn't we be "over it"? After a year, or two, should we not have moved on from grieving? But grief is not a "One and Done" thing. Oh sure, there are the big ones like the death of a loved one, or the death of a beloved pet, or the loss of a job, or a serious health diagnosis. Sometimes those larger losses give all of the accumulated griefs a chance to find expression... the little day-to-day hurts that we keep letting go of, moving on from, pushing aside, or diminishing. We can feel them beneath the surface, searching for the crack that will give them expression.

I did a search for "wind phones" and there's a whole website that lists the location of these conduits, the nearest official one to me being on one of the Gulf Islands. But then... I saw a local news article and... we have our very own wind phone!! At the local cemetery, as part of an art installation.

I dithered for a day or so... and then early one morning, at 5 am, I drove to the cemetery. The wind phone is in a little carved wooden cubby that brings to mind waves and ripples. It's a wall-mounted rotary phone... and as I picked it up and dialed my Mom's old phone number, the tears welled up. And I cried and sobbed and told her how hard it's been, this past year. How I missed her. How I wished we could have talked more about the DNA surprise. I didn't have long, because the automated sprinklers came on and the tears were mingling with the water spray... but it was a relief.

To be able to "speak" to her... and though there was no response... I felt heard.

And I will go back... and time it for after the sprinklers...

Resources

Wind Phones website - https://www.mywindphone.com/

Tender Vigil: A Journey into Being Present for Life's Profound Transition

Image by Parentingupstream from Pixabay

These may seem completely weird, but at the age of 50-something... I recently had my first experience of sitting by the bedside of someone who was dying.

All of our relatives are in the Old Country. I've had relatives pass away - grandparents, aunts, uncles, second cousins. But they were always at a distance.

We would receive a telegram (back in the day) or a phone call or a Whatsapp or an email. We never went back for the funeral - too far, too expensive, too long. 

It has always seemed a bit unreal to me. I could almost semi-convince myself that they were still there, still as I remember them.

I've also never attended the funeral of someone near and dear. Heck, I think I've only ever attended one funeral - for the grandmother of a friend of mine. That's it. When my Dad passed, we just held a tiny gathering of close friends and family at home. No funeral. No public grief.

I have been present to hold the paws of two cats as they passed. Cuddling and holding them as the vet slid the needle in and watching the life fade from their eyes. Sobbing with grief. There's a reason why our vet office has a separate exit door for the "euthanasia room". You don't have to walk through the lobby in your grief.

"It's 'just' a cat!" - I will sob later at home, taken aback at the amount of grief that has washed over me. But my partner tells me that these moments tap into the deeper well of grief that resides within each of us. All of those aunts, uncles, grandparents that passed away at a distance... with no funeral to attend... there is unexpressed grief there. And the passing of a cat can tap that. So, no, not "just" a cat. So much more than that.

When my Dad passed away, 5 years ago, almost to the day (February 3), I was out of town on a business trip. The nurse had phoned our home the evening before and suggested that it might be a good time to come visit. My partner, unable to drive the 30 minutes to the care home in another community (due to an injury) talked to my Dad on the phone and let him know that we loved him, that I would be home the next day and we would see him soon.

The next morning, at 7:00 am, my partner got the phone call that he had passed half an hour earlier. She phoned me and I sobbed. I was stuck in a fogged-in community (no float planes could fly), and needed to wait for a series of ferry sailings to align before I could make it home. We drove to the care home and touched his cold forehead. He was gone.

Although everyone told me not to blame myself for not being there. I did. And I blamed the work trip. I wasn't there when he needed me most. He died alone.

Back in early October, I learned that an elderly friend, Craig, was in the hospital. He had been in and out of the hospital for a couple of weeks but never stayed overnight - UTIs, MRIs - his kidneys were not in good shape. It was another friend of Craig's who messaged us on Facebook and said that Craig had been actually admitted to the hospital on Sunday. Some of Craig's were visiting him on Monday and Tuesday and so I decided to visit on Wednesday.

On Tuesday evening at 7:13 pm, the friend message to say the nurse had just phoned him. Craig didn't have long. I should come if I could. I broke down in tears, dropped everything, grabbed a jacket and shoes and drove to the hospital.

I was the first one there. Craig had chosen to stop all treatment on Sunday and was no longer responsive. He had been OK that morning, but had developed congestion in the lungs as the day wore on. As I entered the room, Craig took a series of five shuddering breaths. And then nothing. Was he dead?!! No. Twenty seconds passed and he took another series of five shuddering breaths.

I drew up a chair and sat next to him holding his hand. After 20 minutes, two more friends of Craig showed up, including the one who had messaged me. They too were a bit taken aback by the long interval between breaths. At that point, it was 30 seconds. And the gap got longer and longer.

We told stories about our friend and laughed. We told him it was OK to let go. That we were there. We thanked him for his friendship. We cried. We held his hands. It was clear the breathing was becoming harder. The gap was now a minute. And suddenly, we realized, while laughing over some story that... there wasn't another series of breaths. Two minutes passed. He was gone. Less than an hour after I had received the message.

As I drove home, I cried. Even as I had driven to the hospital I had been dragged back to my Dad's death. This is what it would have been like. And I thanked Craig... for going in the way that he did. That I could be there. That I could drop everything, heed the call of the nurse and go. 

Craig's death completed something for me around my father's death. I couldn't be there for my Dad's passing. But Craig did not die alone. His partner had died years ago. He was estranged from his one brother who lived elsewhere. Most of his friends were on an island and couldn't make it in time. But we were there and that made all the difference.

It still strikes me as slightly unreal that Craig is gone. But then I remember holding his hand, listening to his shuddering breaths and the final silence that stretched on and on. Nope. He is definitely gone.

And I've learned this too. When the nurses phone. Drop everything and go. The nurses always know. Heed their call. Drop everything. Just go.