Decades of research link major stressful life events to increased risk of sickness and death during the events themselves and in the ensuing year; the risk extends to everything from cardiovascular disease to common infections. It is not established that stressful events increase the chances of a person catching or developing a disease in the first place; rather, they make the expression and progression of it worse. That is to say, they depress a body’s immune responses and general resiliency. Among the major personal events associated with increased risk are divorce, death of a loved one (spouse, parent, sibling, et al.), a move to a new place of residence, a financial crisis whether from the loss of a job or some other source, and even (sometimes) the loss of a pet. Most people, it is important to note, do not get sick in the wake of these events. Once again, the events probably don’t cause disease; they just exacerbate it. Whether we get ill or not, we soldier on as best we can.
I had my own annus horribilis in the year straddling parts of 2000 and 2001. I checked every one of the boxes for the risky events mentioned above: got divorced, moved, struggled with finances, and lost both parents – and a pet. By luck I avoided getting sick on top of it. The corona viruses trading around back then were of the common cold variety and they happened to pass me by. It is a year that sticks with me though, informing a larger part of my later-adult identity than any year since. It comes to mind today because I passed Hilltop Cemetery on the way to the post office this morning. This is not unusual. The cemetery is three miles (5 km) from my house and is on a route I travel a few times per week. It is not my common practice to stop there even though my parents and sister are buried there. (Yes, there is room for one more; my parents were kind enough – if that is the right expression – to purchase a spot for me.) My mom didn’t see any value in cemetery visits. “Give your flowers to people when they are alive,” she always said. I’ve taken her advice to heart, though on rare occasion (maybe once or twice per year) I stop briefly only to see all the familiar names. I grew up in this town and know more of the local people six-feet-under in that place than I do of those walking above ground – most of the latter being relative newcomers. Anyway, I took more notice than usual while passing there this morning for two reasons. First, “an ongoing narration” about Hilltop Cemetery written by an old friend of my parents (he introduced them in high school) came into my possession via my aunt a few days ago. Second, I noticed on my car’s display that the date is November 6. That is the date my mom died 19 years ago.
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| Last photo taken of my mom |
We always remember the date a parent dies. (No, it doesn’t seem that long ago.) Everything internal changes at that point even if the outer trappings of our lives (where we live, where we work, how we live) do not. While a parent lives, a part of oneself (no matter what age) is always someone’s child. Afterward, that identity disappears. We are forever the adult in the room, whether we choose to act like one or not. There is also no escaping a greater sense of mortality.
My grieving days are long past, so I doubt I’m at any elevated risk from it should I happen to wrestle with this year’s corona virus, a bug that has brought so much more disruption into our daily lives than the ones current in 2001. To be sure, moments of nostalgia do and always will recur from time to time (such as today). Even though Civil War doctors often listed “nostalgia” as a contributing (sometimes only) cause of death, I doubt I’ll be dying of that either. That doesn’t mean I’ll forget. I won’t…and for all this year’s unpleasantness, I’m grateful that 2020 is (for me, at least) more serene than two decades ago.
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