Death is nothing at all, but it still brings tears with laughter

More and more I am turning to my little blue book, “Death Is Nothing At All,” for comfort after the death of a loved one. I’m at the age where I now order half a dozen of these books at a time to have on hand so I can share them with others who have lost loved ones, hoping it might be of some help.

Henry Scott Holland wrote the poem before his own death in 1918, and an aunt gave me my copy 11 years ago. The book begins “Death is nothing at all … I have only slipped away into the next room … I am I and you are you .. and whatever we were to each other that we are still.”

Today, I’ll give a copy of the small book to the family of a dear family friend, John Earnest Clark, whose funeral service is this morning. I’m looking forward to hearing tales of his life with his wife of 64 years, Maxine, and their life around the world together.

I’m sure there will be laughter in the service; the best funerals always have moments of laughter interrupting the tears and sobs.

Four years ago, Earnie and Maxine and my parents went to the Southern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Boulder City and made their arrangements to be buried there. The foursome made a day of it, eating lunch at the historic Boulder Hotel, enjoying themselves, not focusing on death but enjoying life. Death seemed far away that summer day.

Since the cemetery will accept only veterans and their spouses, I was told I was on my own. I wouldn’t be horning in on their space when my day came. So we laughed a bit and I declared my preference was to be cremated. While my parents want a permanent burial site, I’m not that concerned about where my ashes end up, believing it’s the spirit that counts, not the body.

Thus the comforting message of “Death Is Nothing At All” works for me, even as I cry at the loss of a family friend.

Earnie was diagnosed in June with terminal cancer, and the doctors said there was nothing they could do and sent him home. He had time to visit with family and friends, who came from all over the world to say goodbye to a man I think of as a true gentleman in the way he handled himself and in the way he treated others.

The Clarks, Republican stalwarts, have legions of friends and over the years have registered countless new citizens being sworn in, just one of their many community activities.

Earnie was alert and clear-headed until the end, telling my dad a few weeks ago that it was a good thing they all went and got their “reservations” at the veterans’ cemetery.

“I didn’t expect to use it so soon,” the 84-year-old former Marine and retired engineer said with a laugh.

Earnie died last Monday at home, his family at his side, confident he was loved and respected by many.

The next day, I put down my 14-year-old cat, Beau, who had been fading from kidney disease for the last five months. He had dropped to five pounds, down from his fighting weight of 13 pounds, and when he stopped eating, I wasn’t going to let him starve to death. After crying buckets, I called my vet.

I was with him at the end and kept telling myself it was an act of love to let him go before he reached the point where he no longer could lift his head.

The truest act of kindness was from my friend who over the past 30 years of friendship has now driven me four different times to the vet as I wail in despair. It’s not a fun drive for her.

As much as I love my cat, another cat (or two) will be in my near future, another cat I can love and perhaps, depending on the cat’s independent streak, cuddle.

Earnie is gone forever. You can’t just go find another Earnie to love.

But I’m comforted by Holland’s poetic imagery that Earnie and Beau are in the next room, just out of sight around the corner but present forever.

And I wanted to share the little blue book with you, just in case it might help someday.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call 383-0275.