Death (an inauspicious title)

I thought death would be different then it was.

It's not that I don't have experience with death. I do--more than most people. When I traveled last fall, I was surprised by how few funerals my teammates had attended. For most it was 3 or 4, and for one girl it was 2 (you must understand, she didn't like to feel sad). My funeral attendance is much higher then 4, so I thought I had a better idea of what it would be like.

My Pappy died this last semester, and I miss him. I know he wasn't really aware of what was going on toward the end of his life. I know the months he lived with us were some of the most stressful on my parents and us kids. I know I didn't know him as well as others did. But, of course, none of those negate love. And I loved him.

I could tell you what I loved about him: his passion for any ice cream, big band music, golf and grandkids. I could tell how he taught me to play golf and croquet--and neither well. But this isn't about my memories of Pappy. I have them and I treasure them, but that's not what this post is about.

I was surprised by how different my conception of death was and what actually happened in two ways.

First, I thought death would be quicker. We were told he wasn't doing well, so my Mom drove down. When she arrived, she called my Dad and told him to get on the next flight. He left Wednesday morning. We were told Pappy wouldn't make it through the night. He did. We went to classes on Thursday, and were told he would be gone by early afternoon. He wasn't. We were excused from classes on Friday and left to drive down to PA. All five of us were jammed into my sister's car (which did not make for a comfortable trip), we were assured that he would be gone by that night. He wasn't.

The trip was incredibly slow, snow was everywhere (this was February), and the roads were bad. We ended up sitting on the highway for 2 1/2 hours. Just sitting. Not moving a single inch. It was horrible. We had made the decision to go as far as my brother and his wife's place Friday night, and continue on Saturday morning. We didn't arrive at his place until almost midnight. We had been on the road for over 11 hours. And we had only gone about 6 hours. We all spent the night camped out on my brother's living-room floor.

Saturday morning we woke up unsure of what to do. Pappy was still alive. It sounds awkward, but it doesn't sound nearly as awkward as it actually was. There was some question if we should go back home, be there for the weekend, and then leave again on Monday. We spent the day in limbo: doing some homework, sleeping, eating, but always still very unsure. It was weird. Saturday night came and we were playing a game. The call came. We hugged. We cried. The wait was over.

Monday to Saturday were some of the longest days of my life. In this instance, death was not quick.

Second, I thought people would use the word death. Since the first call, until weeks after I arrived home, I didn't hear the word death once. I thought it was strange. That was, after all, what we were dealing with--wasn't it? I used it. My immediate family used it. What was so hard about saying it? When I was trying to move a paper date because I was going to be gone, the teacher asked me "Are the angels welcoming their own home yet?" For a second, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Another asked, "Has he passed into eternal glory?" I was amazed at how carefully people were avoiding the word. I wondered if they thought that if the four letter word escaped their lips, I would break down weeping.

After sometime, I thought about the avoidance of the word. Does it sound too crass for such a time? I tried to think about how I felt when I knew someone around me was hurting, did I try to avoid the word also?

Death is sad. We all know John Donne's quote about how you should see and feel your feeble humanity in anyone and everyone's death, but we don't do that. We're surrounded by death. No matter how much you know that every bell tolling is for you, you are not prepared for the depth of feelings you experience when a loved one dies.

I stood in that awful room while pathetic music played over the speakers, looked at my pappy and cried. Yes, I cried for someone I loved, but I cried with others that I loved. They made all the difference.

Every man's death diminishes me, it's true. But certain deaths take more of myself with them when they are washed away into the sea.

I don't think Donne would disagree.