At the Time of Death

At times I have thought about dying and how much easier it would be than living. That is why suicide is such a cop-out, such a coward's way to go. Not that it wouldn't be romantic and a powerful statement to make, like shouting to the world, "I Hate You!" or like saying to everyone who has ever hurt us, "See what you've done?" Still, something inside of me doesn't want to give them the satisfaction. And what about all of the good people, the ones who try NOT to hurt others, who die unexpectedly, tragically? What a slap in the face to all of them. In an encounter with the REAL prospect of death, it certainly must lose its appeal. In the face of anonimity, would not all of us struggle to hold onto the only life we've ever known, the only reality we've been offered?

There is so much pain in this life - not just my own, but in general. It is all around us - on the news, in the food chain, between lovers, and in hospitals full of those wanting another chance to feel its sting. Physical pain pales compared with being lost forever, gone from a world we have yet to figure out. So we, the living, struggle to make sense of it all, yearn for a sign that we are important, that we make a difference, that our presence somehow shifts the balance ever so slightly toward good.

As we age, people come and go from our lives, some temporarily and others forever, each moving on to their own unique destiny. The ones who have died to this world can't tell us the secrets we so long to know, and we cannot benefit from their after-life wisdom, nor their familiar impact on our now-emptier existence. It is not their connection that we miss, but the possibility of it, like when an old friend looks us up after years of silence or we catch sight of them at a public gathering and remembrance ensues.

None of us realize how short it is, this time we've been given. Otherwise it wouldn't be so hard to love the ones with whom we share life. In full awareness of what we could be missing, we would treasure the moments together and forget the reasons why we argue, why we separate from one another, why we succumb to the demands of a horribly corrupt world. We see evidence of this when faced with a loved one's demise; nothing matters compared with drinking in the final hours alongside them, creating as many memories as possible before the potential retreats. We put aside work, schedules, and other relationships just for a little more time with the soon-to-be-departed, sacrificing even sanity to hold the hand that still promises warmth, to look into the knowing eyes and engrave them into a memory also fleeting.

Is this not the best we humans have to offer, the death-bed kind of love that forgives all and manufactures time for sharing ourselves? It is transforming, impactful, meaningful, necessary. Time itself is suspended in a dream-like state of belief and disbelief. Belief that there is hope, that miracles happen and people survive against all odds. Disbelief that we ever take for granted the privilege of spending time with another soul.

When all of existence shrinks into the tiny bubble surrounding the family in grief, the importance of the moment becomes clear. The last of these are cherished and desperate as we covet one final opportunity for communication and understanding. The definition of life as measured on the linear scale of time becomes painfully clear and the hope in an afterlife of peace essential.