My mother died recently. My sister wrote a lovely obituary for her, comprehensive and charming. And one of my brothers has written a song for our mother’s upcoming services, her ‘Celebration of Life’ as we refer to it in our world. Mom had made a specific request for this musical piece, both the tittle and the tune to be Sunrise, Sunset, but the lyrics to be of my brother’s own design.

He too has done a lovely job, creatively capturing the highlights of our mother’s ninety-six years. He has warned us the played song will likely last a full nine minutes, versus the seven minutes other service participants have been allotted for their parts. Fair enough. The song is one of few specific requests mom made.

One of my mother’s first instructions was to “keep it brief,” the service that is. When I explained the impossibility of honoring that demand given the sheer size of our family and the long list of her accomplishments, she looked away and muttered, whether with acceptance or resignation I cannot be sure, “Whatever.”

My mother was a genuine paradox, swiftly toggling between passion and pragmatism in the course of any given conversation. But during the whole of our discussion establishing plans for her memorial, mom consistently held a position toward the latter end of that spectrum. For instance, when we were exploring what hymns she might prefer, she struggled for a moment to recall one she especially liked, and then waved her hands dismissing her efforts as irrelevant. “You know Linda, I don’t really care. I won’t be there.”

I will be one of the speakers at the ‘celebration.’ I have edited my testimony to within an inch of its life. I finally printed out a draft yesterday. After reading it aloud, seven minutes on the money, the only feedback I could conjure up for myself was: good enough. My solace at this juncture is our mother’s laissez-faire approach to the whole thing. Given that premise, how far off the mark can I possibly be?

My other brother, the oldest surviving sibling, is choosing not to speak at the event in any capacity. He may well be conjuring a wiser truth: enough said.

******

When anyone is my inner circle passes away, it gives me pause to reflect on my own life. What contributions have I made? What is the scope of my influence? How might I be remembered? Here is my latest working hypothesis:

My mother’s life was an epic poem; my life is amounting to more of a haiku.

When I shared this conclusion with a dear friend of mine the other day, he immediately reminded me that haiku might capture the essence of life as readily as epic poetry. I have no doubt he was trying to reassure me, but it’s hard to ignore that historically the human species has been enthralled with works of grand scope and heft. Homer comes to mind.

My deceased sister Sheryl’s life was definitely an epic poem, particularly remarkable as it spanned only 51 years. My other sister likened Sheryl’s life to a SuperNova, short lived but of tremendous impact. It was a fitting metaphor. Our older sister’s life was punctuated with a phenomenal array of accomplishments. And, as I previously mentioned, so was my mother’s. They were both more limber in community and more expansive in interest than I would ever hope to be. Neither of their lives could ever be squeezed into haiku form.

******

My life has been quieter, my impact lesser. But as I sit on the beach at Alki, dictating these words into my phone, I harbor no regrets. I am fine with the life I have led. And I am deeply grateful for my professional legacy, such as it is.

While my private practice has been relatively small in scale, it has also been profoundly rewarding, a lucky twist of fate given how I first fell into nursing and then stumbled my way into my advance practice of psychiatry. I did not have a clear mission in my youth. It is not because of some fierce and intentioned efforts that I am now able to claim my career and my passion as one in the same. I landed here by meandering my work-life way through the years, stepping through doors that happened to open, taking guidance when the spirit moved me; dumb luck played not an inconsequential part.

Through the years I have experienced a deepening respect for my patients, witnessing their courage and perseverance in the face of remarkably discouraging adversities. Yet on and on the vast majority of them have forged, redefining their belief systems and remodeling their behaviors; finding and holding higher ground. They have quit disheartening jobs for better ones; they have left tortured relationships for healthier ones; they have escaped trauma from mild harassment to full throttle abuse. I stand in awe at the resiliency of the human spirit.

Perhaps because I’ve spent so much time witnessing and advocating for the stories of others, furthering them along in their own transformation narratives, I have been less clear on my own. Or perhaps this is my narrative. Perhaps as a reporter might be imbedded in a war zone, I have been imbedded in the daily living zone, documenting maneuvers and providing commentary to those who subscribe to my particular spin; offering the facts as I see them.

Whatever the case, I am content. I sit on this beach charmed even now with the ordinary; the crows that go about their business with easy confidence; the Olympics Mountains that shimmer as the day heats up; the WDOT ferries that reliably cross the Puget Sound day after day after day, picturesque in their own lumbering way. At the risk of sounding completely over the top, I feel a sacred kinship with all of these everyday things. The story of my life is simply not epic material.

******

I am curious what might be said about me when my days come to an end. I do believe my obituary might be well served by haiku. Maybe I will just go ahead and draft my legacy now...

Alki held spirit

sons and patients apt teachers

footsteps fade in sand

Enough said.

Linda J. Rohan, ARNP