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A couple of weeks ago, a colleague of mine lost her granddaughter. The eighteen month old died suddenly and my friend disappeared into the arms of her family to mourn and to shelter. Those of us left behind have not spoken about the situation at all. No one wants to pry.
Her misfortune reminded me of my own fourteen years ago. I experienced the deaths of two family members within a month of each other. My dad, two weeks short of his ninetieth birthday, and my nephew, barely twenty four. I don’t know how one could possibly measure grief in any tangible way, but the tragedy and suddenness of my nephew’s death certainly stunned the family. As much as if he had been only eighteen months old? I can’t know, but it definitely sucker punched us. Suddenly it seemed like anything could happen.
There was no safe place. You could age slowly into death or you could slip and fall right into it. And youth was no protection. Our technology based, legally mandated, safety-measures world wouldn’t
necessarily throw a net under you. When my father and nephew died, my own son was only eighteen. I could barely push the fear of his death out of my consciousness. It felt too self indulgent to even consider that possibility when my brother and his wife were agonizing over their loss. But the dread was there anyway. And the helplessness.
Of course one can’t live with the fear of death every waking minute. We learn to suppress it so we can manage, so we can carry on with whatever we must do. Raise the family; go to work. Do the laundry. We’re too busy, most of the time, to think about it. And when we do, there are few people who can discuss it rationally with us. Most folks push it away. Don’t be so morbid, they say. Or why would you mention such a thing? As if shooing away the topic would protect them.
Certainly I get it: no one wants to think about death (most of the time) or talk about it. We can’t do anything about it anyway, except to tiptoe around the obvious dangers. And live each day as “if it’s your last” (a phrase I viscerally despise.) That avoidance, however, is part of the reason death surprises us so much. All of a sudden, after years of mostly comfortable and safe living, someone dies unexpectedly. We can’t just look away. We’re forced to not only acknowledge it but also to remember it was always there anyway. To accept our vulnerability. To admit there’s nothing we can do.
Alright already, right? It’s happening right now. I’ve only typed a few hundred words and already the topic is stifling. Yet, I don’t want to turn away. Mainly because when ideas float into my mind and stay there, I’ve found it’s better to pay attention than to dismiss them. I’ve decided that, for me, the irrevocability of this little girl’s death is simply humbling. I don’t believe in proclaiming her passing had a reason, that it happened to teach others a lesson. But it certainly reminds me that, at the very least, I need to be grateful just for being alive.
Whether or not I become a bestselling author, regardless of where my net worth peaks, I need to acknowledge that life is good to me right now. And has been for a long time. Instead of lamenting that I have to pressure wash the deck or get up at the crack of dawn to go to work, I could remember how amazing it is that I’m one of the lucky humans who still gets to walk the earth and (mostly) do what she wants. At least for today.
This obscure guilt I’m feeling for my friend’s loss comes not from being temporarily shielded from death while she faces it head on. No; it’s from the knowledge that I’m not accepting the gifts I have with enough reverence. And joy. Perhaps my sorrow for her and her family reveals my biggest fear about death: that it might come along when I’m squandering a sleepy day off or being angry at someone for something trivial. Which is not all the time, but still too much of the time. I want to be better than that.
I won’t tell her these things, of course. Instead, we’re all signing a card about how we’re saying prayers for her. Which is certainly true and probably as comforting a thing as we can do. We’ll include a gift card so she can pick up dinner or pay for some other pesky chore that’s simply too overwhelming to deal with at the moment. It’s a small gesture, yes, but it’s a start.
At the very least, we won’t hide. Death brings grief, pain, even guilt. But it can also allow us to redefine our love for one another.
And to show it.
.