Death

The last six months have been devastating for me and many of my friends. There's been a lot of death.

A lot. Of death.

This morning I learned that a student I worked with at Greengate who was scheduled to graduate soon has died. It was unexpected. Like my mother, she took a nap and didn't wake up. The campus found out yesterday.

I'm also hearing about more cancer diagnoses. They're scary, because the treatment typically is to play chicken with the disease using your own body as the battleground. There are no guarantees that you and your body will win that game. I know of plenty who didn't.

From the time we are old enough to realize our mortality and the odds on our own longevity, we resignedly recognize that everyone dies, even though we live as though this is not the case. So far I've only heard of one Dude who slipped the noose completely, and even He isn't around physically anymore--reports indicate that He disappeared into some clouds some time after coming back.

So we cognitively know that death is coming for us and those around us.

But we pretend it won't.

When Death comes close, either in the form of a devastating illness that we survive or in the more likely form of the death of a loved one, everything just kind of....stops. I've been aware that things are happening outside my sphere since December 11th, important things like an impeachment trial starting and cool scientific discoveries...but right now, they aren't impacting me. I mean, some of them might directly affect me and everyone I know.

I don't have it in me to care much about it at all. Not when Death is sitting over there in the corner, reminding me daily that I can't rely on anything. I can't count on my father living past next Tuesday, even if all of the information I have at hand indicates that he will likely outlive his brother who is 7 years his junior. Just because it's there on paper is no indication that I can bet on it.

I have known since my early 20s that at some point, I would be an orphan. Reality: most of us become orphaned at some point. Some of us have siblings that can ameliorate that feeling. I have wonderful friends, and I love you all, but in all likelihood I will eventually be the only member of my family of origin.

But I know there aren't any guarantees on my longevity, either. 

One of the main reasons I can keep going is because I allow myself to stay solar-powered. Growing up, I couldn't understand for the life of me why my mother's favorite season wasn't Summer. I failed to comprehend why it wasn't everyone's favorite season, because why would you NOT choose a favorite season where the sun was out so you felt better? It did not really occur to me until I moved into a sunshine-rich state that people exist who need the sun much less than I do. I'll be honest--it still baffles me, and those of you who can live without the sun...mazel tov, man.

I can't.

Today, the sun is out on a partly-cloudy day here in Woodland, and I am getting up from my table periodically to go stand underneath my skylight or go directly outside and feel the sun on my face, opening my eyes as much as I can to have the sunshine hit the eyes as well, because studies have shown it is a significant mood enhancer. And I need all the mood enhancing I can get.

Sometimes, that sun on my face is enough for me to at least blur the visage of Death sitting in my corner. Death is not being particularly vile; it's not sitting in the corner cackling and rubbing its hands together. It does not necessarily rejoice in my suffering.

It just reminds me that it's there, and my world is shattered, and nothing will ever be the same.

I would love to share with you all my grieving process about my Mother. I can't, not fully anyway. I've tried to write it down, because grief shared is grief lessened...but I can't. Some things really are too personal. I loved her more than I have ever loved anyone so far in this life. It's unquantifiable, but it still defines my life--I still love her more than anyone. I now understand Richard Feynman's words about his first wife, Arline, in a letter he wrote to her after her passing: "You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive."

While my Mother is gone, her love for me remains, locked inside me in a place that is untouchable. No one will ever take it from me. Nobody could. Not even Death.

It still sustains me.

And that's as much as I can share with you all.

Today, Death reminded me that it's still here with the passing of Katie Borchers, who loved without ceasing, who constantly sought interaction with others, who drove us all a bit spare but whose presence often made us smile. Death doesn't always announce its arrival, and it's an equal-opportunist.

Nobody is safe.

None are immune to its effects.

I'm saddened that a new set of people have to sit with Death in their corner now. I extend my most heartfelt sympathies to the Borchers family. I do know a bit of what you're going through. I've buried a child. I've recently lost a family member.  And I am so, so sorry for your loss.

We are now the survivors--those who survive the death of a loved one. It doesn't make us heroes or victims. It makes us human beings. (Credit and thanks for those words to John Pavlovitz.)

If I've learned anything from the people in my world in the past month, it's that I'm surrounded by a wealth of lovely people...and I am not going to be through my grieving process for a long, long time. So I do ask for your patience, and I ask on behalf of those who have lost someone recently. After all, pain is invisible...and we're all in pain in one form or another.

So let's love each other as much as we can while we can, and be kind to others and ourselves in the midst of suffering. We can do nothing less.

Because sooner or later, Death is going to be sitting in your corner.