None of us are exempt. We are all affected. And some day, we will all die. Maybe not on the same day, as so many seem to want.
When I was training to be a minister I spent a summer visiting seriously ill people with the senior minister of our church. The senior minister had suffered great tragedies himself. His sister was raped, tortured and murdered.
After a month of meeting with people, offering comfort and prayer, he shared with me how much it amazed him that people faced with imminent death chose not to talk about it, preferring reciting worn out cliches and vague niceties.
Maybe because his sister died so horribly and suddenly, he appreciated being given the time to reflect and prepare. He knew first-hand that not everybody gets to say goodbye.
My mother died within a week after suffering a stroke that took away her ability to speak. But we could, and we did, say goodbye. She died surrounded by her husband and six children. We understood we were fortunate to be able to say goodbye.
Every day, I look at the obits. I don't read them all, there are so many it would take all day. But it reminds me that the human condition is to be born, to live and to die. My understanding now in middle age is that these categories are not as separate and distinct as I once believed them to be.
Being born, living and dying are a continual state of being. They are actually aspects of the same condition, occurring simultaneously. Every once in a while, I get paid to talk about the afterlife. I mix Mark Twain, the Bible, quantum physics, personal experience and anecdotes to arrive at conclusions that go beyond cliches and generalizations.
Afterwards, I enjoy hearing other people's experiences. Every one has their own views on what the afterlife is, or if it even exists. This indicates to me that people who allow only one perspective are most likely incorrect.
In late June, my dad and his wife visited us for our son's graduation. On the last day of their visit, my dad received news from his doctor that he needed surgery, it looked like he had a spot on his pancreas. His surgery revealed the cancer was so widespread it was inoperable. He is now receiving hospice care at home.
Sadly, his older brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer several months ago. My aunt and uncle, my cousins and their families are in my thoughts and my tears.
I understand I am not alone in my grief. Last week, Linda and I were invited to a friend of our son's 'going away to college' party. Earlier in the summer, they lost a family member in his 40's without warning. They had two weddings during the summer and they talked about how much it hurt not to have their brother/uncle/friend there.
None of us are spared tragedy. Seems that avoiding it, or not having it, isn't as important as how we cope and how we help others cope.
There are people who can help us. There are nurses, doctors, social workers, hospice workers, ministers and volunteers. The immediate and extended family may be so grief stricken as to be unable to help as much as they would like. Religious communities can be vital in this regard.
I would go so far to say, that given the human condition, this is the greatest service religious communities can provide. Theology is pretty much useless (this is coming from someone who has spent a lifetime studying theology) in helping people cope with grief and loss.
Another reason I look at obits every day is to keep the logistics of death in mind. I realize that it is never all about me. It's about all of us. We are all interconnected, we are all affected by each other. We all need each other. All the time.
Note: The picture is a 'Mandelbrot set' fractal based on a complex quadratic polynomial. It supports the thesis that within defined parameters there are infinite possibilities.
