Death's Aftermath

31May00

Footsteps still echo in darkness
Memories of happiness past
Phantom doorchimes ring soundless
They ring only in my head

A life before no longer mine
Tracks jumped, I'm forced to grow
No connexions left behind
It seems things have always been so


      A few weeks ago, I had to "be the strong one" for one of my dearest friends.
      It was a Sunday night, and I came home to an uncharacteristically short message on my answering machine from Wendy, one of my dearest friends in all the world. Although the message seemed to be urgent, I hesitated to call, as the time in her area would already be past one in the morning. I had already pissed off her father in the past by calling too late, so I did not want to risk that again. But, between the nagging concern from her unusual message and the urging of my fiancee, I decided to call after all. Unsure whether her urgency was for herself or for me, as she hangs out with the paramedics quite often, I had visions of her having to tell me that my mother and/or sister had been in a deadly accident, or perhaps one of our mutual friends had died. Somehow, I suspected that someone had died or was near death. Sadly, I was right.
      Her father had died suddenly the night before.
      He had had heart attacks before. But he had also slowed down his life, and started taking more time off. He spent more time with his family, and more time upstate, near Woodstock, where he had slowly been buying land to combine into his own little fiefdom. While fixing up or building a house and doing all sorts of massive yardwork would usually be a greater strain on the heart, instead it proved to be healthy, since he so enjoyed doing it, whereas his heart problems had come from the stress of his law practice.
      Years went by, and his fiefdom grew. Wendy passed the Bar and went to work for him. He still worked, but greatly cut back. Carol, his long-time companion (each choosing not to marry after failed previous marriages), and he planned their future together. Just this past winter, she retired from her law practice. He worked through the busy tax season, and then the next morning (Saturday) they headed up to the Woodstock home for their first real weekend together in months, and the beginning of a new future, where they could finally spend real quality time together after more than a decade of dedication to their work (Wendy used to joke that while they technically lived together, they never had time to "live in sin" from their jobs).
      On their drive up to Woodstock, with Carol following him on the highway, he suddenly gestured out the window to pull over. When he didn't stop at the edge of the highway, she knew there was a problem. She ran out to where his truck had slid up against the barrier and tried to help, but he was already gone.
      Wendy and I talked for quite some time that Sunday night. She and I had been brought back together and had rebuilt our friendship when my father died, ten years ago. Now it was my turn to help her through her grief. She told me the whole story, and we discussed all the pragmatic issues involved: how to tell the office and clients, what to do to continue the business, funeral arrangements, and so on. The will would be fairly straightforward, since their office handled wills, along with their other areas of law. She sought assurance that it "gets better", assurances I could not honestly give.

      Wendy cried as we talked, and I think she understood what I was saying. We both agreed that we desperately need to believe there is a Heaven of some sort, whether it is Christian, Jewish, Elysium Fields, or whatever. We need to believe that someone so special can't just "disappear". There's always the pat phrase "they're not dead as long as we remember them", but that just doesn't give us anything to believe in. There has to be somewhere these wonderful, unique, beloved people go, somewhere that gives meaning to their death and to our loss. Their lives touched so many people, so much wisdom and experience available at our fingertips. How can such an integral part of our lives be just "gone"?
      There has to be more than that.