Last Sunday my brother Mel and I went to pay respects to a family friend who had died unexpectedly. A healthy, 62-year-old husband and father of two who had had a horrific accident at work 10 days earlier.
He had lost consciousness immediately and never regained it, in spite of all possible medical interventions. His injuries were too severe. Now he is gone.
Mel and I were just two of the many hundreds of people who came to say goodbye to John and to support his four brothers and their families. It was the least we could do. John and his brothers were there for us in July, attending our mother’s funeral mass and supporting us with hugs and words that were heartfelt and appreciated. Their own father had passed away just a few months earlier.
As Mel drove me back home in the cold rain, we talked about the deep friendship Mom had shared with John’s parents. Each of John’s brothers had reminisced with us about the nice things Mom did for their folks—from taking them raisin-filled cookies to frying fish for their dad on Fridays in Lent because their mom was allergic. In that short drive, with Bob Dylan’s Knocking on Heaven’s Door playing on the radio, we gave thanks for a generation of parents who worked hard to teach their kids strength and empathy.
But I was also rattled. John should still be here and his family shouldn’t be in shock and about to feel the undertow of grief once again.
I went in the house, changed clothes and said out loud, “I’m sick of death.”
Once I was by myself, I began to feel the undertow again myself. My chest tightened and started to hurt. I kept trying to get two lungs full of air and couldn’t. I sat down at the kitchen table, tried to slow my breathing and think of five things around me that were calming. My breathing only quickened. A panic episode was underway.
I took an Ativan and asked Jimmy if I could lie down with him and lay my head on his shoulder. He let me cry there until I could get loose from the undercurrent and breathe normally again.
What’s the message here, I asked myself. The answer became clear:
Live and love with all you’ve got.
Something about John’s death made me snap to, once the panic subsided.
I am here right now, and I have a life. Live it.
Since Mom’s death, I have been diligent about working through the grief, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job with that. I’ve also been very deliberate and cautious about decision making, to the point of overthinking things that don’t need to be overthought.
I’ll give you an example. The Christmas season is here. Jimmy and I stopped decorating years ago because we didn’t have the time or desire to take it all down and put it away. We sold all our Christmas decorations at a yard sale when we moved to Pennsylvania.
I want to put simple electric candles with clear bulbs in every window of Mom’s house this year. I’ve been putting it off for lots of reasons:
I don’t want to spend the money.
Mom probably has some in the attic, but going up there makes me too anxious.
It might look too “joyous” and I shouldn’t be giving off a joy vibe yet.
This morning I said, to heck with it, and I bought the lights.
Because it’s time to just jump in and live. The moment I said I was sick of death, I realized I was actually sick of not really living.
I can’t control death—my own or anyone’s. But I can embrace this life I have and squeeze it for all it’s worth. All the joy. All the knowledge. All the friendships. All the generosity. All the compassion. All the newness. All the discovery. All the love. Right now.
The house looks pretty good with all those little candles in the window, doesn’t it?
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