The Pain of Another

Anytime you lose a family member, especially when it occurs so suddenly, you have a special right to declare the entire year a disaster. It's easy to get lost in your own hurt when something like this happens and you tend to see everything through you own eyes and your own pain.

The problem with this myopic view is that you block yourself off from others who are suffering too. Not that you want to get into one-upsmanship on who has it worse, but I can't sit here and tell you I've had the worse go of things on the planet. There are certainly thousands upon thousands of families touched by the Tsunami along the rim of the Indian Ocean, several hurricanes in the Gulf, and three devastating earthquakes in Pakistan. The loss of life and living well are unfathomable and the simple enormity of the disasters almost makes it too difficult to grieve. Almost.

In a certain odd sense, Stalin was right for all the wrong reasons when he said a single death is a tragedy but a million deaths is a statistic. Perhaps it is easier to get your arms around one death and mourn a single loss.

Below is a column by a friend of a friend who writes for a newspaper in Mississippi. He is a gifted writer who usually spends his insight on politics and the government operations in his home state. This year he has suffered through the death of his mother, his wife, his best friend and, unfortunately, soon his twin sister. You often hear that God only gives us what we can handle but I would have my doubts by now were I him. But I don’t think he is a man who doubts God and His plan and for that I am in awe.

I would love to tell you the story of what has happened to him and what I only know of on the periphery, but I know I could never tell it as poetically and with the right mix of words and music as he could himself. Instead, without regard to copyright restrictions, I have posted his entire column. Sort of puts my life in perspective:

By Sid Salter
Not all of life's storms come with wind and water.

I don't know a smooth transition by which I can communicate the level of "uncertainty" my daughter and I have confronted in 2005 along with our extended family and the wonderful friends with whom we've been blessed.

So, here's the blunt assessment on what should be the most joyous day of perhaps the most joyless year of our lives.

Alline Salter, my mother, passed away on April 2 after a long, dreadful illness. I miss my mother, as I've missed my father since his death.

Paula Salter, my wife, passed away May 1 after an even longer, even more dreadful illness. I miss my wife — and watching my daughter grieve for her mother and knowing the depth of her pain cuts me in half.

Sheila Salter Klimetz, my twin sister, is dying of a brain tumor in suburban Memphis. Time is likely very short, according to her oncologist and neurosurgeon.

My very first memory on this planet is the sound of my Sheila's breathing and moving in the baby bed we shared until we were toddlers. Watching this unrelenting cancer take my twin from my family is literally like losing a part of me in the process.

Kate and I spent much of this year together either in intensive care units, hospital rooms or in funeral parlors. We closed two estates and in the process disposed of the personal possessions of two women precious to both of us. It hurt.

But in the midst of this uncertainty came a certainty of sorts. Family members carried us, church family members lifted us up and friends fed us, took care of us and stood behind us through it all. Doctors, funeral home operators and other professionals gave us the strength to deal with the realities we've confronted.

I have never been more certain of the love of my beautiful daughter, the concern of my family or the compassion of my friends. The page will turn on the calendar next week. I can't say I'll be sorry to see this year from Hell in the rear view mirror.

But what of the New Year to come? It's the absolute certainty of change — and of memories.