Last weekend I went to California to visit my best friend. I’m sure it sounds silly for a 33 year old woman to say she has a “best friend” but it’s a title that was established early on and it seems equally silly to stop using it just because adults just don’t say that anymore.
I try to visit every year. If she can’t make it to me, I go there. For me, there is also the added bonus of getting to see where I used to live. There aren’t any roots for me in my current locale, I could take it or leave it without feeling like I’ve suffered a loss. I go to California knowing that I get to see some of the old stomping grounds, even if the people we used to know have moved on.
My flight was on an Airbus jet, which is the same manufacturer of the Air France plane that disappeared over the Atlantic. Woo, big deal, I know, but when it’s just a few days after such an event, your mind can’t help going there. I am generally not afraid of flying, but that kind of disaster makes you wonder what would happen if you found yourself in such a situation. You find yourself keyed into the noises and movement of the plane when it takes off. Your eyes pop open when there’s turbulence and as you’re jostled around in your seat, you try to determine if the turbulence is getting worse or going away. Then you land, and once all of the wheels are safely on the ground again, you exhale. You live to fight another day.
I know that is overly dramatic. Plane crashes are pretty rare when you consider how many flights there are every single day that land safely. It’s just that when something goes wrong in the air, there’s a pretty good chance that no one’s getting out alive. You just have to board the plane knowing that. You also have to realize every day there are a million other things that could lead to your untimely demise, but those things happen in onesies and twosies. Anything that involves losing hundreds of people all at once is bound to make the news.
I say this like I would be perfectly okay if I got onto a plane and something went awry. I’m not. I could spend hours pondering what will happen after I die. I think the death of a parent or a close relative makes you extra aware of your own mortality. It also makes you thumb your nose in the face of it. Sometimes I think we’re ill-equipped to accept that it will all just fade to black and that’s it. We invent an afterlife that’s the equivalent of Candyland with everything you could wish for, all hours of the day, all days of the week. The earthly bullshit just fades away and you’re on cloud 9. While I would love for this to be true--I hope it is—but the truth is, I really don’t know. No one does. You hope, you believe, you trust it will happen that way, but you don’t truly know.
I also think that people who have seen death close up are a bit cynical. From what I’ve witnessed, we’re going to say someone “died,” rather than softening the blow with a euphemism. I was talking to my best friend about this very thing. My particular beef is with the term “passed away.” Away where? It sounds so peaceful, like the person just floated out to sea on an inner tube. It sounds nice, but it’s not exactly honest, is it? Sometimes people just say “passed,” which is even more vague. Passed what? Passed the 7-11 on the way to Heaven? Passed the final exam? Passed a kidney stone? Gas? It’s really not clear. Why don't more people just say “died?” What’s wrong with just saying exactly what you mean? Isn't that the key to effective communication?
When I got home, my husband asked if I had visited my father’s grave. Until he mentioned it, I didn’t even give it a thought. I have gone twice in the past year, and you’d think that would reinforce the idea to go, but it honestly did not occur to me. I said this and the look of shock on his face told me he believed I was being thoughtless. He even tried to give me "the guilts" over it. "Maybe I'm more sentimental" he said, but I don't think that's really it. I am happy that he can feel that way and that he doesn’t actually know what it would be like to bury an immediate relative and visit their grave, he doesn’t understand that my connection is not to a grave. It’s why I don’t want to be buried. I think people would visit for awhile, but after a couple of generations (if you’re lucky) you’re going to be forgotten. People will glance at the headstone and comment (maybe) but otherwise, your time and the memories of you have already passed. I don’t need a nice box with all the fixings. I’m pretty sure it won’t matter anyway. I would also feel like a physical grave puts a burden on the living to visit and tend to it. I’m high maintenance enough as it is alive, the least I could do is give my loved ones a much needed break after I die.
Showing posts with label deep thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deep thoughts. Show all posts
6.11.2009
10.01.2008
Pondering the Inevitable
My aunt died a couple of months ago. I know this is the natural order of things, and while she reached 83 active years of age, had a full life and did everything you’re “supposed” to do before you die, it was still shocking. Why? Because she was relatively healthy and it was completely unexpected. Going out this way might be good for the person who died, but man it’s hard on the ones left behind. I still can’t bring myself to delete her email address from my contact list (yes, she was an older person who willingly used email!). Keeping the address is harmless, but it’s not going to bring her back.
I grasped that things would come to an end at an early age. How did I make this terrifying discovery? When I was about four years old, browsing the pages of a science book--specifically, a Peanuts (yes, by Charles M. Schulz) science book. There was a series of them, and my sister owned the first four. I tried to find them on eBay to prove that I’m not crazy, but my search was unsuccessful; you’ll just have to take my word for it: Peanuts Science Books—hey, it was the ‘70’s. Kids liked popular comic characters delivering their facts. What I read was this: “In Five billion years the sun will be in the red giant phase and come to an end.” Even then, I knew this was not good news. If the sun was gone, then the Earth didn’t have a chance. Therefore, the world was coming to an end!
I bawled over this. FIVE BILLION YEARS! I lost sleep and voiced my worries on long car trips. This was serious business and no one seemed to care!
Eventually (and inexplicably), I moved on.
There is a “Childhood Trauma Checklist” from Matt Groening’s Life In Hell cartoon which includes the death of a parent. This is another thing that can make you preoccupied with death. It’s not always such a terrible thing—you can get some pretty good jokes out of the deal. My senior year in high school, a lot of students lost parents, most of them fathers. This contributed to a group my best friend and I coined, “Dead Dad’s Club.” There was an adult counselor there who ran a group catered specifically to us. My best friend and I attended—not because we really wanted to sort through the issues, but because—hey—you get to get out of class!
So one day, I handed over my Dead Dad Club note to my teacher (while looking appropriately humbled and slightly sad) and skipped out of class. At the meeting I sat next to my friend.
“Close your eyes and think of a flower blowing in the breeze.” The counselor said.
Apparently it was a relaxation technique, but in my case, it was a battle to squelch the inappropriate laughter rising up through my chest. A flower? I controlled my breathing and locked my lips shut. The mistake had been sitting next to my friend. We nudged each other under the table, willing the other one to bust out first. If either of us did have an outburst, the nice thing about laughter is that you can easily make it look like you’re sobbing-- hysterically.
I’ve been to a handful of funerals in my life. It’s funny how different they are. There are so many ways to say goodbye. One funeral involved not a relative, but a former academic dean—a retired one star general. It was a BFD. I got to be there because the family requested to have a cadet contingent at the funeral—specifically from the company that this dean was in way back when he was a cadet. I was in this company, so therefore I got to attend.
This involved a rehearsal to make sure we didn’t screw up the big show. We spent an afternoon marching down the road to the cemetery, taking our places, waiting, and then returning to the barracks when the show was over. There were other players too—a unit of soldiers to play drums and send the guy off with a twenty-one gun salute. I was doing just fine until the soldiers who had the coffin (empty, of course, this was just the rehearsal) maneuvered into position while another soldier played a snare at a rapid pace. The real funeral would have the accompanying brass and frills, but for the rehearsal, all we had was the drumroll. Drumrolls mean anticipation of something to follow, the resulting “ta-da” of a magic act. I looked at the top of that coffin and envisioned it popping open, jack in the box style. If I laughed out loud, everyone would turn and glare at me. If I fell out of formation, I might have been punished. I locked my lips and stayed as still as I could. As soon as the drumming stopped, I took deep breaths and collected myself. In case you’re wondering, no, thankfully this didn’t happen the next day for the real deal.
I get freaked out to think it will all come to an end. Where do we go? What happens? Does someone just shut the door and turn out the lights and that’s it? I don’t bawl in the car anymore, but there are times when my mind spins in circles, thinking about the time I’ve already lived and how much sand is left in the hourglass. There is not much you can do about any of it. It makes no sense to be shocked and surprised. We know it's coming; it’s the natural order of things.
You have to laugh. It’s going to happen to all of us eventually, or, as my boss has said, “Nobody gets out alive.” The joke’s on us, so at the very least, try to have fun along the way.
I grasped that things would come to an end at an early age. How did I make this terrifying discovery? When I was about four years old, browsing the pages of a science book--specifically, a Peanuts (yes, by Charles M. Schulz) science book. There was a series of them, and my sister owned the first four. I tried to find them on eBay to prove that I’m not crazy, but my search was unsuccessful; you’ll just have to take my word for it: Peanuts Science Books—hey, it was the ‘70’s. Kids liked popular comic characters delivering their facts. What I read was this: “In Five billion years the sun will be in the red giant phase and come to an end.” Even then, I knew this was not good news. If the sun was gone, then the Earth didn’t have a chance. Therefore, the world was coming to an end!
I bawled over this. FIVE BILLION YEARS! I lost sleep and voiced my worries on long car trips. This was serious business and no one seemed to care!
Eventually (and inexplicably), I moved on.
There is a “Childhood Trauma Checklist” from Matt Groening’s Life In Hell cartoon which includes the death of a parent. This is another thing that can make you preoccupied with death. It’s not always such a terrible thing—you can get some pretty good jokes out of the deal. My senior year in high school, a lot of students lost parents, most of them fathers. This contributed to a group my best friend and I coined, “Dead Dad’s Club.” There was an adult counselor there who ran a group catered specifically to us. My best friend and I attended—not because we really wanted to sort through the issues, but because—hey—you get to get out of class!
So one day, I handed over my Dead Dad Club note to my teacher (while looking appropriately humbled and slightly sad) and skipped out of class. At the meeting I sat next to my friend.
“Close your eyes and think of a flower blowing in the breeze.” The counselor said.
Apparently it was a relaxation technique, but in my case, it was a battle to squelch the inappropriate laughter rising up through my chest. A flower? I controlled my breathing and locked my lips shut. The mistake had been sitting next to my friend. We nudged each other under the table, willing the other one to bust out first. If either of us did have an outburst, the nice thing about laughter is that you can easily make it look like you’re sobbing-- hysterically.
I’ve been to a handful of funerals in my life. It’s funny how different they are. There are so many ways to say goodbye. One funeral involved not a relative, but a former academic dean—a retired one star general. It was a BFD. I got to be there because the family requested to have a cadet contingent at the funeral—specifically from the company that this dean was in way back when he was a cadet. I was in this company, so therefore I got to attend.
This involved a rehearsal to make sure we didn’t screw up the big show. We spent an afternoon marching down the road to the cemetery, taking our places, waiting, and then returning to the barracks when the show was over. There were other players too—a unit of soldiers to play drums and send the guy off with a twenty-one gun salute. I was doing just fine until the soldiers who had the coffin (empty, of course, this was just the rehearsal) maneuvered into position while another soldier played a snare at a rapid pace. The real funeral would have the accompanying brass and frills, but for the rehearsal, all we had was the drumroll. Drumrolls mean anticipation of something to follow, the resulting “ta-da” of a magic act. I looked at the top of that coffin and envisioned it popping open, jack in the box style. If I laughed out loud, everyone would turn and glare at me. If I fell out of formation, I might have been punished. I locked my lips and stayed as still as I could. As soon as the drumming stopped, I took deep breaths and collected myself. In case you’re wondering, no, thankfully this didn’t happen the next day for the real deal.
I get freaked out to think it will all come to an end. Where do we go? What happens? Does someone just shut the door and turn out the lights and that’s it? I don’t bawl in the car anymore, but there are times when my mind spins in circles, thinking about the time I’ve already lived and how much sand is left in the hourglass. There is not much you can do about any of it. It makes no sense to be shocked and surprised. We know it's coming; it’s the natural order of things.
You have to laugh. It’s going to happen to all of us eventually, or, as my boss has said, “Nobody gets out alive.” The joke’s on us, so at the very least, try to have fun along the way.
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