MEMOIR
The Final Goodbye I’m Dreading
But can there be joy in death?
“Life has a beginning and an end,” my mother always reminds me. “It’s a journey.”
I can’t decide if that’s comforting, terrifying or a little of both. Mom likes to have “death talks.” I don’t. It’s like she’s preparing me for the inevitable.
If I could turn back time and make her young again, I would. There was security when she was younger. I knew she would always be there.
Now, I know my days with her are numbered. Being orphaned is my greatest fear. Who am I without my parents? They are the only people who have loved me unconditionally throughout my life.
It’s weird how we view death differently as we get older.
In childhood, no one dies. It’s traumatic and rare. As a middle-aged adult, it becomes the norm.
The first death I ever remember was in third grade. A childhood friend got stuck in her home in a fire. Her family got out. She didn’t.
Our school was in a constant state of mourning. The classroom seemed empty without her.
We were in the beginning of life, not the end. We couldn’t comprehend that death in the physical form is forever.
In my 20s and early 30s, two high school classmates died.
One friend, an exceptional athlete, developed cancer that spread throughout his body. No amount of strength made it possible for him to overcome the disease.
I found myself asking “Why?” over and over again. I had run into him in a department store a couple of years before his death. He seemed so healthy, so unstoppable.
I will always wonder if the cancer was silently lurking in his body then.
Another high school friend died soon after in a freak accident. A reckless driver hit her while she was walking to her car. She, too, was larger than life. She was a mother of two young children with the potential for a six-figure career.
It seemed so rare, so impossible that she could die doing something that most of us do every single day.
I couldn’t make sense of it.
When we’re young, we still question death. It’s raw and unthinkable. Then it all changes.
In my 40s, my friends’ parents began to die. At first, it seemed surreal. Then it became routine. You don’t ask why anymore. You somehow become desensitized to it.
The same visitation conversations take place over and over again. “I’m so sorry for your loss. What can I do to help?”
And you are sorry for their loss. You just hope their loss won’t be yours. You now know there is an end that’s not far off in the distance.
At 50, I’m one of the only people I know who still has a father.
My dad is 83 and in the best shape of his life. He’s even taken on a second career post-retirement.
The thing is, I’m the exception. But not forever. There is a date somewhere on a heavenly calendar that is marked with his death — and mine. It’s marked with all of our deaths.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Death has been on my mind because a close family friend is getting ready to die.
Even when you accept death, there are times when it can still shock you. Even when you know it’s coming.
I have a close friend whose 62-year-old partner is dying of cancer. He’s the love of her life. The story is straight out of a Hallmark movie. They were best friends and did not realize they were in love until right before cancer struck.
Less than a year ago, he seemed healthy. He, like most of the younger people I know who have gotten sick, seemed unstoppable.
A random bout of intense back pain led to a trip to the hospital. He didn’t think much of it. After all, his job required a lot of heavy lifting. It was no big deal, or so he thought.
Boy was he wrong.
“I need you both to sit down,“ the emergency room doctor said while displaying the results of a routine test. He thought the doctor was going to tell him he needed back surgery. The only thing he was worried about was the possibility of missing work.
He didn’t know that what he would have to miss out on was the rest of his life.
“You have lung cancer,” the doctor said with a solemn look on his face. “It must be a mistake. I’ve never smoked,” my friend’s partner responded.
There was no mistake. He was dying.
Less than a year later, the cancer has spread throughout his body and into his brain. Treatments failed. It’s almost time to say goodbye.
It’s a goodbye I’m dreading.
I know my friend will be there when he dies in their home. When I was a child, the thought of being in a place where someone died was terrifying. These days, it seems like a gift.
Maybe it’s a joy I never knew existed.
The Question Is: Can There Be Joy in Death?
I don’t know. But I can tell you this…
That close family friend said something to me recently that I’ll never forget. “I’m ready for it to be over,” she uttered with a look of exhaustion on her troubled face. I felt an intense pang of guilt, afraid that everyone is giving up on him.
But maybe I’m feeling the wrong thing.
Maybe I should feel grateful that he has had a chance to say goodbye to his loved ones, that his death will not be sudden. That he has had 11 more months to make peace with reality.
Just maybe there’s joy in that.
As one of my new favorite writers on Medium recently wrote, “There can be joy in death. Stop feeling guilty for the presence of joy!”
Perhaps the experience of death is life reinvented, a chance to spread our wings and fly. And maybe the road to loss is a speckled path of growth. A chance to live, love and let go.
This one’s for you, Anthony Cloe Huie. I’m so glad I discovered your writing. Thank you so much for making me think.
