loss

 Death. Death. Death. Death. Not again…

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It’s typed four times in clearly readable Calibri* because typing it three times didn’t make the word sound as ridiculous as it should. Say it four times really, really fast…you’ll get an idea of how strange it is to worry about The Word. We accept a lot of things in life out of our control, why is “that one” any different? If I was 6 feet 8 inches I’d be a retired, rich former NBA basketball star, in the Hall of Fame. Being normal height hasn’t made me fall on the floor lamenting and grieving.

In “Slaughterhouse 5”, Kurt Vonnegut introduces the Tralfamadorians who view death as simple transport, a journey to another place, a minor station in life. Their view is life is never-ending since they exist in 26 dimensions representing all stages of their lives, and they can transport into any stage at any time. Want to revisit your gestation? No problem. Death? Only take a second, unless you want to stay longer. Any time in any individual life is always being played out in some dimension, somewhere, sometime. Death is merely another pearl in a necklace to be enjoyed, admired, and revisited. Neat, right?

Philosophy, science, and science fiction are not as far apart as the rational among us might think.  Learned and tamed Quantum Entanglement could explain the mechanics of the Tralfamadorian dimension travel, for example. But it might be wise to not expose young minds to any of these thoughts, as they leave a lasting impression with sometimes controversial side effects. Billy Pilgrim’s story of travels to his other dimensions was learned when I was 16, when death was not only unnecessary to consider, but touching life anyway, with car accidents, drugs, and the Viet Nam war…in the 1960’s dimension.

It isn’t any pedantic puzzle to solve, then, how an attitude towards death can be skewed, and become slightly comic. Sure, death is inevitable, and could come suddenly, but so what? If we simply move to another dimension, what’s the problem? In religious arguments with all sects, it was the same question: if the dead are actually going to the heaven you describe, why are we sad for them?

From then on, at funerals, I was a reasonably handsome, silent man in a nice suit with tissues in every pocket. The paper product’s sole purpose was to allow grief to transfer from the breaking hearts of grieving widows, mothers, daughters, sisters, and anyone else, to those flimsy papers, then the pockets, and finally, disposal. Rarely were more words than these exchanged: “It’s so nice of you to be here for______.” Accidents, the unlucky military draft, and suicides caused the scene to be repeated often and ended with a final straw**, the death of mom. I didn’t need to be the strong silent Man With Tissues. Where she was going would be a lot better than where she’d been. I was happy for her.

It’s easy to understand grief and loss surrounding death. They have been companions often, but when Death suddenly appears, the theory or assumed reality of where the dead are going should outweigh any selfish sense of loss, shouldn’t it? If given a choice, especially for eternity, we’d all choose heaven instead of sticking around to keep relatives and loved ones from crying. Wouldn’t we? Wait, if everyone went to heaven…

It’s hard to see how the medical world fits into a discussion of death. When doctors cure cancer, it is only a temporary victory, a battle won even though the war will be lost. Is our happiness for the cure and few extra years really that big a deal? It helps to wonder about what would have happened if the world never became “developed”, and we lived the laws of nature, not medicine and man. Is living with someone else’s heart, for example, worth it? Is donating your organs to someone else your goal in life?

Only until we know for sure, only until we have made that journey, it’s open season on end-of-life issues and we will discuss them forever, by ourselves or our progeny.

Conclusion: The journey matters. Not The End. Say it four times really, really fast.

Final note: The Calamities of the past three years stress-tested the opinions expressed in this post. Winning the battle rang the bell that saved them for another round. Can’t wait to see what’s next.***

And apologies for bringing this subject up for the umpteenth time. It’s not my fault if people keep dying.

PS Looked it up and the last time you were lectured about Death was January 11, 2026, when Bob Weir died, a Grateful Dead. See? It’s not my fault.

*Which the wordpress gods will change to New Times Roman.

**There is never a “Final Straw”. And loss never ends.

***Sarcasm?

Death as an Equation

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Several past posts have been about The D Word, but this post will be more objective, less emotional, almost dry, in discussing the impact of Death.

In youth, there was lots of death (sic). Pets died, farm animals died, insects got squashed, and fish got caught…and eaten. Very few of those deaths were looked at as Death (sic). Insects don’t deserve to live, anyway, and pets, well, pets came and went. Many dogs and cats wandered off the farm never to be seen again. Often, we’d find bones in the farm fields but never made any connection. At least the adults said there wasn’t any. The only emotional loss on the farm was when we shipped a favorite calf or piglet to the slaughterhouse, and as young’uns we didn’t actually knew what it meant at the time.

The facts of life don’t take long to be revealed, however, and around the eighth grade an emotion surfaced in talking about Death. What happened to Uncle Carl was defined as “passing”, per mom. It was her brother and a favorite uncle. He smoked cigarettes from packs rolled up in his tee shirt sleeves, drank, used hair product, and liked to lean on the hood of his convertible. In the 1950s and 60. He visited the farm regularly and called me “Sport”. When he stopped coming, it was weeks before I asked mom. She set me and my brother on the couch and announced “Carl won’t be coming anymore”, and as we kids pondered what we did wrong she added, “He has passed on.”

Death made itself known eventually, and we had some disagreements, but I came to understand and accepted it which was easy since my death was so far away. An early and now long-gone girlfriend said I was a great comfort at funerals. As a big, strong, quiet man woman liked to cry on me, no matter their age.

Now, an approaching Death needs to be an arbitrary factor in equations and discussions about End of Life. Input all known variables and solve for X. The word death meant nothing to the young mind and now means nothing to the old mind. In fact, Death, now, is simply the next event, the next inevitable stage of Life. Some of those were turning 13, turning 16, kissing a girl (thanks Cousin Debbie), buying beer, college, marriage, kids, marriage again, marriage again (Yes, sadly, not a typo), grandkids, and retirement. These were most of the major events looked forward to and anticipated. The first beer, by the way, was so bad, how could anyone drink it?

But beer might help with Death, if you think about it. I love beer, now, so maybe, after death…?

Naw. The equation aspect of death is a result of living. When someone near my age dies, and when someone older than me dies, there are two different equations: How much longer than the former have I lived, and do I have as much time left, as the latter. I’ve mentioned before, the age of Death and how it had to be determined for End of Life Financial Planning. Mine is 84, the age mom died. Dad died at 51, so…

The Death Equation became harder to solve when The Calamities hit. They skewed the values of certain parts of the formula, at one point even suggested a final solution, variables be damned. In sharing my experiences with friends/cohorts in my age group, it seems we all suffer something, eventually, and don’t know what to do about it. Sharing experiences has a warning implied, and several cohorts have learned of a new calamity thanks to the exposing of someone else’s old one. I learned about my new calamity, one I never would have suspected, from the reported trials of a friend in Florida.

Another friend has a better description of the equation: we are all old cars. Any car lover worth his clicking torque wrench knows there comes a time when it doesn’t make any sense to repair an old car. You fix one thing, and something else fails. Just let it go.

A recent afternoon text back and forth with a friend whose PSA is over 4 was about the worst calamity to get in old age. My choice: Cognitive Impairment (CI). Cancer, Arthritis, AMD, none seem as bad as CI. But later, as I thought about all this, I asked myself: what if I had Ci, would I not have Death to think about?

No one knows. Or at least has ever mentioned anything.

Maybe I’ll look up that Psychic I dated in the 70s…as long as she doesn’t mention marriage, again…