When someone dies quickly and unexpectedly it's like a giant, horrible, wave that rearranges lives and throws people into convulsions of grief. There are no rituals or niceties, no easing into the idea. There's no chance to say goodbye.
More than one of those waves have washed out my beach, and I know how awful it is.
I don't think it's so awful for the dead person, though. I believe death to be a brick wall and a void. I've cried many tears for people who've died -- cried FOR them, for what they've missed -- but I've never believed that dead people are suffering, or have any consciousness at all. They're just ashes and dust. Grief is a luxury of the living.
When someone is known to be dying (kind of funny, since everyone is known to be dying, but you know what I mean), there's opportunity for folks to say goodbye, if they want to and are able.
But for the person who's dying... boy oh boy to those goodbyes mount up. There's a goodbye in every hello. I say goodbye a hundred times a day. I say goodbye to mornings in bed, and coffee, and Eric reading the newspaper. I say goodbye to the big things and the small things. I say goodbye to reading a good book, and I say goodbye to Christmas, and then in the morning I say goodbye to everything again.
It's not the worst thing I've ever experienced, but it's not going to make the top ten BEST things, either.
I'm 99% sure I'll wake up in the morning and have another cup of coffee. I'm 80% sure I'll see another Christmas next year. Still, here I am, seeing all it, everything, in a new and not-really-appreciated light, and wondering if a tsunami isn't really a blessing, after all.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment