Regarding death... again.

There was a period of time, a few years ago, when I had several people in my life (family members and acquaintances) who all passed away within two years of each other. It was pretty rough to get through and made me re-examine a lot of my previously held assumptions on life, death and what happens after that. While I don't want to get too much into it, I will say that the idea of eternal conscious torture awaiting someone who fell prey to some hellish disease didn't exactly jive well. Recently, with the publication of a certain book, a lot of other people have become privy to these sorts of thoughts.

But, that's not what this blog is about.

Within the past week, there have been two people die that had some form of close relationship with someone I knew. These were both unexpected deaths and one of them can really only be described as horrendous. Obviously, it brings back into view questions of God, the afterlife, etc. etc. One thing that I am finding more than those as I very selfishly think on this* is the response from the people left behind; especially those on the periphery. The individuals who did not interact with those who have passed away except briefly. People's reactions who weren't of close association usually fall in the "that's so sad" category but then it is swept aside. It makes no impact and there is something telling there. I don't want to get to down on people, though. If you never knew someone and they weren't an essential part of your life, it is hard to drum up the same feelings you'd have if a family member passed away. It's just a strange reaction and more telling of how our corporate society deals with death, than any individual's idea.

And then there is Amy Winehouse. I was never too aware of her music and only knew of her controversy second hand. That said, I find no satisfaction or joy in making jokes on her death. Whether she was a victim of her own addictions and failings or the natural course of life, she was still an individual as any of the rest of us. As I am staring at my 27th birthday pretty soon, it's a little more close to home, in some sense. In regards to how our culture deals with death, the judgment on her has already been passed. "Amy Deadhouse" jokes and anything regarding her "getting her comeuppance" only highlight the insular experience death is for those left behind. It highlights the sheer lack of communal mourning that would occur in smaller societies. Mostly though, it exposes that not one of us are good 100% of the time and we all have a long ways to go, myself included.

If there is one thing I learned and am completely reminded of in this, it's that life is going to pass all too quick and if you really want to honor those who have passed, you should live your life to it's fullest.

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* I am aware that writing a blog post about me thinking, somewhat intellectually, on a person's death can be very selfish and borderline disrespectful. I hope this comes across as neither.

Memorium

It's been roughly a year, give or take, since I had to experience three funerals in a row. Two of which were for beloved grandparents, one for my girlfriend's grandfather. To be quite honest, the whole time was utter hell. There was nothing good about the experience, even if all three had the foreboding shadow cast upon the last few months. All three lived full lives, some longer than others. All three left behind families that loved and cared about them deeply. All three, are remembered fondly and while greatly missed, are known to be in better places than they were at the end of their earth bound existence. There was some closure to their lives, too. Grown children, on their own. Grandchildren growing up and becoming adults; the anathema to death. Where there is death, life continues.

But suicide is a different matter. The recent introduction of suicide into my personal sphere of life has brought some new meditations and questions on death. Here was an individual who had nothing apparently wrong. Someone who was, by all accounts, happy and fulfilled in this life. Obviously, this individual was not. Before I continue, I would like to note that this was not someone I knew personally, having only met once or twice. Those times though would not have lead me to think that a little less than a year later that person would be intentionally gone from this existence. It's a curious thing really, that someone would intentionally remove themselves from this life. There was thought, motive, action. Planning. Yet, there is no way to know what brought this on. There never will be.

My grandfather passed because of cancer. My grandmother, old age. Her body simply gave out. There really is no other way to explain it. She lived 95 years and I guess her soul and body decided that was enough time. My grandfather was "taken" by disease. However, even if he had lasted much longer, his body was so ravaged, his 82 year old frame would not have supported him anyway. A twenty something individual taking their own life, with no apparent inner turmoil to cause it? This is where death truly stings.

We can legitimize an elderly death, or one by disease. It wasn't the persons fault, they succumbed to natural forces of the universe. Suicide takes that away. That comfort, that meaning is gone. The death hangs too, like a thick fog, engulfing everything in muted tones, obscuring what should be good foresight. Yet, life continues.

Life and death are intimately connected, so much so that they are nearly one and the same. Life feeds on life. Carnivorous or not, all things we consume are "alive" and all of them die. From before we are conceived by the meeting of our genetic raw data, death is there. Millions of potential pieces of us "die" in the struggle to create us. Women, before the advent of modern medicine, could very well die in child birth. Truth be told, this is still more the case in the majority of the earth. We are truly spoiled in the West.

When a loved one dies, we all must find a way to continue. This is the harshness and sweetness of death; we must continue on without a valuable part of ourselves, yet we are still able to continue. Graveyards are fascinating to me. The person buried there won't give one rip about the plot of land or the headstone. It's all for us. To remember them and to give us hope to soldier on. This should make life all the more beautiful to us. It should cause us to take chances, laugh loudly and heartily, and love without reservation. We don't though.

We get wrapped up in our own lives. Paying bills, raising children, feeding our bodies, the everyday realities of life ad nauseum. Then again, maybe we should just find joy in these realities. Maybe this is where we should find our joy. I could also be blowing smoke out of my ass. That's more the case I think. I'm not going to pretend to understand any of what I've read, or have any answers. A simple meditation on that facet of life that is constantly engaged in the ending of it.