Friday, January 23, 2004
On Death
The hard thing about death is not so much the immediate feelings of loss. Unless the person who has just died went through a great deal of pain (then we empathize), the loss we feel at that immediate moment is one of knowing, recognizing.
What is difficult is the permanence of death. That loss that's there on day one can be forgotten amid the return to routine, but months later, maybe it's an anniversary of some kind, you're right back in that state.
I've been trying to delineate the difference between two great friends that leave each other's lives after high school or college, and two great friends who are separated by death. Firstly, it's got to be an important friendship. Although I have a fond memory of meeting two girls at a house party with a friend of mine from the track team in college my sophomore year, that's almost all I have of that friend. If I met him today -- and I'd like to, it'd be cool -- we wouldn't have much to say. It would be uncomfortable. We may as well be dead to each other. I know what he would say if he heard tomorrow that I'd died: "Oh, that guy? That's too bad." I know that because that's what I'd say about him. So it's got to be a great friendship to make any delineation.
But say that's the case: that someone you were great friends with had to leave for college or a job across the country. Maybe there was an initial email, then the person's address changed, and all was lost, years passed, and both lives changed and moved on. Yet because it was a great friendship (a term that I realize probably needs more explanation, but that's a post for another day), there is a fondness there that would last. So when we hear of this death, it's not just "too bad". I think this goes back to the knowing, the recognition: at least before there was an assumption that, although we weren't communicating, this person was doing their piece, happy, and receiving all we knew they deserved. But the knowing, the recognition that this is no longer happening can essentially erase the years.
Then, of course, there's "impact". The knowing includes all that you expected, perhaps thoughtlessly, will not come true: Jill may have no reason to vacation in San Remo anymore; Theresa will have no more conversations about Parisian hats; no one will ask Talb about that summer before high school anymore; no one will call me 'Tex' again. A piece of life is now a piece of history.
The strange thing about it is that although the knowledge, the recognition, is what causes us to feel this -- these capacities are typically what make grieving or coping easier.
What is difficult is the permanence of death. That loss that's there on day one can be forgotten amid the return to routine, but months later, maybe it's an anniversary of some kind, you're right back in that state.
I've been trying to delineate the difference between two great friends that leave each other's lives after high school or college, and two great friends who are separated by death. Firstly, it's got to be an important friendship. Although I have a fond memory of meeting two girls at a house party with a friend of mine from the track team in college my sophomore year, that's almost all I have of that friend. If I met him today -- and I'd like to, it'd be cool -- we wouldn't have much to say. It would be uncomfortable. We may as well be dead to each other. I know what he would say if he heard tomorrow that I'd died: "Oh, that guy? That's too bad." I know that because that's what I'd say about him. So it's got to be a great friendship to make any delineation.
But say that's the case: that someone you were great friends with had to leave for college or a job across the country. Maybe there was an initial email, then the person's address changed, and all was lost, years passed, and both lives changed and moved on. Yet because it was a great friendship (a term that I realize probably needs more explanation, but that's a post for another day), there is a fondness there that would last. So when we hear of this death, it's not just "too bad". I think this goes back to the knowing, the recognition: at least before there was an assumption that, although we weren't communicating, this person was doing their piece, happy, and receiving all we knew they deserved. But the knowing, the recognition that this is no longer happening can essentially erase the years.
Then, of course, there's "impact". The knowing includes all that you expected, perhaps thoughtlessly, will not come true: Jill may have no reason to vacation in San Remo anymore; Theresa will have no more conversations about Parisian hats; no one will ask Talb about that summer before high school anymore; no one will call me 'Tex' again. A piece of life is now a piece of history.
The strange thing about it is that although the knowledge, the recognition, is what causes us to feel this -- these capacities are typically what make grieving or coping easier.
