An(other) Inconvenient Truth

Death, much like sex, is still a taboo topic of conversation.

Oh sure, we like to watch it. Just turn on the TV. Heck, I have turned watching Forensic Files into a nightly bedtime ritual. Or maybe you ate dinner last night, half listening to a news story about another bomb in Gaza. Absentmindedly chewing your chicken, thinking about your weekend plans while the news anchor drones on about another school shooting or chemical weapons in Syria.

Yes, we are surrounded by death every day, but most of the time, we remain insulated from the reality of actually experiencing it close to home, save for the kinds of deaths that occur with the passage of time and in their rightful order: the loss of a grandparent; a beloved pet; an elderly relative. No, these kinds of losses are not easy, but we accept that they are bound to happen eventually–one of the natural consequences of time.

Yet, why is it that we never talk about or seem to accept the fact that our own death is a natural part of living? It’s sort of like pretending that abstinence is the only appropriate lifestyle to teach our children in school. As a large number of teenage moms can probably tell you, there has to be a better way to address these sometimes uncomfortable topics.

I’m not saying that the next time you’re out with friends, you should have a will signing party. I’m just saying that it’s time to stop avoiding what is, in fact, a very unavoidable part of life.

I mean really, we have books like, “Everyone Poops.”

I guess the sequel, “Everyone Dies,” probably wouldn’t fly off the shelves, huh?

If I have learned anything over the past two years–first from my father’s sudden and unexpected death to what could have been my own–it’s that yes, death in and of itself just plain sucks. Of course it sucks. But it flat out sucks even worse when you have no idea what you want–both for yourself and for people whom you love dearly.

On October 13, 2012, I had to make the most difficult decision of my life–the decision not to resuscitate my dad should the need arise. He had been in the hospital for just over two weeks, and the latest CT scan showed an additional bleed in his brain. A very kind doctor sat me down, showed me the scan, and talked to me honestly about my dad’s prospect for recovery.

I then had to ask myself what kind of life my dad would want for himself should he ever regain consciousness. My dad was my buddy; I knew him very well, and I was certain that he would not wish for the type of life he would experience should he wake up. Making that decision–though it was the right one–was the single most terrible moment of my life.

And you see, my dad never talked about what he wanted for himself. He never said, “If I should have a terrible stroke and lose all prospects for recovery, please let me go.” Instead, I had to place my faith in how well I knew him. But, would I have breathed a little easier if we had talked about it? If he had made his wishes clear? I would like to think so. Somehow, just knowing that you are carrying through with someone’s clearly stated wishes, provides more of a sense of purpose.

As for myself, Paul and I signed our new wills and health care power of attorney the day before my last surgery. While we both knew the risks associated with my cranioplasty were much lower than my initial craniotomy after the accident, we also didn’t want to take any chances. I was very clear in what I wanted for myself.

Yesterday, I took the day off work and drove down to the radio station and tower building to do some cleaning up. That way, Paul and I could still have the weekend at home.

When I pull up to the station, I always feel a little tug.

dadstation

The yard is sparse and weedy. Clearly, it is untended, as my dad was its sole caretaker. Inside, dust and debris seems to collect even though no one really walks through the door much anymore. I had packed a lunch, and as I ate my peanut and jelly and applesauce (because apparently I’m 12) in the half empty lobby, I thought about how much work death really is.

First, it is mental work, because the grieving process is ever present and evolving. And if that wasn’t enough to deal with, it socks you in the gut again with all the “arrangements” and “business matters.” If you thought running a radio station was complicated, imagine trying to clean up after 40 plus years of memories and a lifetime dedicated to work.

One of the other most important things I have learned in this process–this process of learning about life and death–is that your stuff doesn’t go with you.

I know, it seems obvious, doesn’t it? But how many of you are holding on to boxes of junk you can’t bear to throw out but haven’t opened in weeks, months or years?

Yesterday, I found a box full of my childhood school papers. I had to stop myself from getting nostalgic. While I immediately wanted to go through every single thing, I took a step back and reminded myself that these things have been stuffed away in this box for a couple of decades, and life has gone on.

I’m not saying that certain mementos aren’t special. I’m just saying that just know–holding on to every single thing that holds some sort of meaning or perceived significance is fairly pointless. You make memories with people that you love  and via experiences – not things. When I am 80, if I am lucky enough to live that long, I doubt I will feel cheated that I threw away my high school yearbooks.

At home, I have slowly begun to shed the things I don’t regularly use. The process is freeing.

My perspective has gradually but definitely been changing. Perhaps this is just growing up? Regardless, the point is that by accepting the inevitable in life–which is scary, yes–you truly allow yourself to begin appreciating what you do have. What’s really important.

And by being clear in what you want for yourself, you just might save those who love you some heartache.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s