Death Becomes Us

The precious message that all our departed loved ones bestow upon the ones they leave behind is always the same: work for ´good´ death.

Have you noticed how many kinds of death can be found in the daily newspapers?  First, the international section and all the faceless, anonymous dead for whom it is often difficult to empathize, so extensive is the victim list, so far away the location (one lacks the tears to cry for the whole world; one must choose!), dead in natural disasters that always seem to hit the countries that can least afford them -  a drought or famine in Africa, a devastating earthquake in Haiti and Chile; the deadly bubonic plagues and Spanish flu that decimated millions in centuries past, now replaced by various other flus - bird, Asian and swine - the latter perhaps even the sheer invention of greedy pharmaceutical companies; the man- made catastrophes resulting from simple lack of respect toward one’s own planet, from Chernobyl and global warming to the illegal slaughter of the elephant population so that their ivory can be harvested for two-dollar key chains that give tourists the “feel” of having been on safari.  

Then there is the “crime” section, upon which can be found a small compendium of human despair, vengefulness, and irresponsibility.  The teenage drunk drivers, passing on a curve and crashing head-on into two boys on a bicycle, none of whom survive, and the jealous husband shooting his long-suffering wife for chatting too long with the mailman.  Young lovers dead in a suicide pact initiated over the Internet. 

Leafing on to the lifestyle and “celebrities” section, there are an endless array of “exclusives” on whose body part was peeking out of a low-cut dress, or displayed on a new “accidentally” released home video, or which new Mercedes accessory is most popular with the Croatian “jet-set”.  (Although still physically present, aren’t the latter - emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually - deader than the Haitian thousands buried in the rubble?) 

Toward the end of most papers can be found the obituaries, the officially deceased, anonymous and faceless no longer.  It’s always held a certain fascination, the self-conscious snapshots of loved ones, who, when the camera flash went off years ago, or perhaps just yesterday, had had no idea their shy smile would someday appear in their own obituary. And then there are the short messages from family and friends underneath the snapshots, the snippets of favorite poems, secret nicknames:  “Buba, you will live in our hearts forever!” “You’ll be remembered for your kindness, Kiki!”, “Life without you is difficult, Mousie, but God calls to Himself only the good!” Bidding their loved ones farewell “having faith in their eternal life and resurrection”, the grieving, instead of ascending to Heaven, are forced to remain in the same familiar city, neighborhood, and house that seems suddenly as forlorn and empty as a starless sky on a cloudy night.  But have they perhaps been resurrected?  

It’s a strange phenomenon, but it seems that Death often brings Life to those who are left behind.  The memories of the departed loved one suddenly become much clearer, deeper, and somehow more significant, and emotions take on a new, aching intensity. The time he walked two kilometers in the rain to buy her flowers on Valentine’s Day and came back with a single wilted daffodil!  Or when she cooked him his first meal, the day after the wedding – it seems like just yesterday! – and forgot to turn on the oven.  How charming, how sweet!  The dear face, the endearing gestures that had sometimes been irritating now appear sacred and untouchable.  Oh, to hear him sing again, off-key as it was and grating to one’s ears, “my looooove belongs only to youuuuuuuuuuuu! or to watch her chop an onion in that economical and beautiful motion, so confident, so perfect, if perhaps a bit too messy for his taste.  One’s heart feels full to bursting!  “Nostalgia”, after all, “is the agony of the nearness of that which is afar.”

Heidegger was certainly not the only philosopher to have captured the painful yearning one experiences at such moments.  The memories flow into one’s mind like a great, overpowering flood, and all the superfluous debris of life is swept away, leaving only a path of dazzling jewels.  And since the recent death of just such a loved one – let’s call him Grejić– has provided the inspiration for this column, it might be appropriate to mention that such a funeral had never been seen before in the small village that had nourished him.  

The heavens had shed bitter tears in the hours before the funeral, but just as the procession was set to begin, the clouds broke up, as though swept away by a huge and furious broom, allowing the healing sun to break through.  Hundreds came from miles away, the young he had inadvertently inspired, the school colleagues whose lives he had enriched more than they had ever before realized, the old and infirm he had befriended, in his humble, innocuous way, and even those otherwise blasé about such things as Death, Love, and Honor, all transformed by Grejić in some way and united in a single emotion:  veneration for a miraculous being. 

One of the mourners commented in wonder that the moving spectacle made him want to die himself!  Yes, said another, but to die like this, one has first to have lived well!  They murmured in wise agreement.  Yes, indeed, to die well, one had not only to have lived, but lived well!  And this is the precious message that Grejić, and all our departed loved ones, bestow upon the ones they leave behind.