Au Revoir, Ma Mere

The Great Mystery: MBS August 17, 1944 - August 18, 2021

Mom in Horseleech Pond behind her house in Truro (Cape Cod) just a few days before she went into the hospital. August 2021. Photo: Joe St. Onge

The highest, supreme possibility — a specific human excellence that the Archaic Greeks term arete (or virtue) — is to be philosophoi, a word expressed first by Hesiod and Heraclitus three thousand years ago. The philosophoi (lovers & seekers of wisdom) are those few mortals who “live the gods’ death for them,” who have the “staying power” and, as Socrates reflected, “take hold of philosophy rightly [and] study nothing but dying and being dead” {Phaedo 64a}, which is to underscore that “philosophical men must inquire into many things” on the perspective that “everything is one” (Parmenides). For Heraclitus, the existential imperative is phrased thus:

To be sound minded: the greatest excellence [arete]. And wisdom [sophistes]: to say true things and do (them), giving heed in accordance with nature [physis].”

In other words, one ought to “say what is true and act giving heed to the nature of things . . . to say true things and do them.” On this note, I reflected on death and dying while sitting in a vigil with my Mom in hospice last week. It was a cruel irony that her birthday became her deathday, Mom’s 77th birthday. She almost didn’t make it; but, by god, she did.

She lay next to me unconscious on that day, one might say sleeping, but she was just unconscious in my opinion, pumped full of opiates to dull the excruciating pain of cancer and the indignity of imminent death. Dying this way is terrible, disgraceful, and just so mind numbingly unfortunate, I hesitate to say unjust. One such as my beautiful mother who was otherwise so fortunate and vivacious, who led a life full of wonder and reward, had come to this: hospice and the seemingly interminable waiting in expectation of inevitable death, which, at that point, trust me, we all (especially her) wanted to come as soon as possible.

There but for the grace (or curse) of the gods go you or I. We are all mortal, finite beings, whose time on Earth inhabiting fragile, vulnerable bodies (yet hers remained so strong and undefeated — though not for long) are but temporary vessels for a soul and spirit that comes from and inexorably returns to a Great Mystery that is probably best described, with all humility, as The Universe. All is one. Everything, everyone, everywhere in a constant state of Flux. No atom gained or lost, mere stardust and conglomerates of energy force that simply take on various forms here, there, everywhere.

Here/there we found ourselves, at the end of a life, my dear Mother’s who gave me mine. This place and experience became a school of sorts, another one — I’m growing weary of going to school (studying, learning, & teaching) — that I can’t seem to escape. Enough already! Words elude me. All that remained was the despair of waiting for the inevitable. Death. I wondered on the difference and distinction between a birthday and a deathday. How can one really know? The truth is: we don’t.

What do we know? What can we know? What are the limits and conditions of knowledge and our claims to or about it? What does life and existence teach the living who are all bound to die?

Something like this occurs to me. What has not yet come is what has already existed, and what is past is also what is to come some time. The eternal past and eternal future are tied together in the present, and time becomes a ring: “the path of eternity is curved.” Things past and to come have gone around this ring already innumerable times; they have already passed the present moment innumerable times. The ring of time is already overlaid itself repeatedly, and from now on will continue to overlay itself.

Everything goes, everything comes back: eternally rolls the wheel of Being. Everything dies, everything comes up again, eternally runs the year of Being. Everything breaks, everything is out together anew; eternally the same house of being builds itself. Everything parts, everything greets itself again; eternally the ring of Being remains faithful to itself. In every now Being begins; around every here rolls the ball of there. The middle is everywhere. The path of eternity is curved.

— Nietzsche (Thus Spoke Zarathustra III.13)

§ § §

Mom about two weeks before she died.

What a week. It seemed as if a whole world of shit hit the fan somewhere around the new moon (what Hawaiians call Hilo) on August 8, just a couple days after my mom went into the Beth Israel Hospital complaining of stomach pains that were soon diagnosed as an advanced (metastatic) cancer of the pancreas. A certain death sentence, which she understood and accepted immediately. Meanwhile, forests of the Pacific Northwest burned, devastating earthquakes shook Haiti, Europe flooded and liquefied, Mario Cuomo resigned in disgrace, Afghanistan falls to murderous Taliban, COVID virus rages worse than ever, and hurricane (Henri) spun up the East Coast, threatening disaster. There’s more, of course, much more. Not a few days before, Mom was swimming happily off the tranquil dunes of Truro in front of her house with her grandchildren, blissfully oblivious of what the Fates had in store . . .

She ended up in the Beth Israel (BI), the same place my younger brother was born in 1971 and where my father did is medical residency through Harvard Medical School. After a few chaotic days at the BI, mom was transferred to a hospice house in Lincoln. This was a much better environment for her: calm, quiet, bucolic. A death house. There were more cruel ironies. Not the least of which was the fact that my mother’s own father (John Clark Brown) died of pancreatic cancer in a hospital bed (alone by himself) a day shy of his 78th birthday in 1969. These ironies were not lost on mom. She decided that she wanted to die on her birthday. Mom was a woman of her word.

The sun, they said, was in Leo; the moon in Aquarius. It is also said that the moon cycle we were in (involving the interaction of Leo and Aquarius) requires adjustments to be made in order to “balance” the the qualities of these two signs. Distinctive qualities of Leo include self-confidence (or, the alternative, self-centeredness), lovingness, romanticism, drama, and attention-seeking. Sounds like Mum. Qualities of Aquarius consist of independence, intuition, inventiveness, humanistic tendencies, as well rebellion, stubbornness, and eccentricity. Fair enough, I suppose; I’m an Aquarius: the Water Bearer. Given her impending birthday, Mom, of course, was a Leo: the noble sign of the Lion. Another twisted irony — or perhaps not. There are no accidents in the Universe. In any case, everything was in tumult, disrupted, and chaotic. This lunation (the new moon phase — or Hilo stage of the Mahina Cycle per Hawaiian Huna) remained in a “challenging aspect” between two otherwise auspicious Full Moons (Hoku/Mahealani) falling on July 23 and August 22 respectively. I made it from the first full moon to the next (this time); she did not. Yet another curious irony, given that the ascendent sign of Leo (my mother’s) is/was opposed by my birth-sign of Aquarius. Radical change and unexpected events were the only thing on the menu. Although I don’t know much about such things, the astrological significance of the unfolding acceleration of events was not lost on me either.

Endings and new beginnings were plainly imminent. It was clear — to us all — that radical changes were occurring; and that a big chapter of of our lives (Mom’s life) was coming to an end. Whether those changes are expected or unexpected (both it seemed at that point), we somehow knew that we should all draw on the chaotic transformational energies surrounding us to willfully move forward in a determined way toward the next new chapter of our lives, most notably including Mom’s death.

She said a few times that she was confused, that she didn't know what to do or where she was going. She seemed restless, in an anxious state of expectation. In an effort to calm and perhaps distract (or focus?) her attention, I suggested we listen to some music. Mom loved Beethoven’s Late Quartets (as do I), so I selected the Opus 132 in A Minor (the “Ariel Quartet”),¹ which we listened to together in Truro a year before at her neighbor’s recital in the woods — a live performance that was simply magnificent to behold. As the music played, Mom asked me to brush her teeth. So I did. Her teeth were beautiful, perfect really; better than mine. It was the first and last time I brushed my mother’s teeth.

“Where am I going?” she asked. We settled on the destination (death) in terms of The Great Mystery, a known unknown, as it were, that held within it as much promise as anything else. Nothing to fear really, insofar as there was nothing to do about it and we are all mortal. Everyone (everything) dies. It’s perfectly natural. Being the passionately curious, adventurous, and courageous person she is/was, Mom remained open to the possibility of something strange, wonderful, and exquisite waiting around the proverbial corner. “I don’t know . . . I don’t understand,” she said. “You will soon, Mom,” I responded. “Soon enough,” I truly believed: She would know and understand everything and more.

We discussed the transition as if she was going on a trip. Bon voyage, Ma Mere! Au Revoir! Mom loved to travel and spent most of her life gallivanting (one of her favorite words!) the globe, so this last expedition was in many ways standard and routine (can we say that about death? I think so since we all die). The train was coming soon, we could hear it’s whistle coming toward us down the track; she had her ticket; and she was off to somewhere extraordinary. Mom accepted that — indeed she willed it to come as soon as possible — with such grace, strength, and dignity that my love and admiration for her swelled more than ever. I was full of reverence and veneration for my mother, so incredibly proud of her at this time. She was at once noble, beautiful, and wise, yet . . . dying.

When she woke a little confused on Monday morning, she sat up and said: “I survived! I’m going to be OK!” It was more like a question. Perhaps she thought it was all a dream (is it not?). My eyes probably said enough. “Oh . . . No,” she said and paused: “I have a fatal illness.” I nodded slowly looking directly into her eyes. She said frankly: “I am going to die.” “Yes, Mom,” was all I could say. I held her hand. She held mine. She was still strong. It was heartbreaking; although I cried, she did not.

I sang her songs she used to sing me as child. Our favorite was “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Mom sang this soothing ballad to me hundreds (no: thousands) of times, putting me to sleep with the full confidence that I was loved, safe, and secure in the feeling that everything was going to be OK.

We smiled as we sang. It was a melancholy moment to be sure, more than sweet — it was profoundly sublime. All things return. We were waiting for that train coming down the line. “When’s it going to get here?” she asked more than a few times. “Soon enough, Mum, don’t worry.” Although she didn’t actually say it in so many words, I could sense also that Mom was concerned about us (my brother and me, our families, and everyone else she loved and cared about who weren’t going on this train ride with her) and such anxiety was making it difficult for her to release her body and get on board — to which I replied: “Don’t worry about us, Mum. We are going to be just fine. And we’ll catch up just as soon as we can. We’ll catch up. Just send us a postcard when you get there.” That seemed to help.

Imagine standing at the train station with all your family and friends there to see you off on this exhilarating adventure yet this uncanny feeling creeps in as the train approaches that you might want to stay — not leave everyone behind. Imagine looking at the train car full of interesting strangers (all seeming to enjoy themselves) in contrast to those otherwise so close and familiar (and sad), feeling a sense of uncertainty, ambivalence, apprehension, and wonder. I imagine Mom hesitated and wrestled with feelings rather like that — torn — which is perfectly understandable and is otherwise a testament to her deep empathy, love, intelligence, and selflessness. But she had to get on the train. There was no question about that. And once she recognized her inexorable Fate, she accepted it with a Stoic resolve, sound minded, remaining true to the way of things (de rerum natura), in accordance with nature. She died in her sleep — got on the train — just after two in the morning on the 18th of August, the day (a mere couple of hours) after her 77th birthday. Au Revoir, Ma Mere! Bon Voyage! Courage, Ma Mere! Courage!

§ § §

What follows is the obituary I wrote for my mother.

Marian “Dede” Fullerton Brown St. Onge was born on August 17, 1944 at the Mountainside Hospital in Montclair, New Jersey to Lois Svensrud Brown and John Clark Brown, both originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Along with her older brother John Clark Brown, Jr., Marian was raised at 372 Highland Avenue in Montclair, where she attended the Kimberly School for girls (now Montclair Kimberly Academy) from which she graduated in 1962. Marian’s educational odyssey soared from there on to Agnes Scott College, a women’s college in Decatur, Georgia and, later, The University of Colorado Boulder, wherefrom her fascination with the French language and passionate wanderlust led her to the University of Bordeaux in France for her senior year. She graduated with a degree in European History and French in 1966, followed by a two-year residence in London, where she worked in the fashion department at the Sunday Observer.

Married in 1968 to Richard Arthur St. Onge, M.D., she gave birth to her first son, Richard Anton St. Onge in 1969 and her second son, Joseph Clark St. Onge in 1971. She raised her boys in and around the Boston area, with a year abroad in Scotland (outside of Glasgow in Bearsden), when she published her first book, “Try Glasgow: An Uncommon Living Guide to the City” (Heatherbank Press), along with her friend Susan Hight, in 1976. Marian went on to continue graduate studies at Boston College, earning a M.A. (1975) and a doctorate (Ph.D. 1984) in French Literature, all the while teaching at B.C. and raising her sons. Married again in 1981 to George Lee Sargent, Jr. and divorced in 1986, at which time Marian moved with her sons to Cambridge, where she resided happily in a cozy old carriage house until her untimely death. The last 23 years of a glorious life were spent with her loving partner, Marshall Smith of Brookline, both in Cambridge and in the wild, beloved dunes of Truro on the Outer Cape, where Marshall built a rustic compound for them to share lazy, halcyon summer days and long, dark winter nights. 

Marian was a beautiful, spirited, and insatiably curious woman full of life, laughter, and wisdom. An enduring interest in history, poetry, and the Romance Languages underpinned a long academic career at B.C., where she taught both French language and literature, in addition to directing the Women’s Studies Program, Coordinator of the French Language Program, later becoming the Founding Director of the Center for International Partnerships and Programs (CIPP), a position she held for 15 years — successfully coordinating international activities across the university and more than forty institutional partnerships (both academic and business related) in Boston and around the world. Marian loved her work and was widely recognized and praised for her accomplishments, many fellowships and awards including grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, The American Association of Teachers, and the Pi Delta Phi French Honor Society. In 1988 she was granted the Strasbourg University Award for Contribution to International Understanding; in 1993 she received a Fullbright Fellowship; in 1996 she was a White House Honoree for her work on the Bosnian Libraries Restoration project; and, ten years later (2006), Marian served as the Distinguished Michael Dukakis Visiting Professor in International Affairs at the American College of Thessaloniki in Greece. During her time at B.C., Marian also published numerous articles and essays regarding international and cultural issues, taking a well-earned early retirement in 2006. 

Her post-retirement years were as busy as her years at B.C. with various eclectic writing projects and publications in poetry and biography, serving as the President of the Massachusetts Foreign Language Association as well as travelling constantly across the globe nurturing her passion for discovery and maintaining her bonds among a rich network of family and friends — from Sun Valley, Idaho to Sunset Beach (Oahu), Hawaii to see her adoring sons and granddaughters, and beyond. She was happiest among family and friends, spending most of her time with Marshall either in Cambridge or out in the windswept dunes of Truro, cooking fabulous meals, reading, writing, swimming, and, above all, thinking — she lived a full, wonderful life perpetually engaged and engaging. Before her death, she was finalizing the manuscript of a major historical project (for which she received a Norman Mailer Fellowship Award), a biography of the French World War II Resistance leader and Catholic priest, Louis Favre. 

Those who had the privilege and good fortune to know her loved and admired Marian for her wit, style, intelligence, candor and generosity. She was a devoted mother and loyal friend, as well as a consummate educator, poet, and bon vivant who touched, inspired, enhanced and enriched the lives of everyone she knew — most especially her sons, grandchildren, friends, and students. As a mother and grandmother, Marian always made sure that everyone all got together and did interesting things in beautiful places. She loved nothing more than to be with her family exploring, discovering something new. For all that and so much more, her sons and granddaughters are eternally grateful.

Marian was struck suddenly and unexpectedly with an aggressive cancer of the pancreas just a week shy of her 77th birthday (much like her own father, John, who also fell to pancreatic cancer a day before his own 78th birthday in 1969). Her sons, Joe and Andy, were there with her until the end, which came peacefully and quietly early on the 18th of August in Lincoln. Massachusetts. Marian died as she lived — with strength, grace, dignity, and a clear mind, with full understanding that all things return and life is in many ways a circle, an Odyssey of sorts that begins and ends more or less in the same place where it started.

“In the end comes also our beginning, the ancient sense of a door opening to some final unknown, some invisible voice attempting to help us come to terms with our own disappearance, the hand extended to help us over a horizon equally as mysterious as the one we crossed at our birth.” (David Whyte)

Her last days were spent reflecting on the path of life and where it ends. Marian accepted it all with open eyes and no regret, prepared for what comes next, that which she and her sons discussed in terms of The Great Mystery. She made that transition willfully and courageously, letting go lightly to a life she otherwise held on to tightly, soaring like a White Swan into the eternal afterlife. Given her abiding love for the forces of Nature — particularly the Sea and Sky — it is perhaps fitting to close with a poem written by Theodore Stanley Wilder (father of Marian’s best life-long friend: Anita Rubira Wilder Smith): 

Whirl me up, and out, and away

To a place with limits wide.

Where there’s naught to see —

But immensity

Much to think and little to say —

Thoughts my only guide.

Oh give me, high in the fresh-wash’d blue,

A couch on that cloud of snow.

And there I’ll eye,

With sight that is new,

Mysteries of the windy sky —

Forgetting the Earth below.

Or, tonight let me be on a rock by the sea

With the swish of the waves on the sand

In the dark of the night,

With the stars ancient light —

Teach me there to understand

The Universe and me.

So, whirl me, to-day, away, away

To a place which reaches wide.

Where there’s much to think and little to say

And my thoughts are my only guide.”

—    TSW (1918)

Marian is survived by her sons and granddaughters: Richard “Andy” St. Onge and his daughter Bruna Brown St. Onge (22), of Sunset Beach, Hawaii; and Joe St. Onge and his daughters Neve Lee (13) and Soleil Gillian St. Onge (10), of Hailey, Idaho. She is also survived by her life-partner Marshall Smith of Truro, as well as her brother Clark of Los Angeles. There will be no funeral or memorial service at her request. Adieu. 

The annual Birthday photo with Mom: August 17, 1980. River Place, Dedham, Massachusetts

Pau

Huelo Hale Paumalu 2021

1. We also listened to Beethoven’s 7th Symphony — our favorite — especially the Second Movement. See above and please listen.