I got word that an old friend of mine died over the weekend. She was killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision. So simple. I didn’t know Kjersten anymore. It had been more than a decade since we were in touch. We were friends for a few years, back when I lived in Seattle. We were a couple for — six months? A year maybe? Obviously we broke up at some point, but I’ve no memory of it: whether we fought or drifted or moved away… Most of my ex-girlfriends, what lingers in memory is the end, the part where things started going badly, but honestly I don’t have a single unhappy memory of Kjersten: I can’t remember ever seeing her angry or sad or annoyed, or ever being any of those with her. It’s all long drives and late breakfasts in sunny weather. Funny how memory works. Time and distance soften the news. Leaves me not sure how to react; not sure how I am reacting. Not grief. Not even sadness, not really. The person in my memory isn’t a real person; it’s an edited, probably idealized story I’ve been telling myself. The real mourning belongs to those who still knew the real, actual her; it’d be presumptuous of me to claim part of that. That whole paragraph is a self-serving lie. My real reaction is mostly selfish, wholly unoriginal thoughts about the fragility of bodies. How unbearably stupid it is that we only get one each. How appalling that we’re trapped in these piles of meat and haven’t figured out how to escape them unharmed. My real reaction is self-pity and fear. I’m going to die too. Probably for reasons just as random and pointless as her death. And the world will move on. That’s a lie too. Both of those are lies. Neither of them is. One of them is secret. Don’t tell anyone. This part’s true: she deserved more. We all do, but that doesn’t diminish her part. If there’s anything after this, I hope it treats her well. If there isn’t, I hope it ended quickly. That’s not much to offer. I’m not sure it counts for anything. It probably doesn’t.
How strange it is to think that this weekend — maybe Saturday, as we were doing the goofy things that we were doing — someone who had once been important to you was there, and then gone.
I’m not sure it’s possible to have an original thought about the fragility of bodies. They’re mysterious, and we don’t understand them half as well as we pretend we do, and in the end they are only temporary: that’s the human condition. It’s as old as anything, and as constant. Just like I’m not sure one can have an original thought about love, or about pleasure, I’m pretty sure one can’t have an original thought about embodiment or death.
Doesn’t stop us from having thoughts, though. g Which is a good thing, by my lights. Just because the words “I love you” aren’t original, doesn’t mean they don’t matter. And so on.
It strikes me that you make a couple of presumptions: trapped in these piles of meat, can’t escape them unharmed. Says who? I feel quite certain this mortal coil is temporary, but that doesn’t mean it’s all there is. Not sure what good my believing that does you, of course, but it seemed worth mentioning. Bodies can suck: they hurt, they break, and eventually they stop altogether. But bodies are also how we experience a lot of things I wouldn’t want to miss — and I’m convinced that when we leave them, there’s more to the game.
Confronting mortality isn’t easy. I wish I could offer you insights, ways to move through bafflement and anger and denial and grief.
(o) Thinking of you, anyway.
You’re going to make a very good rabbi, Rachel. You are already.
All memories are edited and idealized. I am finding this to especially true after a death.
Coming from the other side of things, how does one deal with losing a friend you’ve known for 25 years? In a certain sense, I haven’t really known life without some sort of contact with her. There is part of my brain that I can tell isn’t accepting it yet. Doesn’t believe it to be true. Still waiting for a forwarded joke, or some internet rubbish that I will, yet again, reply to with a link to Snopes. Still waiting for an invite to Gustav’s for lunch. I found myself wondering while scooping burro poop this morning, when will it finally be real? When will I not be expecting these things?
Then I thought, why should that stop?
I haven’t read anything about dealing with death, etc., but I feel like what I’m waiting for is to feel “normal” again. That that is what people mean by “getting over it” or “moving on.” But maybe this inner cry of “She can’t be dead - she CAN’T!” is something that will be there and will persist for a long time, maybe even until my own death. And maybe that’s okay.
Another couple thoughts -
They are inviting people to speak, read poetry, etc. at the memorial service. How can I not say something? But what on Earth can I possibly say?
I take comfort in the simple statements of my children. “Grizzly has company now!” (Grizzly is our cat who died last year.)
Someday, we’ll all enjoy her company again.
Nick