I’ve generally been lucky when it comes to death. I’ve had very few of those close to me die.
Both of my grandmothers went before I was born. One grandfather passed when I was 5 and still too young to really understand (or have developed much of a relationship with him). My other grandfather, Grandpa Joe, passed on when I was a senior in high school. I missed running the 4x800 in the state track meet for his funeral, and still occasionally am disappointed that the alternate will forever be the one whose name still appears on the list of school records. But it was important for me to be around for all those jokes about him building sidewalks in the sky.
During my first year in JC, a close friend from high school passed away. I guilt tripped myself for a few years that I hadn’t called him, as intended, earlier that month. Perhaps its just a convenient excuse that shuts people up, but I’ll never smoke a cigarette because of him. He was also the first death I cried over. It took me about 7 months for it to hit me, but one night, out of nowhere, I was packing up to leave my apartment for a new place. I came across the obituary my mother had sent me from the Heyworth Star. I immediately melted into a heap of hyperventilating sobs. He was the Abe Lincoln to my Sarah Josepha Hale in the 2nd grade play. In fifth grade, he made me seriously question color perception, in ways that I still find phenomenologically complex. He dreamed of going to Notre Dame to play football, but never tried out for the high school team. He never graduated, but was by far the smartest in our class. Our friendship came and went, but it was just two months before his untimely death that I felt like we got to know each other again. I smoked my one and only cigarette with him in the cold freeze of a snowy Midwestern December night, and then he made me promise him I’d never do it again.
Both of my grandmothers went before I was born. One grandfather passed when I was 5 and still too young to really understand (or have developed much of a relationship with him). My other grandfather, Grandpa Joe, passed on when I was a senior in high school. I missed running the 4x800 in the state track meet for his funeral, and still occasionally am disappointed that the alternate will forever be the one whose name still appears on the list of school records. But it was important for me to be around for all those jokes about him building sidewalks in the sky.
During my first year in JC, a close friend from high school passed away. I guilt tripped myself for a few years that I hadn’t called him, as intended, earlier that month. Perhaps its just a convenient excuse that shuts people up, but I’ll never smoke a cigarette because of him. He was also the first death I cried over. It took me about 7 months for it to hit me, but one night, out of nowhere, I was packing up to leave my apartment for a new place. I came across the obituary my mother had sent me from the Heyworth Star. I immediately melted into a heap of hyperventilating sobs. He was the Abe Lincoln to my Sarah Josepha Hale in the 2nd grade play. In fifth grade, he made me seriously question color perception, in ways that I still find phenomenologically complex. He dreamed of going to Notre Dame to play football, but never tried out for the high school team. He never graduated, but was by far the smartest in our class. Our friendship came and went, but it was just two months before his untimely death that I felt like we got to know each other again. I smoked my one and only cigarette with him in the cold freeze of a snowy Midwestern December night, and then he made me promise him I’d never do it again.
Just under a year later I experienced my second emotionally trying loss. This time it was Dwight. We had all known it was coming, but it didn’t hurt any less. He was never officially my advisor, and I mean no disrespect to Helen, who was indeed wonderful herself, but he was the inspiration behind my senior thesis. Even now, in times of academic need, I think to myself, “What would Dwight do?” Be savvy. Be kind. Be creative. I want to be his legacy. I will forever list him in my acknowledgements. Just the mention of his name, or citation in something on gangs, Hmong, or death penalties, makes my throat close. But for him too, it took me months to cry. In fact, upon entering the chapel for his memorial celebration, I worried I wouldn’t be able to cry. But my god, when Soyini Madison started to speak, and I looked into A. Burr’s eyes, the tears streamed and would not stop.
And now, I find myself mourning the loss of someone I hardly knew, but loved in a way that is hard to describe. The daughter of one of my closest friends in this city gave her final “peace out” on Friday night. She had Retts, and as such we never had a conversation, at least in the traditional sense. But there was something about her presence that put everyone at ease. I imagine the sound of Jack Johnson’s voice will forever haunt me with the memory of her giggles. I haven’t cried yet. I don’t expect to for some time. But I know in the next 6-18 months it will catch me off guard. And I will melt into a pool or useless melancholy remembering her suffering. The jokes about her botox. Her birthday parties, and Make-a-Wish trip. The way she looked at me like I was crazy sometimes. And the awful pain she was in before leaving us for something better. Like Dwight, and perhaps more so, she was someone who was just wholly incapable of doing wrong. She was preserved as a perfect soul. And how do you account for all the pain she endured? She deserved none of it.
But maybe the real sorrow I feel is for her mother, who has single-handedly cared for her (ok, well with nurses’ help) for all her 13 years. Who hasn’t left DC for 2 years because its too hard to travel with her. Who makes it home by 11 every night to sleep next to her. Who has sacrificed early adulthood for her and now must learn to live without her.
If only more time had passed, I’d order her up deathbear, which I know normally she would find endlessly amusing. But the timing is off. Damn!
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